Pastor Shulz was over in Pittsburgh this week for a family reunion. He always likes to get away, at least for a few days, after Easter, and Pittsburgh is his home, the place where he was raised, although he hasn't lived there for a long time - ever since he left for college, over forty years ago. So he only actually spent a small sliver of his life there, and most of it elsewhere, but that's not how we count time and place, is it?

We count it mostly by meaning. Home is the place where we grew up, and where we can always go to when things get rough. It's the place that informs us concerning who we are, where we came from, and writes the directions concerning where we are headed. It's where mom and dad were, as well as our brothers and sisters - that forge or, considering that it's Pittsburgh in this case, and considering the sometimes celebratory and otherwise tumultuous relationships he had in that family, perhaps it was more like a blast furnace, burning off the dross of life - or so he often hoped. He had always hoped that the experience of growing up in that family had perhaps purified him, and taught him things he'd need to know for life. Other times, however, he wasn't so sure.

At any rate, he went home this week, to be with family, to rejoice in those relationships once again, and to firm up, for himself, the old saying, "you can never go home again."

He found it to be true. As he visited his old haunts, everything was different. The run-down orchard where he gathered sickle pears, and the apple tree that had apples that were more like the size of grapefruit - that was all gone, and a housing development stood in its place. The pool where he lifeguarded for three summers had been cemented over and turned into an outdoor roller skating rink. The house where he grew up, which his dad had laboriously covered the asbestos shingle in front with one story of used brick - George had cleaned much of it himself - had the brick torn off, and replaced with vinyl siding, and the two Carolina Poplars in the front yard were gone, as were most of the trees and shrubs his father had planted over the years. The only one that remained was an overgrown hemlock at the corner of the garage, that was only upright about half-way up, then leaned over, as if it was cocking its head to listen in on the neighbor's conversations.

He decided to stay over on Sunday, mostly because he wasn't feeling particularly good on Saturday night, after the reunion. It was probably too much sausage, or perhaps some of the conversation, which seemed to center on old hurts. Millie, his cousin with five children of her own, and three more through a second marriage, and twelve grandchildren, with two more on the way, kept telling him that "it's not too late" for him to begin with a new family, and extolled the virtues of parenting and, now grand parenting. That's when his stomach started to hurt, and he thanked God that he would not have to lie, in order to excuse himself. He went back to the motel, called Fred Glisson, his Lay Worship Leader, and told him that he was sick, and Fred, as usual, was happy for the chance to lead worship on Sunday. Every week he writes a sermon, which he often shares with Pastor Shulz, even though he doesn't get to preach often. He likes to keep in practice, "just in case."

On Sunday, Pastor Shulz woke up early, about six o'clock, and couldn't get back to sleep, so he decided to go to church, in the church where he'd grown up, Our Savior's Lutheran Church in Brookline. After the rest of the weekend going so badly, he didn't expect much, and knew that a lot of the people he would have remembered has passed away over the years. Still, it would be good to sit in the old building, perhaps up in the balcony, which had been his favorite spot, and remember.

At the door, he was met by a young woman - their present pastor, who welcomed him, and of course didn't know who he was, since he wasn't wearing his collar, and he simply introduced himself as "George Shulz," who used to attend here. A couple of more questions, and he was through the door, and into a sanctuary that hadn't changed much in over half a century. It still smelled like lemon polish, which was what the sexton when he was a child, Jim Aston, used to use. He decided against the balcony, preferring one of the pews in the back, and slipped in, eyeing the congregation for a familiar face.

It didn't take long to begin remembering: Harry Tettler, his high school Sunday School teacher, who took them all for a ride in his new Javelin, with a 390 cubic inch, 315 horsepower engine, and who would listen carefully to their stories and share his own - something few adults would find time to do. Jim Aston, the sexton, was a smallish, gruff man who always smelled like a stale cigar, and who always had something to complain about, but was always quick to invite the kids up to his house, behind the church, for cookies and milk when they had to stay after church, while their parents were in meetings (he wondered now about why they always had meetings, as well as choir practice, after church on Sundays?). He started going through the many faces, and the many services he had experienced there. It was surprising, once he got started, how many he remembered.

The young woman began the announcements: no choir this week; Vacation Bible School planning meeting; Circle meetings. She finished and asked, "Any other announcements?" A hand raised, and a middle-aged man got up, and turned around, facing the congregation. "I'd like to welcome an old friend," he said. "George Shulz. He's been away from us for a long time, but now that he's decided to grace us with his presence, I want him to know that a few of us still remember him." He smiled broadly, as if he had been planning this for years, and finally got his chance. Suddenly Pastor Shulz recognized him - Jim Raustaucher, a member of his confirmation class. They'd spent a lot of time together as kids, and now, though much heavier, and much wrinkled, he still bore the same grin. Another got up: "Are you kidding me?" He turned around. It was Bob Shoemaker. His brother, Bill, was on the other side, and peered around his older brother. "You old horse!" he bellowed. Others followed, and a sea of strangers at once became a family of the beloved.

Ten minutes later, the service finally began. The young pastor had been very patient, announced that they would skip the confession, unless the visiting pastor had some old sins he'd like forgiven - at which everyone laughed. And she announced that they would skip the sermon hymn, and that there would be a time of refreshment after the service, so that folks could get together and remember. Someone slipped out the side aisle - heading downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee, and to find some cookies in the cupboard or in the Food Pantry that could provide refreshment for the gathering.

It was a good day. There were a lot of hugs and kisses, a lot of memories shared. A couple of people hadn't heard about Ada's death, and who cried sincere tears. And afterwards, Pastor Shulz was off, back to Middleton, with a heart full of good memories, and a sense of rootedness, and many loves to cherish.

Oftentimes, when we meet Christ, it is on the road, in an unexpected place. It may be the fellow sitting next to us at Katie's Diner, or some fellow on the street corner asking us for a buck for some coffee. It may even be in church, among old friends, where he reveals himself, heals us, causes us to remember some important things, then sends us, refreshed, upon our way, to minister to others, and to be Christ to them. And so it goes.

And that's what's happening over at Our Redeemer Lutheran Church this week, a little congregation over in Middleton, not too far from here; a congregation that isn't much in the eyes of the world, but precious in the eyes of God.