A Glimpse of Zion
In my role as ward chorister, I get the opportunity to stare at the congregation from a sheltered position and I want to describe what I saw one day.
In the very front row to the right side are two older women with hearing aids. One is deaf. One has developmental disabilities. Seated in front of them, volunteers sign during sacrament meeting. The organist keeps our pace sign language speed friendly – just right for this corner of the room. Their singing during the hymn may be tone deaf or a few words behind the beat, but it is fervent. It is beautiful.
Behind this group sits a person with a service dog. The service dog sits quietly while its person gives me a smile and thumbs up.
My gaze travels to the back of the room. One family taking up a row stands out because of the rainbow shades of hair color. Their kids mix with my kids, and while it’s a rodeo and a half some days, my darling child who is on a journey of exploration in his gender expression (His pronouns are he/him and he wears a Sunday dress well!), sees an adult whose pronouns are he/they in church.
In the other back corner, a little boy with special needs is usually wandering around with his parents or a friendly volunteer. Having built up the strength to walk with support, he’s not willing to sit still and sometimes he’s got something to say and we all need to know it. This space is a little messy and sometimes a lot noisy and it is always beautiful.
Meanwhile, I’m waving my arm around, and thinking I really should do some arm strengthening exercises because my shoulder is aching, but I’m also proudly wearing my beautiful LGBTQ pride pin in the shape of a heart given to me by a friend in the ward, along with my regular Sunday pants. In my ward, pants wearing women are not so unique or different. Usually there’s about three to five of us wearing pants instead of a dress. And while I don’t usually see pride pins, no one has told me I can’t wear it.
I can smile at my nuanced friends in the ward, some who are struggling, some who are striving, and know we’re in this together. One in particular sits huddled on the left side of the room against the wall. Sometimes I know we’ll be talking after sacrament to mourn together or yearn together or simply recognize that what was said over the pulpit that day might need some nuance.
I smile at the people who sometimes need to stare daggers at us for all our ways.
It’s not lost on me that this tiny little hamlet of a ward space I’ve found myself in is something of a unicorn. We’re not in the intermountain west, we’re very, very small, and maybe there’s just a little more breathing room for the marginalized to find their spot, but as I look around, I know I’m also seeing a glimpse of Zion. It’s not perfect, by any means, but when I think about what it means to gather as disciples of Jesus Christ, this is what I picture.
Everyone comes as they are. Everyone truly is welcome in words and actions. Many bend their conceptions of what should be to allow for us all to be present in that space, worshiping and taking the sacrament together.
It’s so tenuous. It’s terrifyingly fragile. At any moment an overzealous leader or a pointed comment or complaint could upset this balance. If someone sitting squarely in the middle of this room decided to start prowling the edges, we’d be lambs to the slaughter. But on this one day, this one moment when I was just watching the congregation, I felt I had a glimpse of Zion.
It brings me hope.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
