The Maestro's Handshake

There's lots of angst about the demise of the Church these days, but the basics are pretty simple. And AI's going to be zero help here.

Trinity Episcopal Church, Apalachicola, FL, 1884

The magic began with our honeymoon, then stretched over the past twenty-nine years as our family’s numerous summer treks to St. George Island, a barrier island three miles off Florida's Forgotten Coast. And Apalachicola, the seat of Franklin County and seven miles of bridge from St. George, is where you go for supplies or for a dinner with linen napkins.

Apalach is Old Florida. Spanish moss and air sticky-thick, like toasted honey. An oyster harvester raking beds his grandfathers established 125 years ago. Weathered captains with rickety skiffs. Queen Anne homes with wraparound porches. A cemetery with gnarled trees, washed-out tombstones, and ghost walks. Apalachicola has one flashing yellow light. One biscuit shop. One soda fountain counter. One very small Piggly Wiggly.

Over the years, I've often visited Apalachicola's Trinity Episcopal Church. Erected in 1838, carpenters constructed the white Greek Revival in White Plains, New York, then sailed the pieces around the tip of Florida and all the way back up to the panhandle where they jigsawed everything back together. Trinity is the state's second oldest active church. Worshipers have sat on and kneeled at these same creaky, gorgeous pews for two centuries.

After service every Sunday, there's a social hour with sweets and coffee. And they do the passing of the peace like they mean it. Folks linger and chat. A few look around to catch the eyes of a friend across the room, offering a neighborly nod or raising the peace fingers.

On one summer visit, announcements covered the upcoming bingo night (no charge) with great prizes (art from a parishioner's daughter and gift certificates to the local grill) and the fabulous response to the school backpack drive ("we're small but mighty"). If you wanted to feel like an outsider here, you'd have to work for it, on purpose.

Two elder ushers welcomed all comers at the front door, passing out bulletins and hugs. One of the ushers, grey thin-cropped hair, played the part of the maestro. He had something to say to almost everyone, instigating laughs and a slap on the shoulder. If his hearing aid didn't make things clear, he leaned in closer. His way, like his jean shirt and khakis, was easy.

After a simple sermon from a preacher who spoke as if he believed Jesus was actually in the building, the same two ushers carried the offering and elements to the altar. On their way back toward the pews, the maestro stopped at the bottom of the steps, turned back facing the altar. He waited.

He stood there as the line of people received the Eucharist and then filed back past him, returning to their seats. As each person stepped down the final step, he grabbed their hand, looked them in the eye, and gave a sturdy handshake. You received the body and blood of Christ, and then you received the warm hand and warmer smile of the maestro. I watched, eyes moist. I couldn't wait for my turn.

It didn't take long, the crowd was small. Up from the kneeler at the altar, wine and bread consumed, then only a few steps. He grabbed my hand. His vigorous clutch insisted the grace I'd just tasted was as real as his grip, and the mercy would never let me go.

I sat down, filled in every way.

After church, I tracked him down and tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir," grabbing his hand once more, "the most meaningful part of the service for me was your handshake." He put his other hand on the back of my neck, like he would a grandson, and squeezed. His eyes held a glint of wonder. "Thank you," he said. He squeezed again.

Human touch. Kind, wise eyes. Another person simply standing there, waiting for me, for everyone. The body of Jesus. AI has absolutely zilch to offer here. No algorithm can sate our hunger for these holy, skin and bone encounters.

There's lots of angst these days about the Church's demise, handwringing over what we must do to right the ship and regain relevance. Most of it makes me want to shove a fire poker in my eyeball. Being the church is not easy; we’ve got work to do. But the basics are pretty simple, and we’ve already got all the gifts we need.