This morning my husband and I went to a worship service that consisted of a concert of sacred music. We were glad for the opportunity to check out yet another church, as we newcomers to the community have not yet found a church home. What we noticed first of all as we entered the foyer of the church was that after the greeters smiled and handed us the church bulletin, very few people looked friendly. I sat down next to a young immigrant woman and her mother, smiled and nodded at her. She didn't have much to say. Maybe she struggles with English, I thought.
A few moments into the service, the pastor invited congregants to greet one another. This is perhaps the American church practice that I find the most difficult. It seems artificial somehow, to try to say hello to people that I don't know.
The musicians soon began singing and it was wonderful to hear them again. The church people sat silently, not smiling at their remarks (that really were quite entertaining) or giving them much facial feedback. I commented on this to Sam. We both came from traditions in which the church rings with loud "Amen!"s or clapping after special musical numbers, or comments that ring true to the listeners. It was almost as still as death in this church today.
Various musicians took the microphone, introducing the numbers they would sing next, trying to make comments that would connect meaningfully with the hearers. I hoped they could see my smiling face and hear my bold Amen! from time to time. It was clear that they also noticed the lackluster atmosphere in the church.
At the end of the service Sam and I approached them and thanked them all round for such a wonderful musical experience that they had provided. They looked relieved and happy to hear what we had to say.
On the way home in the car, Sam and I recalled the two years that we lived in the Midwest. We attended a tiny country church whose attendence on a good day might be 35 people. With a congregation that size, most of whose members were related, it was impossible to attend and sit impassively through the entire service. For one thing, we were conscripted into service every week. Sam used to lead congregational singing and I played the piano to accompany the hymns. I even preached a sermon once, and Sam collected the offering. Together, we taught the youth class at the church, consisting of seven kids, aged 13 - 24. One week each month we cooked breakfast for them at the church. It would become a favorite event for all of us. The boys would shyly volunteer to wash up the dishes or help me carry platters to the tables in the fellowship hall area of the church. And sitting over plates of steaming waffles or scrambled eggs, they would tell us of their challenges and ask our advice about various things. Brady wanted to become a chef, and proudly shared recipes with us that he had recently tried out on his family. We established that "Lacey isn't a dork. She's quiet. It hurts people to be made fun of, did you know that?"
The week I sang "His Eye is on the Sparrow" during the service, everyone cried. It had been sung at the funeral of a much beloved relative (of almost all of them) only a year before.
Music presented a special challenge. I remember cringing the first time I listened to the special music presented by Mary, the resident accordian player. She proudly played through about 10 verses without variation of any kind, sitting on the organ bench, facing the front of the church. A thundering "Amen!" followed and she returned to her seat, triumphant. She played the organ the same way she played the accordian: one finger playing the melody and one finger playing a single bass note. She taught the pianist to play the same way and visitors were visibly surprised by this awkward, obtuse music. When Mary died suddenly a month later, people remarked more than once how much they missed her music. Strange thing was, I missed her, too.
Because most of the church members lived in the same region, went to school together, met during the week for meals, or worked together, there was little from the week that did not slip into church services. One week, Mardell was opening the service from the podium by welcoming everyone and providing some general welcoming remarks. Half way through, someone came in whom she hadn't seen in weeks. A discussion ensued between the two, until both were caught up with the other's most recent circumstances. Then Mardell launched back into her welcoming remarks.
One Saturday half-way through the service, a man staggered down the center aisle, completely sloshed at 11:30 in the morning. One of the deacons walked in behind him. Another stepped out of his pew and both sat directly behind him, while he slipped into the pew next to his shocked wife. She had served him divorce papers that week and apparently, he hadn't taken it well. He sat, leaning into her, his arm around her shoulders. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, and her daughter pressed closer to her on the other side. Later that day, just before the church potluck, I happened to go out the front door to get something from my car. A group of men were huddled out on landing of the church. The man was surrounded by six or seven male church members, arms around him, praying for him as he wept. I couldn't help but hear their rough, farmer voices, awkwardly but warmly encouraging him. "Lee, I had me some rough times, too, but the Lord loves you and will pull you through this. You'll see."
After worshipping with these folks for a year and a half, praying with them, eating in their homes, teaching their children, listening to their stories of everyday challenges, I began missing them when I was away for more than a week. They were not sophisticated, nor were they wealthy or educated. But they had soul and they loved one another. Most of all, they loved me--the one who was probably the least like anyone else there. I was accepted just like I was someone's cousin or sister and they showed me they cared about me, week after week. Sometimes I would be given a bag of apples from someone's tree, or a recipe for something like "Yvette's Date Bars." Other weeks, a teenager would give me a handmade card. Or the 94-year-old patriarch of the congregation would call me aside and whistling through his crooked front teeth, ask when I would sing again, and couldn't I sing "There isssss a Green Hill Far Away" for him next time?
I remember that when I first went to this little country church, I complained bitterly about how out of place I felt and I magnified every unfamiliar thing that occurred. However, my Midwest church entered worship wholeheartedly. Coming together was the high point of the week for them. Church was a place where they could contemplate something greater and more transcendent than anything they had on this earth. The same can be said of other churches I've attended since that time. Tommy, the Irish farmer from Wicklow, standing by the pulpit and bellowing out "The Love of God" without accompaniament, after explaining that he loves that song so much that he sings it "behind the cows" every day. The ex-con man in the Midwest whose accent is so thick that to my ear, his tearful, heartfelt testimony in church sounds like a man gargling. The Kenyans, each of whom greet the church and receive a shouted response, "Happy Day!" Our Pacific Northwest church, whose members sat transfixed with delight, as the majestic organ postlude filled the building. These people love church, love God, and their Christian brothers and sisters. It shows.
This what I missed during our service today. Parishioners of this church are for the most part, quite wealthy and sophisticated. There are lots of designer suits and luxury cars here. Church is just one more thing to fit into an already busy schedule. It appears to be an inconvenience for some. There isn't that enormous gap between what they have now on this earth, and what they feel they need, here or hereafter. It shows.
There is a time and place for everything. The world varies from one region to the next, from one culture to another. People express themselves differently according to socioeconomic status, ethnicity, regional norms, etc. We will probably become accustomed to congregations in this region. It will at some point, become apparent to us how people here express wonder, spiritual delight, warmth, because surely it must be felt.
I wonder how it all looks to God.
No comments:
Post a Comment