Holy Eucharist with pint of stout

Holy Eucharist on a Saturday night.

The congregation: Our friends, Laura and Matt. Artists and bums and hipsters and students and tourists. City dwelling twenty somethings and Baby Boomer suburbanites. Baristas and drunk strangers and parking lot attendants and waiters.

The feast: Pint of stout. Filet mignon. Flash fried brussels sprouts. Crispy fries. Espresso and ice cream.

The sanctuary: A garage-turned-art gallery on a Hamtramck side street. A restaurant in Midtown. A coffee house on Woodward Avenue. And all the sidewalks and streets in between. That big, vernal sky flying above us like a cathedral.

The sermon: Matt Bandsuch telling the stories of the depths of each of his paintings. The parking lot attendant spreading the gospel of how his city is changing for the better. Listening to Laura and Matt talk about their the glory and monotony, the elation and tragedy of their real, everyday lives.

It’s easier for me to imagine the Christ present here than in a pew.

Nothing feels quite so holy as finding Christ alive in the profane.