There’s No Place Like Church
The Final Stop of 52 Churches in 52 Weeks at The “One True Church” in Central Wisconsin
I was born and raised as an Evangelical Lutheran, which basically meant I spent my formative years seeing things in black-and-white. There was no in-between gray area. People fit into two camps: right or wrong, good versus evil, heaven and hell.
This wasn’t taught directly, just something picked up from my parents, pastors, and living a cable-deprived childhood. Fortunately since I went to — as my pastor liked to call it, the “One True Church” — I was spoonfed the idea that all I needed to do was “just BELIEVE!” while dangling my little spirit fingers like the Lullaby League and it’d be only a matter of time before Glinda the Good Witch would whisk me to heaven in her magic bubble and I’d be tap-dancing through the pearly gates while hand-in-hand with the Lollipop Guild in a pair of checker-patterned lederhosen.
But then there was the rest of humanity, poor souls who’d see the grains of sand in their hourglass expire. The Wicked Witch would command her flying monkeys to pick-off pretty much everyone else, and their little dogs too. Victims would be dropped off in the fiery pits of hellish fire and brimstone where there’d be gnashing of teeth and cackling laughter. ‘Good thing I go to the right church,’ I would think and then go back to watching cartoons.
But as I grew older and saw the crooked-nosed corruption within the four walls of my church, thoughts swirled in my mind like a twister in The Wizard of Oz. A wind-blown window would knock me over the side of the head and I’d begin dreaming. When I’d awaken in the eye of the storm, I’d see past images spinning around me. There was my senior pastor denying communion to upset visitors, the cover-up of our Tom Cruise-lookalike associate pastor who was married with four kids and left amid scandal that he was hitting on a girl from my grade school class, and then there was myself — pedaling on a bicycle that transformed into the broomstick that had been beaten over my head with sermons of religious persecution towards gays, lesbians, and female clergy. Never did they touch on its married pastors making a move on 13-year-old girls… that one got dropped faster than a house on the Wicked Witch of the East.
All these rules — all this persecution— all the hypocrisy, it felt like organized religion had cast a spell on what Jesus was all about. Believing God exists and following Him are two very different things. Why were we drawing lines to keep people out when we should have been crossing over to reach them. Church was supposed to be the sanctuary that welcomed others in, the shining Emerald City that showed how to treat others. Christ loved the Church so much that He died for… this?
If I only had the brain — if I only had the heart — if I only had the nerve, I could sing a musical number to my pastor that I still believed in God… I just didn’t FEEL God. Does that make sense? Intellectually, I still identified as a Christian, but by showing up to church for the sake of showing up, I felt propped like the Scarecrow with a pole up his back, my head made of straw being stuffed and sewn together with hay and emergency Bible verses. Inside, my heart felt Tin Man hollow, made of mettle and an empty kettle with rust in need of some DW-40. Lions and tigers and bears, oh please! I would be cowardly lyin’ to say I had the courage to tell the church “put ’em up, put ’em up” and bravely challenge the status quo. But instead, I stayed within the lines of the yellow brick road, all because — because — because — because — BECAAAAAAAAAAAUUUSSSSSEEEE! Because I didn’t want anyone to question my belief. <Insert catchy fairy note here>
I could have said something to the pastors, but what would happen? I didn’t want to play mental gymnastics with my soul and risk embarrassment that I’m lesser Christian than the next guy. The Bible was presented in black-and-white, you either believed or you didn’t. How dare ye question the Great and Powerful God. I had questions — questions that would put into question my faith if presented. I feared that I’d have to jump-thru a “Good Christian Daily To-Do” checklist to find the root to my spiritual dryness— questions like “are you praying enough”, “are you reading your Bible every day”, “are you going to church every week”, “are you repenting of all your sins”, “are you doing this”, “are you doing that”, “oh, and I’ll be praying for you”. No thanks. I knew I had to do something radical with my spiritual life. What that was, I didn’t know at the time. But after 30 years of a lifetime church membership, I had become disillusioned. I was getting nothing out of worship, so why keep going?
The day I walked through those doors the last time, I was dropping off my church’s softball uniform. A few weeks earlier after playing for the church’s softball team — the last resemblance of fellowship I felt at the time, my associate pastor gave me an ultimatum regarding my lack of attendance. “No church, no ball,” he said, then ran off and I’ve never seen him since. It was the kick in the hinder that I needed so I could cut the string. The church secretary took my uniform and handed me a sign-off sheet.
“I just need you to sign your name here Mark.”
My eyes blinked faster than the speed of a Usain Bolt hiccup. ‘Did she call me Mark?’ 30 years of a lifetime church membership — and the church secretary, who had held the same administrative position since I was baptized at the ripe age of 22 days old — which was give-or-take 22 steps from her own office —who’s kids went to the same K-8 church-affiliated grade school with me — and here I was leaving the church for the last time, and she didn’t even know my name.
She stared at me with annoyance in her eyes, being a humbug about the whole thing as she waited for an answer.
“It’s Mark, right?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s Dave, my name is Dave…”
October 11, 2015 10:30am Worship Service: “One True Church” in Central Wisconsin
G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “There are two ways of getting home. One of them is to stay there. The other is to walk round the whole world till we come back to the same place.”
Now I know what he means.
With my confidence in Christians melting faster than the Wicked Witch of the West trying to water-ski, I gave up on the only church I knew and became a Wayfaring Stranger. Maybe I’d find a new church in town, maybe I wouldn’t. But the more I saw, the more I had to seek. It turned into a spiritual adventure across the nation to see how different churches were inspiring the Word of God.
From the streets of New York City to the beaches of Los Angeles, numerous denominations were explored: Catholic, Lutheran, Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, Episcopal, Greek Orthodox, Wesleyan, Quaker, Christian Science, and more. From 20,000-seat megachurches to being the lone congregant at a Scientology service, no congregation was too big… or as a visit to the world’s smallest church could attest — too small. Some of the more unique churches would mix the Christian message with children’s dolls, professional wrestling, and even heavy metal music (I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore there). I attended sermons by some of the nation’s most popular preachers (Joel Osteen, T.D. Jakes, and Bill Hybels), the most curious (Todd Burpo from the best-selling book Heaven is For Real), and was open-minded to the most controversial (Jay Bakker and Nadia Bolz-Weber). I met some amazing people along the way, and the ones who joined my journey that turned my past black-and-white into Technicolor was Rachel and her kids, who’s faith demonstrated that somewhere over the rainbow, God had shown me this encounter to be the answer to their prayers.
For the 52nd Church in the 52nd Week, I was back to where it all started.
The October leaves were changing, lighting up the trees with a splash of color. The fall landscape wasn’t the only thing that had changed — I had changed. It occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t the church that needed to change, maybe it had to be me all along. The biggest question was — after all this, after all the travels and seeing a who’s who of spiritual go-to destinations — could I forgive the mighty fortress that was my old church?
I had to forgive. I needed to forgive. If I’m following Christ’s example, what kind of Christian would I be if I didn’t forgive?
So I walked in, received my bulletin from the same spot where I had served as an usher, and looked at the altar where I used to light candles as an acolyte. There were good people in attendance I knew, some I didn’t. The service opened to the usual 40 ding-dongs to start the proceedings, then the pastor presided to welcome the congregation to the “One True Church” where we served the “One True God”. Nothing much had changed.
The organ pipes blasted. The opening hymn was sung. I would sit-stand-sit-stand-sit-stand, chant-along the weekly Lord’s Prayer with the same rhythmic excitement of the “O-Eee-Ooh! Eooooh-Ooh!” witch’s guards. The same familiar liturgy followed until a pastor from another church with a pencil mustache looked down on us from the pulpit to deliver the sermon. I was familiar with him, he’d preach 2–3 times a year whenever one of the pastors needed a vacation or attend a conference. He rambled about how we were approaching the end of the church year and there wasn’t anything specific to celebrate in Jesus’s life. Eventually, he came to the topic of “Who Is the Lord We Worship?” and compared the Holy Trinity to an over-generalization of the false idols in other religions — using the Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and Scarecrow for his lesson.
He pointed to the troubles of the heartless Tin Man, so rusted he couldn’t move until Dorothy squirted him with an oil can. Likewise, the heartless gods of other religions can do nothing for the people who worship them, as the idols require people to carry them — walk them — squirt them, whereas God the Father was our creator that breathed life into us. Then he moved on to the Cowardly Lion, who was worthless and helpless in his pursuit of becoming King of the Forest. But God the Son is head over everything in the church, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the Lion of Judah who rules in our hearts. Finally, he said God is not the Scarecrow — a piece of hay strewn together in a melon patch that cannot speak. But for us, God the Holy Spirit speaks to us through God’s Word.
“There is no comparison between the idols of this world and the Triune God,” he concluded. “For the idols are breathless and heartless, they’re helpless and hopeless, they’re brainless and speechless. But our God is the breath-giver of life, our God is the helper of the helpless, our God is the ultimate teacher of spiritual truths of salvation.”
I knew what was next. I had been looking at the Communion table throughout the sermon, the white cloth covering the bread and wine to represent the body and blood of Christ. The feeling had been mounting. After seeing the church deny visiting believers in the past, all I could see was Toto pulling the drape to expose the fraud pulling the levers behind-the-scenes — left with nothing but smoke, mirrors, and sense of disappointment.
‘What am I doing here,’ I thought. I felt like Judas, a betrayer among my old church at the Last Supper. When the collection plate came to me, I didn’t have 30 pieces of silver to toss in. I picked up the friendship register — essentially a roll call used to track member’s attendance and Communion habits — and looked at two checkboxes in black-and-white: Members and Visitors. I wanted to forgive, but I knew this wasn’t where I was supposed to be anymore. I didn’t belong to this exclusive club. I marked down visitor.
When the Sacrament was distributed, the relational experience of God’s presence within the ruby slippers of my soul didn’t click here. I closed my eyes and tapped my mind’s heels three times to convince myself, “There’s no place like church, there’s no place like church, there’s no place like church” as one-by-one, members merrily skipped yippee-do-da-day to the Lord’s table. I remained hunched over in my pew, head bowed — praying to God if my actions were right. I wanted to end things with a happy ending, be able to forgive the past.
But I realized it wasn’t the church that I needed to forgive. I needed to forgive myself.
When I started using my brain, I found Christ had been in my heart all along. I never lost it. Through Christ, I just needed to take that one extra step to find the courage within myself to rediscover my faith. For Scarecrow, Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, they already possessed what they sought. The paper diploma, heart-shaped clock, medal of courage — was all just material filler. The truly best gifts we possess are God-given, talents that we’re already born with. Often our limitations are of our own doing. It’s wisdom you can only learn for yourself.
At the end, Glinda the Good Witch tells Dorothy she could have gone home any time by clicking the ruby slippers, but she had to learn that for herself. Scarecrow asks Dorothy what exactly did she learn. She replied:
“Well… if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any farther than my own backyard because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with.”
Anything truly important is worth overcoming obstacles to achieve. We go searching for things we think we want. But in the end, we all travel down some dark forests, and you soon discover that all we really have is the relationships we form. So when I walked out those church doors for the last time, I left what was old behind. It was time to go home.
I had been planning the moment for the last two months.
When we first met at First Free Church, Rachel was looking for a Godly man who could love her and her little munchkins as his own. She desired someone who could look past her past. Someone who could lead her closer to Christ, a spiritual leader who wasn’t dating just for fun, but a man who exemplified characteristics of being humble, honest, could accept her coffee addiction, and patience — as evident of her weekly re-watches of Pitch Perfect. Love would be easy in the romantic beginning stages, but she desired a man whose behavior and intentions would be loving in all kinds of circumstances. I was exactly what she was looking for, and she was exactly what I was looking for.
After 52 Churches in 52 Weeks had ended, we continued our church dates at First Free Church, listening to Pastor Shane continue with his bad jokes and motormouth sermons. It was everything that I ever wanted. I’d gotten a life, a rich one that I could never have ordered from Amazon, a life where I had the opportunity to date the Proverbs 31 woman that I had been searching for, her children being a bonus who were excited to have me in their lives and I wanted to be in theirs. I was set. I had the perfect girl, the perfect family, even the perfect church. I owed it all thanks to God. This will sound cliche, but it was true. If it wasn’t for searching my faith, I never would have intrigued her, never attracted her, never would have met her, never would have shared dreams together of what could be next. It was only, purely, because of God.
When Christmas rolled around, I knew just what to get her.
It was the first gift I ever considered to give to a girl, but never did with the rest. For Rachel, she was special. She could be the one. I wanted to keep Christ at the center of our relationship, what we both wanted. She opened the box to reveal a sterling silver necklace with diamond encrusted cross pendant. Wrapped around the cross was a 14-karat gold heart.
“You’re my happy ending,” I whispered. “Like we said at the start, we’ll keep things Christ-centered.”
We kissed to conclude the night, my hands around her waist and our eyes locked before wishing each other a good night. After all the rejection, the past relationship mistakes, and trying to figure out who I was this world — everything ended up coming together. Keeping Christ at the center of our relationship was what we both wanted. Thanks be to God.
She never spoke to me again.
To Be Continued
