I went to the big church across town for worship last Sunday. The service was a balm for my soul. You can watch the service
here. Highlights included:
I don't know when I last witnessed a sermon with such a long standing ovation.
~~~
But as much as the worship was what I needed, I don't think it's the congregation for me.
As
much as the banners and the flags symbolize the welcome mentioned at
the beginning of the service, I don't think it's the
congregation for me.
Because I am particular
person about my congregation. And I want to be welcomed personally. And
if I arrive before the service starts, and ask, "Is this seat
available?", and pass the peace, and offer kleenex, and sit through the
postlude, and weave my way through the groups of friends chatting, to
wait in line for a handshake out the door, AND no one says something to
the effect of, "Hi, I don't know you. I'm Me. Welcome." Then, the welcome is said, but not performed. I'm not cast out, but I'm not brought in.*
~~~
The
church down the street is small. Average attendance maybe 40-strong.
Every time I have walked into the building, they have greeted me and
asked my name. As I left
the Ash Wednesday service, multiple people said, "See you Sunday!"
Their
worship style is not what I'd prefer. Less high liturgy. (I'm
becoming more Lutheran all the time). Not reliant on the organ. They're
not as outspoken about general conference, and I'm not certain where
they're going to land--though they are on the reconciling ministries
homepage. The sermons don't give me the same inspiration.
But they are clearly ministering to the community.
And they welcome me.
~~~
After
I shook the robed hand at the door, I snuck back in another entrance
toward the fellowship/welcome hour. Found my way to a desk and asked
where I could pick up the Lenten devotional booklet they put together.
Walked over and was handed one being told it "was my name on it." The
man was very friendly. But he did not know my name.
~~~
I walked forward for the ashes.
"Hope. It says Hope." He told me as he pressed the rock into my hand and handed me a prayer book. I looked at the word written with a permanent marker.
~~~
Hope.
Hope in the face of a denomination that fights against the way I believe we are called to go.
Hope
on the day I reflect on mortality. On the liturgical anniversary of my
grandfather's death. On the day I hear the news of his sister's
impending death. On the day I'm told of the death of a friend's child.
Hope.
~~~
How to repent this season? How to grieve? How to hope?
For myself, I'm renewing my daily
lectionary reading and following the books from both churches.
I'm
only allowing myself on
Musher Twitter** and Religious
Twitter.***
And I'm going to try to write more.
Sometimes in my journal. Sometimes as prayers for friends. And maybe even, sometimes here.
* The
counterargument is that the people near me could also be visiting. But the
woman to the right knew the words to the welcome the pastor offers at
the beginning of the service. And the man to the left was greeted by
name by the men behind. And I did shake the hand of someone in a robe
when I was exiting the building.
** Because giving up Musher Twitter in the
middle of the Iditarod would be hard. And not hopeful.
*** I don't know a hashtag for Religious Twitter. It's not my usual
scene. Suggestions of who to include in light of this post are welcome.
