“For those of us who want to see democracy survive and thrive—and we are legion—the heart is where everything begins.” So writes Parker Palmer in his new book, Healing the Heart of Democracy.

This sounds to me like a call to spiritual practice, something the church offers in community. Representing The United Church of Canada at Jack Layton’s funeral last Saturday reminded me of how important this is.

As the Rev. Brent Hawkes said at the funeral, the spirit of hope we saw rising in Canada during the preceding week “sometimes even happens in church.” It’s a throwaway line—you won’t find it in the official transcript—but in the word “sometimes” I heard both invitation and confession.

How does this strong spirit of hope become more than an occasional experience in our churches? Let me suggest at least three answers:

First, universal grief and hunger for hope can only be addressed with the words and ways of heart—the language of the soul, “where everything begins.” For some of us sitting in Roy Thomson Hall last Saturday, our soul recognized its own language in scripture read from Philippians, Isaiah, and the Qur’an. For everyone, it was heard in poetry, music, and story. I felt the flutter of Spirit ripple through the crowd when Stephen Lewis ended his eulogy quoting from Indian novelist, activist, and feminist Arundhati Roy: “Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day I can hear her breathing.”

Scripture is primary for us, but poets also teach the language of soul. Jack’s final words turn to poetry, the language of the soul, as a gift for those who will grieve: “My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.”

It matters that our worship services speak to the heart. I am deeply grateful to those of you who prepare and lead weekly worship services. Your labour delivers stirring words of heart and soul Sunday after Sunday. Your great care and courage with sermon preparation, hymn selection, images and stories from your heart to others’ hearts matter. These are what stir renewed hope and confidence that God’s will may be done on earth as in heaven.

Second, being inclusive and intercultural is life-giving. I’ve heard a number of laments that the funeral was without prayer. Yet I heard the service begin with prayer and with a reminder that we gathered on holy ground, the traditional lands of the Mississaugas. Shawn Atleo’s prayerful words and actions dissolved the membrane between heaven and earth, and helped all those gathered from across all kinds of boundaries begin together in a good way. We are blessed when we take such time in United Church gatherings to acknowledge the traditional lands on which we meet and worship. Brent Hawkes’ explanation of why he wore his academic robes rather than his regular liturgical garb made clear that he was there as a Christian minister who wanted to honour those gathered of all backgrounds. He embodied and explained the capacity to be and do both.

Sometimes I found the applause uncomfortable and had to wonder about my discomfort. It occurred to me that people need to respond—they want to participate and feel part of one another. Clapping is a natural expression of “We’re with you” in our culture, and no other opportunity for response was offered apart from the chance to sing along with a closing song or two.

We need to participate in our own actions and voices, and accept without judgment that others will feel moved to participate differently. In our church services, we typically have more opportunities for response—through communal song and prayer at least—and yet we likely need to expand our repertoire.

For example, I’m not sure how accessible we are to those who have difficulty with the written word. Anyone who could hear and see was able to participate last Saturday whether or not they could read. We welcomed one another’s languages, one another's holy words, and one another’s music. With no one prescribed “proper” way of expressing ourselves, behaviour varied across great diversity and political boundaries.

Perhaps we need to acknowledge more often in our own worship just how diverse we are in any gathered group. We will each respond differently, and God will see that it is good.

Third, we need to understand that a funeral, like any service of worship, can change the world. Brent Hawkes stepped out from behind the pulpit at the end of his homily to say, “And may we rise to the occasion, because the torch is now passed. The job of making the world a better place is up to us.” The singing of Parachute Club’s “Rise Up” followed, with a refrain that anyone who could hear and had voice could join with. We were then sent out with God’s blessing expressed in words treasured by those of us who are regularly blessed in Christian worship.

This powerful ending ignited conversations throughout the hall immediately, conversations in the street and beyond. People were talking about what we need to do now to make things better. We wanted to see this hope that we had tasted last. We wanted to find ways to carry it forward as we made plans and commitments. And, to paraphrase Parker Palmer, through such creative “scheming” we find ourselves overcoming fear, rediscovering that we are members of one another, and embracing conflicts that might otherwise threaten community.

It felt different to me than most post-worship coffee hours and has me wondering whether we challenge one another enough and believe enough in the power of communal worship to change the world. Because, of course, it can and does. Next time I prepare a sermon I’m going to think more about my own hope and confidence in this truth, and then listen to others’ hope and confidence as we share a cup of coffee.

The funeral was, in many ways, partisan, as was Jack. Yet it spoke to souls across political boundaries, to communities far and wide, and to the responsibilities we each have beyond our own community. It matters that we practise the language of soul and that we pay attention to how we are community, bound together as one diverse body of Christ and with those who differ from us. These are practices of love and hope. And we get to practise—and invite others to join us—not only every Sunday but every day in between Sundays. Thanks be to God for more-than-occasional opportunities to live in hope!

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