Some people want church to be a place to meet others different from themselves; some want a distinctly spiritual connection with the people of their daily lives; some a restful place of aesthetically pleasing nourishment. As church visitors for the last nine months, M and I have grappled with what church might mean for us, and we’re still grappling.
Today we forged up the road to the very next building, a small church (65 in attendance?) with a cross that lights up at night, a bell actually rung by hand before the service, a small playground and pavilion, and an aura of settled, old blood. The names and faces felt local; the cemetery and church interior spoke of years and years of generational worship.
The pianist stumbled through the three hymns, all of which we knew by heart, which was good since no one provided us with a hymnal (they eagerly cleared away some piles of handouts from some back seats for us and went out of their way to give us a bulletin, so it wasn’t that they weren’t hospitable). The Bible school coordinator displayed on the LCD projector a short video teaser showing excited jungle animals like monkeys interspersed with kids enthusiastically learning the Lord’s Prayer. The pastor then showed two motherhood related video clips and gave a rousing sermon about tithing, half of which M and I each missed because N found the morning breezes and sunshine irresistible.
Because I was in and out so much, I wasn’t sure (until M told me, later) what the sermon was about—Mother’s Day, or buying into heavenly stock.
I noticed that the sign-up sheets, on the back bulletin board beside our seats, weren’t all filled—only January, for the children’s story; most months had greeters, except May and one or two others; the newly posted Bible school list was completely empty—and that while there were no flags in the sanctuary, at least two soldiers were listed in the bulletin prayer list, along with another man’s “prostrate.”
Afterwards a few people greeted us. “We live right over there, and wanted to come meet our neighbors,” we told them. We asked one woman if Sunday school would be meeting and she said yes, but most people seemed to be streaming away, and so we followed suit.
We’ve known and, yes, loved such churches, where enormous efforts to throw Bible schools and straggle through hymns and reassure the faithful are so often borne by the motivated few and the little-paid pastor. We’ve also known the intricately planned sermons, professional organ playing, and liturgical rhythms of our of-late usual church visiting haunt where we in spite of our reservations have begun to belong as much as any of the other many transplants there.
“I’m glad we visited,” I told M as we walked home this morning.
“Me, too,” she said.
