Sundays in the City #4
“Always there is something worth saying about glory, about gratitude.”
- Mary Oliver
I will admit to having fairly bounced out the door on the second Sunday. If the week before had presented itself as a full tilt boon to my inner idealist, week two brought me to a full stop at the corner of pragmatism and dismay.
A denominationally affiliated evangelical church offering six (English) services of varying worship style as well as two meetings in other community representing languages every weekend, made navigating the parking for a ‘blended” mid-day service an exercise in determination. I took this as a good sign based on the fact that the lot situation was pretty close to a “Costco-on-Christmas-Eve” experience and we were minutes from the beach on a gloriously sunny morning. So when none of the hurried folks walking near me spoke or nodded on the longish walk to the doorway, I chalked it up to mere parking fatigue.
Entering the building, I was handed a stack of papers by a woman locked into convivial conversation with a group of her friends. I stood and watched for a minute realizing her uncanny ability to place paperwork squarely into the long line of obligatory outstretched hands without actually greeting anyone and wondered at the symbolism therein. I began the service by whispering a repeating refrain of repentance for the inevitable bumping of purses and legs, since every place near an aisle was occupied. I sat down in the first available theater-styled chair at the end of the as yet unoccupied but “saved” section. I tried to stay hopeful despite the realization that a recent C boarding group assignment on a Southwest Flight had presented far fewer obstacles to a sense of satisfaction in the objective at hand.
The announcements in the entrance papers handed to me where vast to say the least and most were repeated verbally and on a drop down screen, rendering anyone who missed the upcoming patriotic performance practice excuseless. I noted an extensive prayer request insert and began to read through it as offering plates were passed over the next several minutes. It is probable that the prayer list was tended to by volunteers in a church this size, so I found myself searching in hope of finding a disclaimer reading “any language deemed unseemly among people groups stated herein does not reflect the personal views of the staff.” The doubtlessly good intentions of the writer did not negate the fact that I found myself physically squirming as I read a request to pray for a youth mission trip in which a local “team” would be “working among gypsy kids”.
Another insert was signed by one of the pastors and began swimmingly with a worthy admonition to eradicate prejudice in our speech and hearts. Replete with appeals to the truth that we are all in need of a Savior and we are all beloved, it became clearer as I read on that the “all” was of the limited variety. The essay hinted at a brand of nationalistic evangelical elitism that smacks of a callously insular community even while pointing out the command for an inclusive one. There is little that gets me more roiled than a contextual hijacking that sends self-reflection packing; except for maybe exegesis that promotes formula. Which is exactly what followed in a sermon during which my notes were punctuated with not-to-be-named emoji doodles. A cascade of health and wealth rhetoric that ignited an abundance of “amen” included such phraseology as “When Abraham follows God, God delivers” and “Outside of God’s will, nothing goes right”. No one around me showed any sign of discomfort, which indicated a general preference for the kind of tidy theology that discounted Job’s experience (not to mention Jesus’) as a one-off.
I had a nearly insurmountable impulse to ask a question of the speaker so that I actually sat on my hand and wondered to myself. Was sermon centric worship an outdated exercise in collectivism or could it yet give rise to the mystery of Spirit driven transformation? And secondly, was there a need for diverse ecumenical peer review among church leadership in an effort to exact some level of adherence to the broader narrative of scripture despite denominational emphasis? In retrospect, I believe there is an element of fairness to those questions among the many others being asked these days.
A lot has been written recently concerning the propensity for social media to provide a daily feed of journalistic amen to our contracted judgment and self-guided opinions. God forbid that it also be so in the church.
Dogma and tradition may be cheap even if affable, substitutes for truth.
I was in a sulky mood by the time the service ended. Absent anyone’s greeting I rolled up that pile of papers I’d been given as I walked up the aisle; making a concerted effort not to wield it as a pew-by-pew gavel. In a patently sulky mood, I set out to make my way across the massive parking lot when two bright green eyes caught mine at the door. “Would you help me dear?” she asked? Before I could answer she nodded toward the exit door push handle and said, “Bless you” with such sincerity that I was taken aback. I spent the next several minutes in the chatty company of a lovely octogenarian whose walker dependent pace and cheerful disposition beamed light all over the internal shade I’d been throwing. We made introductions and small talk for awhile at the side of her pristinely clean older model car before I opened the door for her. After a few clumsy fits and starts; all mine of course, she was in the driver’s seat with her walker folded and the engine humming. Taking her for an extrovert and with the mitigated risk of ever seeing her again, I jumped at the chance to ask one final more personal question before I closed the door.
“How long have you been a Christian?”
“Oh my goodness dear”, she giggled, “long enough to be forever grateful”;
Which if you ask me, is just long enough.
Her unwitting sermon hit its mark.
My stomach growled.
Smugness eats gratitude for breakfast.
Had we been just a couple of miles down the hill Jesus could’ve written in the sand. Lets face it. I was no stranger to having given a less-than-stellar exegesis. I wondered how many emoji doodles or drafted & unsent emails had been birthed of my missteps. How many times had I been guilty of invoking justice from a podium without so much as a thought to the unheeded bias in my own heart? And who among us can command language to search out, much less describe the infinite mysteries of the God of the Universe?
Recalling that Sunday, I am buoyed by a recent conversation with a soon to be retired professor I met. The scientific community, he said, holds an abiding “trust in the tenet of self-correction”; one we’d be wise to adopt in our churches and dare I say our collective conscience as well. “Self-correction” describes the near certitude that conclusions born of manipulation, whether intentional or, as the product of faulty exercise or premise, will be revealed as such through experience and over time.
I take courage in the realization that this is something akin to the patient, faithful work of the Spirit. Lord, have mercy on us all
