In Line at the Bank

It was 1974. The Philadelphia Flyers, massive underdogs that they were, had won the Stanley Cup. The Broad Street Bullies, they were called.

On the last night of the finals, I stood outside celebrating the win with friends. The atmosphere was glorious. We cheered a carful of nuns who drove past us, honking their horn, waving white handkerchiefs from every window.

Weeks later, the trophy would be on display downtown. Anybody could go and see it, take pictures, whatever. One Friday afternoon, after work, I took the trolley in to Center City so I could cash my paycheck and have a look at Lord Stanley’s Cup. This was back when you actually got a paycheck on Friday and had to take it to the bank for deposit.

I got my grateful fill of the hubbub around the trophy. I drank in the pure fan glee at the sight of the thing, felt the excitement of everyone of the same mind as myself and then took myself off to the bank. As usual, back in those times, there was a long line at the bank on a Friday afternoon. All manner of humanity stood patiently, or not, holding that piece of paper that meant, “Now you can pay the rent, buy groceries, go to a movie.”

I was vaguely aware of an argument several people ahead of me in line. One woman seemed intent on making her point to another. They did not seem to be “together;” I had the impression that this was a chance encounter, perhaps an argument over whose place was whose in the line, normal stuff for a Friday afternoon in a city.

Then, the more argumentative woman turned around, spotted me in the line, pointed to me and proclaimed, “There. She believes in the power of prayer.”  Of course, I was at a loss for words. Introvert that I am, I didn't want to be drawn into this or any argument.  But she persisted. “Don’t you? You believe in the power of prayer, don't you?”

At this time in my life, I had been attending the Episcopal Church for about three months after several years of no church at all. I did not consider myself an expert on the power of anything. I barely considered myself a believer. But I answered, “Yes, I do.”

Proudly, the woman turned to her partner in argument and said, “There! See?” as if my agreement somehow proved her point. That was all she needed from me. I was a bit stunned at my response, but I didn't regret it. 

There is a reason I have remembered this episode so well after all these years.  Yes, the hockey championship may have cemented it in my mind somewhat, but I think it’s more than that. Somehow, this eccentric woman drew a response from me that has directed my life.

Our director of faith formation always asks the Sunday School children, “Where is God in this story?”

So where is God in this story? It’s logical to dismiss incidents like this. We can conclude that some people are simply odd and like to confront others with pronouncements. We can guess that there is some mental disorder at work freeing such people from normal inhibitions.

Oddly enough, however, if either of these incidents had occurred in a work of fiction, the reader would immediately see the exchange as meaningful, true and important. An author wouldn't insert such a scene without purpose. I am convinced that this real-life encounter was just as meaningful.

All our days are filled with moments of meaning. Everywhere we see evidence of God’s work, we face his image bearers, we use and value his creation, we hear its music. If one moment is a bit sharper than others, if one person seems a bit truer, that is just a tiny taste of God’s kingdom. It’s the merest whiff of God’s will. The worst thing you can do is close yourself off from it as I nearly did. The best you can do is breathe it in and smile.