St. James Episcopal Church

So Sunday in Florence rolled around and I chickened out. I had asked a friend of mine who had recently spent some time in Florence where she would recommend going to church and she said the Duomo, at least once, just for the experience. She also mentioned an English speaking church that she liked. And I really really really really meant to go the Duomo again, but.. I have no will power when you promise me English at a service. St. James is actually known as the American Church in Florence. I was just beginning the homesickness we all knew was going to strike, so I could honestly not resist a chance to go to a church service I could have a chance at understanding.

I ended up walking across town and was still without a reliable method of judging time, so when the church bells started ringing at 10:30, I was convinced I was late for the service and I almost walked back to the campground. But then I realized that I could just sneak in anyway and that I could explain why I was late to these people BECAUSE THEY SPOKE ENGLISH and I kept on walking. It was a beautiful realization.

I was actually a good twenty minutes early to the service and so I poked around the church for a couple of minutes, unsure of where to be. I ended up walking up to the balcony, which looked like this:

Awesome stained glass window.

And this wonderful blessed pile of things and coat hangers.

I never, ever, ever thought that a pile of old things covered in fabric and stored away would make me feel better and slightly less homesick, but it did. Old things donated and over-used signal a church to me (come on, you know you've all wondered where those couches came from in your youth longue and how many decades they've been there). It was honestly, honestly like being home. I almost cried. Over a pile of junk. Travelling, as has been stated, does crazy things to a person.

The service itself was wonderful. There was a procession to a hymn in a real hymn book, and even though some of the things the Episcopaleans did (they brought the Bible out into the middle of the congregation to do the gospel reading! Whoa!) surprised me, it was still pretty familiar. They didn't ignore the fact that they were in Italy, though- the Gospel reading was read first in Italian and then in English.

It was Pentecost, you know, the day the Holy Spirit came down with tongues of fire and then people could speak in each other's languages? Man, I think about that story all the time. "Gee, I wonder what we're talking about." "Gosh, it'd be wonderful to know what I'm saying right now. Maybe I'll google it later." "Oh, for the love of all that is good and holy, I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON." Being an English-speaking community in an Italian city, the congregation of St. James is pretty used to the difficulties that communication across the language barrier can bring. So I found it interesting that the first story the priest told was about the best sermon he ever heard, going to a church in France.

He doesn't speak French.

Now, I've had this experience so many times it sent me running to the first English speaking church I could find. How in the world could the best sermon you heard be in a language you don't understand? Is this some preacher joke, like when they talk about finishing up early to we can all get to the K&W for lunch? Then he went on to talk about how the French priest had talked with such love and compassion, you could tell that he cared about each and every person listening to the sermon. It was amazing to the priest preaching to me in Florence how so much could be said without words, how many of the right things we want to hear coming out of the church could be communicated regardless of linguistics.

I want to hear a sermon like that.

So we all lined up to walk out the door and shake hands on the way out and I honestly can't tell you anything about the architecture of the building. They had a pretty organ? There were stained glass windows? Oh! Saving face! It was a hall church with an apse that enclosed the chancel! Yes! *does happy dance*

But I loved going to St. James. I loved shaking hands on the way out and having someone actually living in Florence recognize where North Carolina is. I loved signing in English (singing! So good!) and I don't care that I potentially missed out on the architecture of the building, since I got to understand the church.