At the beginning of my return to the Church, I often felt like a bit of a ‘liturgical imposter.’ As my vision faded, so did my confidence in everyday life.
There I was, sitting in the pews, feeling like I’d turned up to a play baseball without a bat, while everyone else was hitting home runs with ‘World Series’ precision. I was stuck in my own head, frustrated that I couldn’t follow the prayer book and convinced that if I wasn’t reciting every syllable on cue, I wasn’t “properly” there. I felt like a spectator in a room full of eager participants.
But then, during a quiet weekday service, I was floored by the weight of a single word: …. Amen.
For years, “Amen” was just religious punctuation for me, the spiritual equivalent of “Over and out” or the “Send” button on an email. It was the signal that I could finally stop praying, open my eyes and go sniff out where the coffee and biscuits were being served. It took being forced to truly listen – to rely entirely on the voices of the people around me, to realise that “Amen” isn’t a sign off. It’s a contract. It is the moment we say, “Everything that was just said? yeah, I’m in on that, too.”
As a man returning to faith, I’ve spent a lot of time worrying about getting the “performance” of faith right. But the liturgy isn’t a solo act; it’s a collective heartbeat. When the priest lifts the Host, and the air in the church seems to thicken with prayer, my “Amen” is how I lean my weight against the person to my left and my right. It’s the ultimate “What they said” to God.
Being legally blind has its fair share of frustrations. Like occasionally walking into things which my guide dog and/or cane might have missed, but it has also stripped away the visual clutter of the surrounding pews. I’m left with the raw, beautiful sound of a community breathing together in worship. When my own voice falters, or the words of a collect slip my mind, the “Amen” of the person three rows back carries me across the finish line.
It turns out we aren’t expected to be a collection of perfectly functioning individuals; we’re a Body. And if one part of the body is squinting at the shadows, the rest of the body provides the light. I may not be able to read the printed word anymore, but I can join the shared “Yes” that echoes off the stone walls. I’m learning that my faith isn’t a solo performance I’m failing; it’s a symphony I’m part of.
So, I’ll keep showing up, even if I’m singing the wrong verse or standing up when I should be sitting down. Because as long as I have my “Amen,” I have my seat at the table. And really, in the grand scheme of things, a “Yes” spoken in the dark is just as bright as one read from a page.
Blessings,
Frankie.
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