I’ve attended church services weekly for thirty years, but I can count on one hand the number of times that I’ve cried during the service. Having been reared in a churchgoing, Christian family, Sunday morning worship had grown comfortable and predictable, like a morning bowl of bran flakes. I’d allowed my participation in the corporate worship of the Church body to become a blasé routine that did little to challenge, cultivate, or spiritually form me. But this particular Sunday was different. Both woefully ignorant of the practices and traditions of liturgical churches, Jason and I tentatively stepped across threshold of the local Anglican church to hear a guest speaker whose…