We had just finished the fifth station. We were a peculiar assortment of strollers, clergy collars, t-shirts, and walking shoes all silently falling behind a wooden cross being carried through Canton.

There was just the slightest hush of a skid before the startling crunch of collision. Glancing up I scanned the line of cars stretching up the hill. Near the top I could just make out the final car, the windshield obscured by a buckled hood. One of the police escorts peeled off to the scene of the accident as we processed down toward the railroad tracks.

It was an unexpected collision, a rude intrusion upon the gloriously prim and peaceful spring day. One sudden collision and all the plans and expectations for the day are scattered like glass upon pavement. Time is swallowed up in accident reports and the inevitable tango between insurance companies. Money is shifted toward repairs—life is interrupted, heaved upside down, shoveled into unpleasant tasks. The heart leaps into action after its momentary pause, melting into the storm of emotion that so often accompanies the turmoil of life’s painful disruptions.

Collisions—never a romantic encounter, a peaceful resolution, or a gentle integration of differences—but rather a stark and abrupt unsettling of reality where an unexpected change delivers a baffling and a sometimes heartbreaking blow.

Good Friday is the holy collision of cosmic proportions. The Good Friday collision is one of dissonance; an unsettled shuddering of creation as the immortal enfleshed is fractured, spilling forth His life so that the dead might rise.  With the sigh of His final breath the breath of creation floods the world with hope that the third day might bring about resurrection.

It is a day where the immortal collides with death, victory hinges on defeat, and hope rolls in as dark Sabbath clouds gathers. It is a collision of worlds and a paradoxical collision of reality where strength, weakness, life, death, hope and despair tumble through the cosmic wave in which an ancient corruption is going through the painful process of rebirth.

Good Friday comes amidst pastel bunnies and sugary crosses, sunny skies and spring break fun. Good Friday temporarily and jarringly disrupts the comfortable narrative of the victorious to simply remind us of the brokenness where victory is won.

And so we wait, in solemn silence as much as one can on this side of the resurrection. We pause, we remember, we enter into the reality that God dwells and triumphs where worlds collide.

Driving to the first church this morning the world was draped in a thick fog. As I drove through the twists and turns of the mountain road a man in his garden caught my eye. It took me a moment to discern as to whether it was indeed a man or merely a scarecrow propped up to frighten away unwanted nibblers. The man was so still and reflected the life I had found here in the mountains. The world of Ashe County is often paced at still to slow and steady.

Every facet of life seems to be dictated by a slow and determined march through good times and bad. The peaks and valleys in their extreme are softened by community traditions, support, and a mentality of ‘this too shall pass.’ Perhaps it is due to a society shaped by its surroundings- unmoving mountains, quirky weather that determines one’s plans (especially in the winter), family gardens, and one of the oldest rivers ironically named the New River that is deeply entrenched in the landscape. The river and mountains provide a timeline that extends far beyond the latest trends or fads. The capricious weather instills humility, a sense that humanity is still vulnerable and reliant upon the changing seasons.

The culture of this small mountain county tucked away in the Northwest corner of North Carolina stands in stark contrast to the frantic pace of city life. It is not surprising then that church life in Ashe County would reflect the mentality more of the surrounding community than that of a mega-church or seminary. For the most part the people do not sit around debating the theological issues. In many conversations opinions are not aggressively stated or challenged. Even the pace of conversation found in a larger city would appear frantic and or containing an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm for the circumstances when placed in this rural setting.

It would be easy for one unfamiliar with this setting to find the people dull, unenthusiastic, or dispassionate when it comes to spiritual matters, but I think this misses the point. I believe that people often judge a lifestyle by determining its significance. On the outside a typical rural mountain life may appear insignificant. The people are not all interested in creating momentous changes in worship, political/social action, or the community. Every gathering does not require the forming of a new committee to address an issue or new church diversion. There is not a great pool of people from which to draw volunteers or participants when a new program is formed. Christmas tree season, daylight savings time, and harsh winters directly affect attendance and participation. But like the steady stream of the New River, people do not measure the significance of their spiritual lives by a plethora of sporadic activity, but rather faithful attendance to worship and participation in the community.

Many people in the church read their upper room devotionals each morning. The church newsletter, bulletin, or tape from Sunday morning worship are highly valued and distributed to those homebound. Sunday morning worship has a time where community joys and concerns are shared. Often this important time involves updates from those in the church family who are suffering and need a visit, are recovering and give thanks for prayers, or praise to God for recent rain that nourishes the earth and treasured family gardens. The people don’t need to sound significant to live significant lives. The presence of church family during hard times appears infinitely more valuable than lofty words and deep but abstract insights.

This is not to say that mountain people do not place value in growing in their faith through Bible study and well prepared sermons. But rather the barometer used to determine a healthy congregation should be vastly different from one church family to another. The average church member in these little mountain churches probably doesn’t see much significance in ‘beating a dead horse’ when it comes to conversation; whereas another church community may deeply value thoughtful discourse on a subject. The theological significance of certain subjects are lived out in the lives of church members. Spiritual reflections are discussed on porches in impromptu conversations. The sharing of spiritual life is lived out within a community in both heartache and celebrations. Slowly and steadily the mountain people live out their Christian faith.

My second week at my field placement we had two deaths the same evening. As my pastor was at Annual Conference, I went to be with the families and help them in planning the service. One of the deceased left behind a husband to whom she had been married to for seventy-three years.

Visiting him later he expressed the profound emptiness he felt in her absence. “When I saw her in that casket I just wanted to tell them to go ahead and put me in there too,” he said in the most straight forward manner. “I never knew a man could miss a woman so much.” Even though they had spent a lifetime together, her death seemed sudden and his grief was raw, accompanied by the very distinct reality of spending his remaining time on earth without her.

A different form of grief was expressed by the congregation and pastor when she announced she was being moved to a District Superintendent position. People were sad to lose a person with whom they had formed relationships with during the ten years she had served the church. However, such sadness was also mixed with joy and celebration of her accomplishments, as well as future ministry. Nonetheless, the time came for goodbyes, and for many it was a difficult time. The life of the church would change too, as a new pastor would arrive and lead the church in worship and service.

The changing seasons of life are often imbued with feelings of loss and grief. It is tough to say goodbye and hard to imagine a life when central and formational people and settings are removed. How does one fill the empty silences of a home when a spouse is no longer there? When a pastor who has been involved in the many ups and downs of people’s lives leaves, it can be scary to build up that level of trust and connection with an unfamiliar face. Over time, the uncomfortable sensation of loss can be eased through a growing sense of new routines and relationships. The most healing source in such times is of course God, and God’s loving community.

While we see in the person of Jesus his compassion and solidarity with those who mourn in accounts such as the death of Lazarus, we also see that he offers words of hope and resurrection. Speaking of the kingdom of God, Jesus assures those who now weep, for they will be blessed and will one day laugh. He speaks of a grief that will turn to joy. These are not words spoken flippantly or empty platitudes, but coming from the mouth of God who hears His people suffering but offers a promise of new life. So in our painful times of suffering or loss, we don’t simply throw ourselves into the tomb, because we recognize that the tomb no longer holds the power. As a people of resurrection, we may mourn but do so with the hope of God’s healing peace to bring joy in the morning. God’s great faithfulness and presence is there. God is there for the widows and widowers, the orphans, the refugees, the church in transition, and all those who mourn. God is there to offer good news even in the midst of grief. And that is why the church can both celebrate and grieve with its members, while still reassuring them of God’s faithfulness

The church where I am serving this summer is one primarily composed of several large families. Like other rural churches, the saying goes, “Make sure you don’t talk bad about one person to another as they are likely to be related!” Indeed I’ve had a time sorting through the tangled web of familial relationships, learning how one person is related to another. Family is important in this community. Several of the large families have their own tradition of a Sunday meal in which the whole group (sometimes as many as 30-40 people) gathers to eat after church.

It is when I join the family at such a meal that I am surprised to discover that individuals are related. It feels like Thanksgiving. Dishes clutter the countertops, barely squeezing in. Numerous salads, freshly prepared vegetables plucked from the garden, fried chicken, roasts, rolls, and biscuits are all present. The dessert table is crowded with homemade cakes and a plethora of other sweet concoctions. The entire house buzzes with bustling activity. There is chattering and laughter, the occasional slam of the screen door as someone else enters, the arranging of chairs to make room, scraping of dishes, and lively conversation. Even after just one of these gatherings it was hard for me to imagine families doing this every Sunday.

I once remarked to my hostess how much I enjoyed being included in the gathering, as well as how amazed I was that such a big family gathered so often. She replied, “It’s important for us to get together. We take the time to catch up with one another, to know what is going on in each other’s lives. We have to stick together. The children and grandchildren just get used to it. They really get to know each other and are best friends. The sisters are best friends, they do everything together.” Through the Sunday gathering the family takes time to regroup, talk about the upcoming week, and find ways to connect with each other through other activities. Oftentimes the food prepared is that which many of the family members gathered from the garden, canned, froze, or prepared. Hours of the summertime were devoted to the family gathering together in the basement and canning anything from green beans to tomatoes. However, when it was time for the meal all were invited. The hostess gave me an open invitation, and encouraged me to come back whenever I could. In fact, several Sundays she would stop me after church to see if I had lunch plans and let me know I could come by. There was always more than enough food, plenty of company, and an invitation to join in the harvest.

This seemingly mundane Sunday tradition, tucked in the context of rural North Carolina struck me as a poignant example of how the church should seek to be a gathered community of intentional fellowship. The church community also is formed through the deliberate participation in a life of giving and receiving such as found in the act of communion. The United Methodist Book of Worship offers a service of Word and Table. It indicates several important elements: invitation, confession and pardon, peace, offering, the great thanksgiving, the Lord’s Prayer, breaking of the bread, giving of the bread and cup, and the sending forth.

Like any meal, there must be an invitation. This is not merely an invitation to be fed physically, but rather to be spiritually formed through the participation of the community. The church must make a conscious effort to be invitational, otherwise the squeaky screen door will remain silent and shut, and the dining table will remain empty. Furthermore, the community must be one in which, like a close-knit family, people can confess, share, and offer a place of forgiveness. In such an atmosphere peace can be offered to one another. This is not an empty, placating peace, but rather a deep abiding in the peace that comes from a reconciling God. And like the country counter where dozens of unique dishes make the journey from the labored fields to the table, the bounty which God has given is offered back in thanksgiving. Thanksgiving, prayer, and the breaking of bread follow, recognizing the ultimate source from which all blessings flow. Following the meal the gathered family does not simply sit, waiting for the meal of the following Sunday; but rather goes forth into the world, nourished by a time of fellowship and with an invitational spirit. The cycle begins again. The church receives and gives, it becomes a family intentional about gathering each week to break bread with one another. There is always enough, even for the guest, the stranger, the one who passes the swinging door.