My Perfect Sunday.

This past Sunday, I saw the face of God a thousand times.

I saw it when Emily, a senior in my youth group, let down her guard for two minutes and was able to put her appreciation for the church she was raised in into words.

I saw it in Isaac, an intelligent and clever junior, as he took charge of preparing and serving the Lord's Supper for his congregation, making sure that everything was as it was supposed to be.

I saw the face of God in Merritt, a senior who can't wait to go to college and realize her potential, as she conquered her stage fright and spoke the most wonderful sermon from her heart.

I saw it in Lyndon, a seventh grader with the energy of a seventh grader, who spilled water from the baptismal fount with such abundance that her gasp was followed quickly by laughter. And shortly after the laughter came prayer, just as God would have wanted.

I watched Henry, a senior with wisdom beyond his years, speak from his heart. With nothing more than an outline set before him on the pulpit, he spoke the words that preachers want to preach, professing his faith and admitting his questions and doubts.

I saw John Franklin and Max and Catherine and Avery and Jesse and Mattie and Web and Lucy and India and Ben and Emery and Margaret and Anwen and Canon and Rebecca and Rachel and David and Caroline and John laugh and pray and laugh some more. These are the faces of God.

And I saw Nate.

Nate is a seventh grader with autism. He loves iPhones, movies, television, and doodling. He wears sweatpants and red Keds. When he laughs, he laughs; his head falls back and his mouth is wide open. Nate is shy in new situations and around new people. He calls me Mr. Brian and makes me laugh.

On most Sunday mornings, Nate attends church with his parents. They sit in the balcony of the sanctuary and Nate draws pictures and listens to the children's moment. Usually about two-thirds of the way through the service, Nate grows tired and restless and the family has to leave.

This past Sunday, this most perfect Youth Sunday at Second Presbyterian in Nashville, Nate sat in the front row of the church between two of his fellow youth group members. His parents were nervous, I was nervous, but the youth never worried. To them, Nate is Nate; he comes and goes once in awhile, but they're never nervous around him. He sat so quietly through the service that I forgot to keep my eye on him from my chair next to the door of the sanctuary. And then came time for the offering.

One of the youth sitting next to Nate, Web, was supposed to help carry the communion elements from the back of the sanctuary to the communion table during the doxology after the offering had been collected. Nate often follows Web since they've grown up going to Sunday School together, so naturally, when Web got up to help with communion, Nate was right by his side.

As I was sorting out who would take what chalice and which plate of bread to the front of the church, I suddenly had Nate asking to hold a chalice. Not knowing how this situation might play out, I handed him the one empty chalice in hopes that this would reduce the risk for a grape juice catastrophe. He held it for a few seconds and then changed his mind, he wanted to carry a plate of bread. I exchanged anxious glances with a few of my youth and we all quickly and silently agreed to allow Nate to carry a plate with a large loaf of bread, cut into two halves, to the front of the church.

The offertory was nearing a close and I was trying to sort out 11 youth who between them held two large pots of non-perishable food we had collected, an offering plate, a pitcher of grape juice, one empty chalice, three chalices full of juice, two loaves of bread on plates, a plate of gluten-free communion bread, and an in-home communion set.

And I was trying to make sure Nate was okay. After I quietly told him that he was going to take the bread, walk down the aisle next to Isaac, and put it on the communion table, he started to panic slightly. Knowing this was natural for Nate and having worked with him for seven months now, I knew to ask him if he was okay. He said he was, calmed himself down, and told me he had a sniffly nose.

The images going through my mind at that moment were hilarious. I had gone from worrying about the possibility of a spilled cup of grape juice to a loaf of communion bread covered by the sneeze of one of my seventh graders. Thankfully, Nate's father, Mike, had come to save the day. He blew his sons nose and double-checked with me to make sure I was okay with the situation and returned to his pew.

Literally seconds after Nate had blown his nose, Isaac looked at me and then looked at Nate. Isaac calmly, but firmly, said, "You can walk right next to me." Nate didn't have time to respond as they were already walking down the aisle. He walked next to Isaac, who carried the chalice and empty cup, making sure to keep them together so they wouldn't be placed too far apart on the communion table. Nate placed his bread down on the table, made sure it was okay with Jeannie, our associate pastor and head of the youth program, and returned to his seat in the front row.

After Jeannie had led us in the Great Prayer of Thanksgiving and invited us to the table, she called the communion servers to the table. The church Session had approved our request to let the youth serve communion since it was Youth Sunday, so we had selected seven of our youth to help Jeannie serve communion. The seven youth stood up and gathered around the communion table. And before I knew it, Nate was back at the table.

Jeannie and the other seven never questioned Nate joining them. Jeannie gave him a half-loaf of bread wrapped in napkin and told him to say, "The bread of heaven," as each person took a small piece to dip in the cup of juice. I saw Nate mouth the words, "The bread of heaven," and I'm sure my mouth was wide open.

Nate stood by Jeannie and served communion to the congregation. He served his parents. He served one of his fellow youth group members who has severe physical and mental disabilities. Nate served communion. And I saw the true face of God.

My youth astound me. They are smart and funny and loving and wise and intelligent and reverent and perfect. They are children of God. They love the people Jesus loved. The speak their minds. They stand up for those who need a voice. They help without being asked. They are children of God.

And this is why I work with the youth of the church. I couldn't wait to get up at 6:30am on Sunday morning to witness their miracles. I couldn't wait to let the rest of the church witness their imperfect perfection. I couldn't wait to see Lyndon overflow the baptismal fount. I couldn't wait to see Emily, Merritt, and Henry overcome their fears and share their wisdom with the world. And I didn't know it, but I couldn't wait to see a young autistic man serve the Lord's supper to the Lord's people.

This past Sunday, I saw the face of God a thousand times...