Can You Really Go Home Again?

I have walked down that aisle many times over the course of my life. Most occasions have been rather mundane, more habitual than ritual. However, some of the most important journeys of my life have been taken down that 65-foot long, carpeted aisle. As a child, I would solemnly walk in stride to the organ music – a contemporary of mine either to my right or left. In our hands, a long brass pole with the light of Christ on the end. It is a task to be taken seriously and I wish I could say I always did. Often there would be giggling and laughing. I learned an important lesson in church acoustics walking down that aisle. What I thought were whispers between my fellow acolyte and me were actually public conversations for the entire gathered congregation to overhear.

The first of many significant journeys down that center aisle was in August of 1984. It was the last night of a revival lead by Mercer Shaw. I cannot count the number of times he led these summer revivals in our church. He was the typical summer revival preacher … bad hair … motor home parked in the church parking lot … wife with bigger hair than his … baritone voice. I would like to say the events leading up to my confession of faith were Paul-like – a Damascus Road kind of thing – but that would be a lie. Rather it was more of an “I’ll go if you go” kind of thing between Scot and me when the invitation was extended.

Rather than feeling a nudge from God, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The finger belonged to an 80 plus year old woman. It was bent with age and arthritis - all bone, yet very firm and determined. Ironically, the woman attached to the finger would years later be my neighbor and I would have the opportunity to minister to her surviving sisters.

“Go on,” she said with a smile. “Y’all go on down there.”

And we did just that. Scot, four others, and me walked down that aisle and made our profession of faith. Some six weeks later, I would rise from the baptismal waters and enter fully into a community that had nurtured me until that time and after. It would be years before I truly understood what that walk down the aisle would mean – the consequences of that action. Then again, I wonder some 24 years later, if I still fully understand the ramifications of that day.

The next major walk down that aisle occurred in June of 1994 – my wedding day … well, my FIRST wedding day. Obviously, that journey did not end the way it was envisioned that June afternoon, but it remains to this day a very significant part of who I am – a part of my story and journey of life and faith. I walked down that aisle single and I walked back up a married man. Had I not walked down the aisle that day, my life would be forever different, and I must say, less fulfilled. In spite of this particular trip’s final destination, the journey it started brought me great joy. Had I not taken that journey on that hot summer night some 15 years ago, I would not be the person I am today – I would not be as self-aware – and I most certainly would not have my oldest son.

Just a tad under four years later, I traveled down that aisle one more time – this time, second in a long processional line while a solo trumpet blared the opening verse of “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.” After a long and winding road, the calling I had felt some eleven years earlier was being affirmed, as I was ordained into the Christian Ministry. I can remember that day very clearly, as once again, it was the culmination of one journey and the beginning of yet another.

So this past Sunday (the 29th), when I walked down that aisle to once again become a part of that community of faith … having kicked the sand off my shoes down the road, I returned to the place where my journey of faith began. There were many new faces in the crowd that day, but also some very familiar ones; men and women who mentored me, taught me, loved me, and challenged me all along the journey I have traveled.

They say you cannot go home again, and to an extent, I agree. Once you leave a place, especially for an extended period of time, it will change – become transformed – and that is as it should be. However, that grey-carpeted aisle was still there. As were those wooden pews, the high ceiling, and the beautiful stained glass depicting the baptism of Jesus. That aisle has been so significant to my journey it is only appropriate such a depiction look down upon it. And I knew I was home.