The intro to this blog says it all. I know now I will be okay.
After having moved recently, I started the arduous journey of finding a new church home. Yesterday, weeks after this search began, I walked out of a church after a reflective Saturday service and smiled – knowing I would be okay.
It was the first church I walked into upon arrival in town – only to waste some time on lunch – with no intent of making it my regular Sunday sojourn. It was downtown. There was no parking. There was no need. Surely with its male minister, there was a patriarchal bent?
But I must admit that on the surface, it was love at first sight – with its Celtic crosses, with its meditative music reflection, but nope. I’m NOT doing downtown and I need to shop for a church. Still, I attended a few of this church’s functions but never on Sundays. I found the minister to be someone who, like my last minister, doesn’t let you just sit in the pew and stew, waiting for the clock to catch up to your mindset. So finally, after being a lost sheep for weeks, I decided yesterday, that I would attend proper Sunday services at this church I first intuited “fit.”
I arrived and sat in the antiquated back pew – this church being the first foundation of a church in my denomination. I chose the back pew not to bow out but just so as not to join in. That is how I do life. The problem is that though my heart is a back row kind of heart, my brain is a first row kind of mind. I want to breathe in all that is going on and it’s hard to do from the back pew.
I saw an older lady I recognized but did not look in her direction as I rarely assume folks recognize me back. She circled around the back of the church and was gone. Within seconds however, a hand came over the back of the pew and a warm voice welcomed me with, “Well, hello. I’ve been waiting for you.” This is the same voice which told me previously, “Don’t go away so long that I forget what you look like.”
This concerned yet non-intrusive comment was a large part of the reason I decided to choose this church as the physical building to house my spiritual self. Or at the very least, try this Sunday service. I wasn’t certain I believed her “I’ve been waiting for you,” statement but realized it was true as she painfully lumbered to a back room immediately afterwards. I felt good.
As the music began, I realized it was organ music. I realized the hymns were OLD. I began to panic! What did I commit to? I am not the kind to ever back out of a commitment so there I sat fretting. I looked around at the congregation. It was small. It wasn’t particularly varied across age groups. What if the feeling I had yesterday will all but dissolve while sitting in a puddle of archaic mantra? Though I knew the words of the minister’s sermons worked for me (from past readings of them) I needed the music to speak to me in equal measure. A friend of mine says it is through the music she finds the Spirit. I have come to realize I have need for both and it was starting to look as though I could not have my cake and eat it too.
Sadness started to seep in as another lady I recognized stepped up to the pulpit for an announcement. She started talking to the children in the front pew and asked for their help. She revved up her voice and started calling each by name and to my surprise, she purposefully called clear across the church to the very back row where I was seated and said my name as well – the only 35-year old I’m sure who has ever been included when seeking help from the children! I began to feel great and yet it also deepened my sense of sadness in knowing that though I would surely stay based on these two interactions only but would pay the very steep price in terms of music.
And then, it happened. A song which was not included in the Saturday’s service of reflection boomed out from the choir loft. The chorus came and even men, lone men in the congregation started a “not the first time we’ve done this” clap, leaning down to sing to children by their side. By the end of the song, I didn’t know whether my chest was going to burst with exultation or whether my eyes would explode first with tears of joy. It was the first time I’ve ever been enveloped in that moving of a church moment; perhaps born out of my current “sheep situation” but I didn’t think so. I was wholly moved to collapse.
Having had some exposure to the choir director, I shouldn’t have worried so much. I think I was hurting so badly spiritually and gone through so much tough stuff since moving to this new town, that I finally had pinned my hopes on this day and this church and these people. I hadn’t had a “real” sermon since a Lenten luncheon weeks back and I think it was taking its toll on me without my knowing. Thankfully, my fears were unfounded.
After an anthem which also didn’t make Saturday’s shortened service, the sermon began. Again, I was surprised. I had yet to be disappointed by the minister with his subdued method of “Think about it” kind of delivery, but he certainly changes it up for Sunday. Out of what I perceived was a quiet, reflective man, boomed a sermon which almost made me quit missing my past minister’s sermons. Almost. Plus, the sermon started out discussing the Olympics (not the Tibet discussion but the endurance of tenacious Olympians) and I like anyone who can bring that into play.
Could it get any better? Yes. There was a drama which revolved around one of the readings and I laughed heartily. The choir director also spoke to me by name as I made my way to coffee time and eventually I was surrounded by folk – not one of which inquired as to which of my “gifts” could help out the church. Not one of which asked of my private life or my past. “No gossip” was the order of the day. And finally, the same lady who welcomed me to the church came and took me by the hand to meet the Minister of Faith Formation who had earlier done Youth Time during the service – a minister who made each child feel important during her talk. This I liked immensely as I’ve come to learn that when one is as impressionable as young children are, every moment matters.
She spoke to me intently and though not displaying overt leadership qualities (though they were definitely present) everything about her was perfect. She was youngish, articulate, empathetic and had a quality which inferred that we were all in this together and there was a future here – within these walls.
If this sounds like a review of a religious institution, I apologize. It is merely the mumblings of a happy heart, a euphoric seeker, who was lost and needing a home. Today, it seems I’ve found one.
