We are back at church. It’s been awhile–it took us several months to drop the landing gear after we moved. This is a story in itself, because we weren’t looking for one. What I mean is this: we weren’t looking for a place that was selling “church”. There are lots of places that sell a sweet package, but they don’t look like Jesus; they look like everybody else. This is a clue for us to keep searching. I was a good girl for a long time before I figured out “good” wasn’t what Jesus wanted from me. We have been in well-oiled churches before as participants and quasi-members (another tangent no doubt related to an Enneagram number, ha), but the megachurch/mega-show variety is new to us. We walked into a few by accident.
Maybe they think they are relevant. The building is always tastefully gorgeous. The parking lot is simply packed. There’s a coffee bar right inside the door, with real cream and sugar in the raw, to boot. The greeters are friendly, notice our kids, and point us straight to the children’s ministry wing. We can drop them right off, everyone is background checked and wonderful with children. They’ll have so much fun.
I clutch the kids’ hands even though they beg me to let them go. It could be because I’m unfamiliar with the people. More likely, though, I don’t want them to get the idea that church is all about having fun. I feel a fleeting stab of guilt for being a stick-in-the-mud. It doesn’t matter; what’s happening in the auditorium is equally as exciting for my sheltered children. I half expect the ushers to hand us a bag of popcorn as the lights dim. The congregation (audience) sits in theater seats below a well lit stage. We are lucky to find seats for our family. First we sing worship songs, the words up on a screen. Our voices are drowned out by electric guitars and drums, and I look at Joe and roll my eyes. I’m too old fashioned. The instrumental breaks are killing me. Am I supposed to be experiencing a spiritual moment? Everyone else is swaying. The kids are starting to wiggle and whine. Our theater pew mates toss furtive, slightly annoyed glances our way–shouldn’t those kids be in a class?
A man steps on stage, tattoos stretching down his arms from his t-shirt sleeves to wrists, a Bible in hand. He’s mod, well-liked, and refers often to a rough past. He cracks a few jokes and everyone is feeling great. He talks about loving our neighbors, but doesn’t open his Bible. He turns emotional. He prays.
More singing, and then a special song.
The snazzy guy tickling the ivories, belting out something about lovin’ and livin’ like he’s Billy Joel–he’s singing for “those who might not have been moved by the message but would respond better to music.” The piece de resistance.
We are in the cheap seats, but we can see it from here. He was only warming up in the spotlight, waiting for the ovation. This is as good as Broadway for him. He’ll have Chipotle for lunch and watch football later this afternoon, just like his friends in the audience.
I wonder, what would he know about loving his enemy? Would he ever step into a nursing home, sit down at their piano, and offer his talent to people who can’t remember his name? Where is his reward if it isn’t everyone flocking in to see him put on a show on Sunday mornings?
The ushers silently pass baskets and people drop money in. They’re paying for their morning entertainment. Everyone feels good but us. We can’t bear to be there another minute.
Is this even church? You’d have a hard time convincing me. I know people that hated church growing up; the stiffness, formality, hours of sitting still with only half a stick of Doublemint, a bulletin, and a dull pencil to keep them occupied. But it was the cross I carried, and it netted me all sorts of good girl points. (I remember making acrostic poems of our names. When I got to R, I wrote, “reproachless”. Groan.)
It’s no wonder this generation has changed the church landscape to feel more welcoming. Has it gone too far? I don’t want my kids to hate church, but I also don’t want them to think Sunday mornings are for worshipping themselves. I really don’t want them ever thinking they hold the trump card or that they’re a “good” kid, above reproach.
It’s made us take a closer look at church, at culture, at what it means to deny ourselves and follow Jesus.
Shouldn’t church be a comfort cure for our sin-sickness and rest for our battle-weary souls? Shouldn’t we lift our voices together as one and sing hymns, earnest and unashamed–“Oh to be like Thee”? Shouldn’t we be confronted with the utter hopelessness in the world but spurred on by the hope that a Savior came and redeemed us? The salve I desperately want isn’t a good cup of coffee or a surface level chat about how much snow we got this week.
It can’t be found at many churches.
We’re too consumed with self, too afraid to let Jesus press us into His mold. We want a relevant preacher, the type that tosses out irreverence so we don’t feel bad about watching dirty shows on Netflix. We want the religious books we read to be slathered in satire. Let the message at least be humorous–a spoonful of sugar, you know. Sedate me with vague nods at the awful state of the world we live in, but don’t tread too heavy on guilt. When it comes to my flesh, I demand the closest shave, the premium razor. But when it comes to my conscience, I’d prefer the cheap single blade.
I know in my soul this isn’t okay, but it takes a fight to win control over my feelings and penchant for sloth. It takes diligence and a lot of paying attention. When I study Jesus I see that he had no air of superiority. He didn’t stroke anyone’s ego. He didn’t butter them up with self-deprecation, jokes made about his own poor dress and appearance. He was genuinely humble. He only spoke truth and he didn’t cower at the response of the haughty. He gave hope and life to people willing to receive it. Mostly they were destitute, ragged, sick, lonely, poor. These people were ready for someone to break their bondage and flip their lives around.
Four months. Sixteen Sundays. We ended up finding a dying church a mile from our house. There appeared to be no kids, so for a few weeks we avoided going back. When we did return, it was because a kind, older man gently pointed out, “Well, if you started attending, there would be kids, wouldn’t there?” Indeed.
We are a band of misfits and no one resembles anyone else. There are many languages and accents, and later, home confessions, “I couldn’t understand a single thing he said!” Some women in the church cover their heads. Some don’t. One man stands, his arms outstretched, the entire service. My kids are sometimes restless in the pew, but I catch them singing in tune with the congregation. I look around and think we are trying our best. To worship. To become more like Jesus.
It is deliberate and beautiful, plain and unassuming. I will always prefer it to coffee bars and unlimited childcare.
