The night before

Taking smart phone photos in church is probably something to be frowned upon, but here's a little something to wish everyone a merry Christmas tomorrow.  So I meant well!

In service

Being a pastor's son, it is sometimes incumbent upon me that I pitch in for church services. My mom was having difficulty locking down some people to read scripture passages for the Christmas Eve service, so one of my brothers and I were listed in the bulletin and informed of our participation.

Doing so isn't a big deal, especially when it plays to one of my strengths--reading in public--so I didn't give it a second thought. It did occur to me that I would be wise to look at the passage in question before walking up the aisle to the pulpit. I scanned the verses in the church library and felt sufficiently ready.

I strode up to the front of the congregation and prepared to read from Luke when I became aware of a major problem. I could not find the necessary verses in my mother's Bible. The book was turned to the correct page, but smack dab in the middle of it was some kind of Biblical commentary. Lower on the page were something that looked like footnotes. One of them had the right chapter and verse, but being familiar with the material, I knew that I wasn't supposed to be reading that.

So I turned to my mom and had her point out where I needed to read. Then I read through it without any problem.

I figured I'd hear it from my family afterward and sort of dreaded listening to them laugh. Then my brother went up and did the very same thing on his passage. See, it wasn't my fault!

In my defense (and my brother's), the amount of text on the page that was not the relevant to the scriptural passages in question greatly exceeded the verses we needed to read. I was supposed to read Luke 2: 8-14. A thin strip at the top of the page started my passage, with the other 90% of the page being background, food for thought, and who knows what else. That's why I couldn't make heads or tails of what I was looking at. Also, the sanctuary wasn't exactly lit up.

It wasn't horribly embarrassing, and I imagine it's one of those stories that will become part of family history. (I once added "etc." into another passage I read aloud many years ago. I got lost or didn't correctly see what I was looking at that time. Yes, I am still reminded about it.) This is the kind of memory that, I suppose, helps make Christmas a little merrier, even for those who felt like they were flopping in front of a small group of worshipers.

Askew

The football game spanning two days continued to throw me for a curve. My weekend routine wasn't ruined, but for whatever reason I've felt a bit off today.

I woke up later than usual--no alarm for me this morning, thank you--but still had time to make it to a church service. I've been considering Donna's advice to give the liturgical traditions a look as they might offer what I'm not finding in my church search. Today seemed as good as any to follow through since I didn't have time to make it where I've been attending but could visit an Episcopal church with a later service.

I was raised Methodist, switched to another denomination when my parents wanted to find a church with a thriving youth program as my brothers and I reached those ages, and have been going to Methodist churches since college. I'm still a member at the church back home and came to appreciate its pacifist tradition, but it's not really an option for me here.

I realize I'm being coy about naming the denomination. There's nothing sketchy about it. It's mainline Protestant and often confused with other similarly named denominations. Both of my parents are ordained ministers. Since Google's search engine seems to have taken a liking to this site of late, I'm avoiding naming it to lessen the likelihood that they or their parishioners might stumble upon my blog.

I noticed a big difference upon entering the doors to the chapel at the Episcopal church. The old triptych behind the altar, something I associate with Catholicism, is about as far away from the modern art cross in the middle of the sanctuary where I've been going on Sundays. I slipped into a seat at the end of the last pew, looked up, and found that my view was obstructed by an enormous pillar. In my mind it was too late to relocate, so I hoped that I'd be able to see most of what would take place. (I could see about half.) I assume that the congregation puts up with several "bad" seats in the small chapel because the church is on the National Register of Historic Places. (There was a hole cut in one pew for another pillar, if that gives you any idea.)

When it was time for the first hymn, I paged through the book vainly searching for it. I knew I had the right one, but the page number didn't correspond. Finally I figured it out--ah, there are three numbered sections--but the hymn was over by then. Likewise, the rest of the service had me feeling like a foreigner in a place where I could understand the words but not the customs. Holy Eucharist, Rite II? No clue. I also had no idea what the pecking order was with those leading the service. I'm not used to canticles, someone carrying a cross on a metallic pole, making the sign of the cross, or kneeling. The passing of the peace was literally that. Was I breaking some code when everyone was shaking hands and saying, "Peace" while I greeted them with a "good morning"? The sermon wasn't as formal as the rest of the proceedings, which threw me for a loop. That it was being given by an openly gay deacon only continued the head-spinning nature of the experience.

And then there was Holy Communion. I've taken it by intinction and in the pew with ushers passing collection plates full of bread cubes and tiny cups of grape juice, but this was something altogether different. Wafers, drinking wine from a chalice, kneeling at the altar... I elected not to partake, mainly because by this point I knew I was not accustomed to this method of worship and didn't want to draw any more attention that I might have already.

I wasn't entirely sure which way I was supposed to go when the service was over. The Mother, a cheerful, young-ish blonde, greeted me warmly and said that she didn't know me. (There's a change for once.) By this time I was flustered but managed to spit out that it was my first time at an Episcopal service and that it was quite different from what I'm used to. I didn't say that I felt like I was watching a movie--maybe a scaled down Scorsese film.

The service was about as much on the other end of the continuum as possible from the contemporary service I've been attending. This is undeniably a church service whereas the other is like a churchy stage production. I'll take hymnals, which also include the music for those like me who can read it, over words projected on screens. I left today feeling different--in a good way, I think--yet I don't know that what I experienced is for me. It might be a nice, sober alternative every once in awhile to the loosey-goosey Methodist service, though.

I should have been more pumped up for the rest of Sunday since the National Football League schedule began in earnest, but my team doesn't play until tomorrow night. Again, the day was lent this strange quality of not being what it was supposed to be.

I knitted some and slept some during the snoozer Steelers-Browns match-up, wandered out for exercise, and soaked up the last day before classes start. Perhaps all this "off-ness" has been beneficial. I usually get quite anxious before the beginning of fall quarter--I don't know why--but I've been preoccupied with making sense of today to get worked up about tomorrow.

September Sunday

Now that's how a day during the long weekend should be: slow, relaxing, and yet productive in its own way.

I wasn't going to mention church, but since a pertinent issue was raised at the pulpit today, I might as well start there. The current slogan for the United Methodist Church is "Open hearts. Open minds. Open doors." The minister spoke about how churchgoers can get comfortable in their insular worlds, be it residential communities or places of worship. He wants people to be capable of reaching outside those zones to strangers, including those in the pews they don't know, and inviting them in.

He said that this church gets a lot of visitors, yet only six percent return to become further involved. (I don't remember if he was talking about becoming members or what. I wasn't taking notes.) The average--and I find this hard to believe--is thirty percent. That's a huge difference.

I have a few reservations about the place, but the reason I've kept coming back is because the church noticed I've attended. Granted, I'm mostly invisible on Sundays, but they're doing better than other places I've visited.

First on my day's unwritten to do list was finishing Jennifer Egan's The Keep. The book turned out to be not at all what I expected. (No, I didn't think I was getting F. Paul Wilson's horror novel of the same name.) Synchronicity must have led me to pluck the book from the library shelf as it is concerned with communication and connectedness in this modern ageand art, writing in particular, as a means of discovering and protecting what is dearest to us, topics I return to again and again. The narrator shift is very jarring the first time--insert cartoon sound of tires squealing from vigorously applied brakes--but I like how Egan used the device.

The weekend must have been making me a little stir crazy, so I went to Starbucks for a coffee and knitting in public. I plugged away at the Asherton Reversible Scarf and was happy that I didn't lose my place in the pattern. There are 44 rows in the repeat, with every two rows being the same. It shouldn't be hard to keep track of where I'm supposed to be, but on several occasions the last two times I've knit it I've needed to refer to the cast on tail to remind me what row I should be knitting.

I don't know if it was the caffeine, but I felt the need to be on the move. Since we've enjoyed good weather this weekend, I decided I ought to take advantage of it while it lasts. I put my knitting and a book in my backpack and grabbed a water bottle that I'd refilled with tap water. I set out on foot for the park. I would get in some exercise, take a break to knit and read, and finish my walking routine around the park.

Do you ever put on anything that makes you feel different? Maybe it's a favorite piece of clothing that inspires a more confident attitude or makes you feel comfortable. I slipped my arms through both backpack straps, set out on foot, and felt like I was ready to embark on an adventure. I stood straighter and got an energy boost. Or maybe that was the coffee.

I made one trip around the park--a canvassing mission, if you will--in search of a tree with shade for knitting and reading. I took note of and ruled out where dog owners were taking their pets for quick relief before settling on one of the trees behind the elementary school. I sat down and brushed away the few fibers of a spider's web that I felt on my head. I resumed knitting the scarf, although the process was interrupted more frequently than I anticipated it would be. The sensation of black ants and tan millipedes traversing my legs was disruptive enough that I had to pause every so often to flick them off.

My soundtrack was the soft breeze rustling the leaves, children having fun on the playground equipment, and the friendly chatter of Hispanics playing a pick-up soccer game. I don't know Spanish, but there's one insult the players exchanged that I could discern from the many other words unknown to me. (Subtitled movies can be educational.) The air was like cotton candy, light, sweet, and sticky when it met the moisture on my brow. I was at peace knitting. If only it weren't for those bugs.

I tired of being a climbing wall for insects, so I packed up my knitting and held off starting Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union for tonight. I walked the rest of the concrete, blacktop, and grass path that I follow for exercise while taking in the scent of charcoal grills dotting the remainder of my jaunt.

It hasn't been a remarkable day, but it's brought welcome calmness before the inevitable post-Labor Day storm. I hope you've been able to find some tranquility too.

Churches off the interstate

Moving to a new apartment also meant that it was time to find a new home church. I'd been going to the current one for a couple years. I liked it despite being anonymous and out of place. It's a simple matter of numbers that being young and single puts me in the church attendee minority, so I didn't hold their old people-and-families demo against them. I was put off that I e-mailed a few questions to the contact person for the small group for people in my age range--I don't think it was exclusive to singles--and never heard a peep, but maybe that told me all I needed to know.

So I approached my new location as an opportunity to search for a church, something I've really never done. The place I attended off and on in college became the place I attended more regularly once I was out of school. After being dissatisfied with it for awhile--a really old congregation plus a more conservative viewpoint coming from the pulpit did the trick--I decided to give another one a try. I walked in one Sunday and kept coming back. Honestly, I think I was expecting the same thing to happen when I began this search, but I ended up being more selective.

I went to the denomination's home page, plugged in my zip code, and pulled up a few options. I checked websites to see if I could get a feel for what they might be like, but the real test was to show up on Sunday and see for myself. The first church I attended was in a newer part of the suburb. Likewise, the church looked pretty new. The congregation was decidedly younger than what I was used to seeing, although it was predominantly couples with kids. I stuck out like a sore thumb, which isn't to say anyone noticed. Nope, I got in and out of there with little more than being handed a bulletin.

The service itself was fine, although too much of it was dedicated to stuff to do with kids' programs. In that regard I happened upon the wrong Sunday. The choir was really small. The young associate pastor had his sleeves rolled up just so as part of a carefully manufactured look that conveyed Contemporary Casual Church, something I would learn is a clear trend in worship these days. The space itself kind of felt like a sanctuary but kind of felt like a boxy conference hall.

Despite going unnoticed, I intended to go back the following week. Judging a church on one week probably isn't fair, even if I got the sense that I didn't fit. To me it seemed like a church for Desperate Housewives. I observed that many of those in the pews were likely in income brackets several higher than mine. (The parking lot alone was a telltale sign.) The people and place felt too polished, if that makes any sense.

For week two I elected to check out a different church. It too was relatively new and made from the same mold as the previous one. There was even a Contemporary Casual associate pastor with the rolled up sleeves. Again, the service itself was OK, if a little too contemporary for my tastes. Also, while it makes me sound like a film snob, I cringed when Patch Adams was brought into the sermon for demonstrating the point. I loathed that film. More discouraging was the fact that I didn't speak to a soul the entire time I was there. I didn't even get an attendance pad to sign. This may sound crazy, but I didn't rule this church out because I felt a little more comfortable there.

I located an old church nearby, so for week three I thought I'd make a break from these big box churches. Contrary to most my age--or at least what I perceive is the case--I favor a traditional service. I find it more comforting and less affected. I dislike the forced displays of emotionalism--the Shiny Happy People dimension--and the wispy songs that lack the strong, clean chords of old hymns. (Yes, in part it's because I don't like the music.) This church has been around in some form or another for almost two hundred years, so it was going to be right up my alley.

The sanctuary felt like a place of worship than a multipurpose area, and the service delivered what I wanted. I wasn't thrilled at the median age of the congregation. I was easily one of the youngest people there. Once more I came and went without being acknowledged. I don't remember if the minister asked if anyone was there for the first time, something I can't bring myself to respond to, but the fact is that I was getting pretty aggravated about being a ghost.

I went to a different church for the fourth consecutive week. I believe it has been around for awhile, but as far as I can tell, it has been remodeled in the modern style. Yet there are enough traditional elements in the sanctuary that made it feel like the right mix of yesterday and today. The spartan attendance and creaky congregants at the traditional service were not encouraging. I realize that I'm not going to come upon a church with a lot of people my age, but it would be nice to find somewhere I'm not the youngest person in the pew by thirty years.

A couple days later I received an e-mail from someone at this fourth church. Believe it or not, this was the first time I was contacted by anyone at the churches I visited. (Church #2 didn't have any way of contacting me, although that's a problem in and of itself.) I replied by saying that I liked what I heard from the pulpit but that I was also looking for a church with people my age. This person suggested going to the contemporary service. I decided that it couldn't hurt, so I went the following week.

Someone actually talked to me, which was nice for a change. The pew-fillers were younger too. I still prefer the usual old hymns, but the rock-style songs had more muscle than the contemporary hymns I've objected to on aesthetic grounds. I felt like this church was worth giving a chance, something I had confirmed to me on the following Saturday. I had a knock on my door. It was someone from the church who had come to give me a loaf of bread and some information about the church, something they do after one has attended twice. I wasn't looking for churches to woo me, but I appreciated that my attendance had been noticed.

I got information about the young adults group, which meets one weeknight each month. In spite of being nervous about going to it, I decided that I needed to do it. I found the room where everyone was supposed to be meeting. The lights were off, and no one was around. In an effort to find out what was going on I tracked down someone who was helping with Vacation Bible School. The small group meeting was on the schedule, but apparently it had been pushed back a week, something I couldn't know having never been there before. You would think this search would be a lot easier, wouldn't you?

I returned the next week and had to check three or four doors before finding one that was unlocked. I got to the room, and again it was dark and empty. I walked down the hall and found the youth pastor's office. I asked him about the meeting. It turns out that he and his wife lead the nascent young adults group, and the others who were there for the meeting were in his office.

It wasn't a big group. The three others included two college students, one who had transferred from where I work and knew at least one student I did, and one soon-to-be freshman. This wasn't what I was hoping to find. The small group discussion went well enough, although it was very obvious that I was in a much different spot than everyone else there. I was also the oldest person in the room. Churches don't know what to do with people my age and in my situation.

I've continued to go to this church and plan to feel it out for awhile, but the people I "know" has dwindled by two. (The youth pastor resigned this week.) I took a fairly unprecedented step for me and stuck around after this morning's service for brunch in the fellowship hall. My invisibility shield must have been up again as I got my food, ate, and left without any contact. Predictably, the brunch bunch consisted of families with little ones and the older crowd, so there's not anything unusual about that.

Congratulations if you've made it this far in this epic entry. I'm afraid, though, that there is no reward here. This is a post without a direction. It says what it says, and probably something more, but there's no grand summation.