I lit a candle for Nelson Mandela. Many candles were burning this morning. We believe that we are all God's Saints, and there, during the prayers of the people for the dead, there it was. She spoke it softly. Mandela.
From my knees, it seemed, at first, a small tribute. One word. Mandela.
But as the sound wafted up, I got a sense of what was happening on this Advent Sunday. All over the world, following the sunrise, the word Mandela was being offered to God, in thanks for his earthly works and in his honor.
In Tallahassee alone, I can imagine that some churches were singing and lifting their arms, in tribute, palms open. I know that others must have been dancing and chanting fist closed, thrust heavenward. Some were probably led by the spirit to speak in tongues. Others sang the old spirituals of their (also his) ancestors. Church leaders in some instances were most certainly sermonizing about him and others were undoubtedly honoring him in various eulogy-type programs.
In my church it came with a word, softly and simply spoken. Mandela. The word merged with other voices from other places. As the world turns, this Sunday, God is hearing the loving chant constantly. "Mandela. Mandela. Mandela."
