There are, now and then, moments when the church visible and invisible, militant and triumphant, now and not yet, are palpably one.  It is one of those mysterion (sorry no Greek letters on this platform) that I find more as I get older and have been in more congregations in more roles; it probably has something to do with having done dozens of funerals and now and then singing hymns or songs that connect me with people, times and places (some of my friends find it rather wierd that I date pop songs by what I was doing and where; if there's no association I can't date them.  Increasingly pop songs link me to certain crematoria!!).

Last evening was one of those moments, as we we sang the old redemption hymn It Is Well. I learned this hymn for a funeral because it was the favourite of the deceased, a lovely older man in my former congregation.  Tom (not his real name) had served in WWII and was twice held as a POW in Japan.  What he saw and experienced he never told, though in his final days, in our conversations, he was able to lay down some of it before he died.  This song had sustained him through horrors I cannot begin to imagine.

I like to think that as we sang the hymn last evening somewhere, just out of reach, he was singing it too...

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows, like sea-billows, roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
It is well, it is well with my soul, with my soul,
It is well, it is well with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And has shed His own blood for my soul.
Chorus

My sin - O the bliss of this glorious thought! -
My sin, not in part, but the whole,
Is nailed to His cross, and I bear it no more:
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
Chorus

For me be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live!
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
Chorus

But, Lord, 'tis for Thee, for Thy coming, we wait;
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
O trump of the angel! O voice of the Lord!
Blessèd hope! blessèd rest of my soul!
Chorus

Horatio G Spafford (1828-1888)