A few nights ago, a couple of friends and I went to hear a local singer/songwriter perform at the Water Street Barn in Shelburne Falls.  It was one of those dark, damp evenings when you half-heartedly wish you hadn't made plans so you could remain at home and jump into your jammies early.  As we approached the Barn, we saw through the window that there was literally no audience and we were only about five minutes early.  There was a moment when we stood there wondering if we should enter, or turn around and head the hour back home so as to avoid the awkwardness.  Wordlessly deciding we had already come this far, so we might as well go all the way, the three of us gamely pushed the door open and found ourselves in a room not bigger than a living room where a wide variety of chairs were placed in rows with grandma-style seat cushions attached.  This was definitely not your normal "concert venue".

Upon entry, Rev. Candi was instantly recognized by Paul, and the warmth of the room stepped up just a notch as these two acquiantances caught up on each others' lives.  We were directed toward a small table set up with refreshments, and again were reminded that we were not at a traditional concert when we saw the array of Chips Ahoy and sandwich-style creme cookies that were a tad bit stale sitting alongside the bags of Lays potato chips.  To say the refreshments were a little lacking, and the setting a bit underwhelming would be a bit of an understatement.  We took our seats, adjusting the cushion so as to make myself more comfortable in the patio chair, and we quietly sat as four other folks drifted in. 

There in the dim light in this converted tiny barn-like structure, gentle conversation quietly died down as Paul took the stage a mere 10 feet in front of us.  It was then that I was taught the important life lesson once again that good things often come in bare-bones packaging.  In our modern world we have been trained to seek out the loud, the sparkly, and the boldly proclaimed.  But this evening wasn't about that at all...it was about the intimate connection with a handful of folks who came to hear magical storytelling wrapped in lovely vocals.  This wasn't a "show", it was a gentle connecting around a campfire, it was the vulnerability of one man sharing his inner life and desire for love and peace that captivated us.  

With a little urging, we all began to sing choruses with Paul, voices rising a tad bit louder as group confidence grew.  With a guitar and harmonica the only accompaniment, words tried to convey one man's longing and appreciation for love, his witness of a world that feels hopeless as he tried to grab hold of what goodness remained, and his nudging us toward a society that had the potential to partially save us all but often seemed so far out of our grasp.

This was the opposite of the kinds of performances that millions pay...well...millions...to see.  Where our culture celebrates and writes endlessly about sold out stadium tours accompanied by fireworks extravaganza's, this was not even it's second cousin.  Our evening was about something entirely different.  Instead of deafening amplification, it was subtle whispers.  Instead of tens of thousands of fans with cell phone lights held high, this was six thoughtful attendees nodding their heads in agreement with poetic lyrics that they carried out with them.

Sometimes it is the seemingly dull and decidedly simple that settles into our souls.  Words that cause us to reflect, in a setting that allows us to focus and not be distracted, can be just the "pause" we need in our lives.  We chase the shiny things, the "Big Events", and the "new and improved" over what we find in the softer places.  But it is in the stillness, the less flashy, and the makeshift places where we often connect with God the deepest.  The Spirit doesn't usually elect to yell over our culture to get through to us, but instead tends to step back and wait for us in the softly lit corners.  It is up to us to seek out those places and moments where there is space allowed for something extraordinary to enter.

I am so glad we didn't reach the door that evening, look through the window, then turn around and walk away.  I would have missed meeting God in that slapped together concert "hall" with the stale cookies and the remarkable lyrics.  Sometimes all that is needed from us is simply walking through an unfamiliar door in order for God to wrap arms around us and say, "Hey, here you are!  I've missed you...come sit down next to me as I have something to share with you."

In Light and Love,
Rev. Cindy LaJoy