CHURCH

Sunday morning (24th) we went looking for the Church of Scotland/Hungarian Reformed Church. (Professor Smidt and his wife Marilyn had suggested it as one of the few English services in Budapest.) We left an hour before the service started to give us a time cushion in case we got lost; thankfully, we found Prof. Smidt and Marilyn after getting off Tram 4…we were about to get on the Metro heading the wrong way.

The Church of Scotland is tucked wall-to-wall in a row of antique buildings on Vorosmarty utca; we walked through the heavy, centuries-old wooden door and made our way uncertainly toward the sanctuary. But we had nothing to worry about—we felt like long-time members as everyone greeted us warmly before the service.

The congregation is small but quite diverse with Iranians, Hungarians, Sudanese refugees, Russians, Americans, Afghanis, and Scots all worshipping together, as one body with one heart and mind. (How wide and deep is the love of Christ! Amen.) We had a glimpse of the scandalous grace of Christ and the Shalom of the coming kingdom. I can’t wait.

The Hungarian Reformed Pastor—Otto—had a way of phrasing his words that turned my eyes and heart over, writing on them with the words of Christ as if for the first time. One thing that especially struck me: Pastor Otto’s “congregational prayer” was a focused prayer of the congregation for the burdens of the whole world—not a list of petitions for the congregation itself. We prayed with one heart and mind for the sick, lonely, and handicapped; for children in global conflicts “that they might know God’s love in the hands of his angels, whoever and wherever they may be”; for those who are close to conviction but don’t think they are good enough for God’s grace; then finally a few simple petitions and prayers for their own congregation. It was wholly sincere and reverent…and turned our hearts outward to other people’s suffering.

We resisted the urge to clump in our Calvin group at coffee time and started shaking hands with members of the congregation. First Pastor Otto, then the senior pastor, Aaron, who immediately wrote down our emails. We met Joe and Kathy, Americans who helped serve lunch; Tim, a native Nigerian who has been living in Budapest for six years--he gave us tips on where to find Hungarian folk music, affordable groceries, and good weekend hiking trips; Alan, who moved to Budapest from London two years ago for his Hungarian fiancée; and two older gentlemen—John Veros and George.

John didn’t speak a word of English but simply went around kissing all the girls’ hands. George and I talked for a while; I listened intently to his broken English as he patiently struggled to string together words and sentences I would understand. Occasionally he’d run over to Pastor Aaron or Pastor Otto for an English translation. I learned that the church was formerly a school George attended in the days of Soviet occupation. He had six Russian lessons a week and only one or two English lessons. Though George wanted to learn English, the Russians restricted it. “Russian…Russian esh bad. English good.” He frowned and shook his head as if shaking off a pesky mosquito. “No Russian.”

When we left, we were filled up and running over with good fellowship. We will go back often.