Church Search
My Quest for a Spiritual Home at Midlife
After I settled into a new city, I started thinking about attending church again. The question was, where? As a divorced empty nester, the choice was totally up to me, and with a few caveats, the field was open. Catholicism was out — I had been married to one, and I resented the church for annulling my 20-year marriage which had produced two children. Also off the table were the Unitarian-Universalists. They’re sincere and promote positive social action, but I wanted someplace where they use the “G” word — God. From what I’ve seen, the Baptists would probably kick me out.
Other than an “I’ll know it when I see it” sensibility, I didn’t articulate criteria, but generated a set as I went along. I self-identified as a seeker who found inspiration and guidance from the sacred and secular. Rather than warm the pew for an hour, I wanted to internalize spiritual lessons, and if I could experience a transcendent moment or two, so much the better.
“Just start shopping around for a good sermon,” a friend suggested. So I set out, trying a new church each week and learning a lot about myself in the process.
Decades earlier I’d attended a small church when I lived in the same town. At the time, its meditative, ecumenical approach and dogma-free theology were exactly what I needed to draw me back into the fold after years of boycotting organized religion. A small electric keyboard provided music, and sometimes folk guitarists led the songs.
I found the no-frills sanctuary the size of a triple bay garage nestled in the same older, working-class neighborhood. It appeared unchanged, but I quickly realized the church had undergone a shift since my last visit. Had I become more conventional or was it excessively free-wheeling now? The congregation jammed like dervishes to the electric guitar/drum combo up front. Always an accepting climate, the church had taken on a gay pride brand, including the minister whose sermon was all about coming out. Nothing wrong with that; it just didn’t feed me spiritually. I felt disappointed and frazzled afterwards as I stumbled out on my way to a planned brunch date.
Over eggs benedict and coffee, I described my latest quest to a friend, who invited me to attend church with her the following week. The next Sunday, I met her in the vast parking lot of the First Mega Max Church. As we wandered through the building reminiscent of an airport terminal with its spacious hallways, abundant windows, and squarish architecture, we passed a children’s wing, a cafe, and a bookstore. Eventually we entered an auditorium the size of an airplane hangar with hundreds of cushioned chairs (mostly filled) arranged around a stage. A personable, bearded man in shirt sleeves led the opening prayer. “That’s one of our ministers,” my friend whispered. “We have about fifty.”
I confess a prejudice against these enormous, slick enterprises which my brother-in-law called “Six Flags over Jesus.” The video productions, house bands, and three Jumbo-Trons weren’t my style, but I feigned open-mindedness. Imagine my surprise when, by the benediction, I was of a new mind, for this big place was clearly centered on service and humility. The pastors sprinkled assurances such as, “Let us help you,” “We’re here for you,” and “As a church we love you,” throughout their messages. When I asked my friend why she came here, she said when her husband left her six years earlier, she needed a divorce care ministry, and this was the only one in town.
Though contemporary and on a grand scale, their ministry was compassionate, comprehensive, and non-judgmental. With its Saturday worship, three services on Sunday, and weekly attendance of 8200, it had obviously cracked a code. “Everyone is welcome here,” their website stated. “If you come, you are going to feel right at home.”
While boldly confessing the error of my unfair, preconceived notions, I still found the presentation at mega-church too pedestrian and the theology a tad fundamentalist for me. Was it possible to get this personal touch in a high church atmosphere that offered the ceremony I longed for?”
I had been raised as a Presbyterian so it felt natural and familiar to stroll in my Sunday best to the white pillared structure with the impressive, soaring steeple. Since I last crossed the threshold of a Presbyterian church, however, I’d matured and explored Eastern and other mystical influences, so a simple re-entry wasn’t a foregone conclusion.
I got my high church feel in the domed architecture with its two-story arched windows, but I felt dwarfed and uneasy in the sterile, unadorned chamber. As I dazedly arrived at the pew, a slight miscalculation caused me to plop gracelessly to my seat. “Whoa,” I whispered to the gentleman next to me. “A little lower than I thought.”
“Are you new here?” he said. I smiled and nodded.
He returned to his bulletin with no further comment.
There were so many conversations going on around me, it sounded like the fellowship hour instead of a contemplative time to prepare my heart and mind to receive the word of God. I overheard snippets like, “Meeting with my regional manager,” “Sure thing or a long shot,” “I’ll take a full-margin sale any day.” This was a networking event attended by well-heeled corporati.
I perused the pamphlet describing the sanctuary. “The authority of the Word of God, symbolized by the massive mahogany pulpit, remains the focal point of its ministry,” it noted. The wooden hulk reminded me of a funeral pyre or a parade reviewing stand with the three ministers suspended above us commoners like stern colonial elders. Except for the phrases “wicked,” “shame,” “heresies,” and “dregs of sin,” I can’t remember the sermon because it imparted so little immediacy and warmth. The hymns were endlessly plaintive, and the choir was tucked in a loft behind us which gave me whiplash. I wanted to see them singing.
That it was one of the largest congregations in town indicated it met the needs of many people, but it wasn’t for me. With a touch of sadness, I realized the intervening years hadn’t reconciled me to the religion of my childhood.
On the Second Sunday of Advent, the service at the Episcopal Church began with The Litany. I was slightly late so I snuck in while the Invocations, Deprecations, and Obsecrations were underway. The clergy and choir shuffled around the sanctuary in formation stringing together monotone murmurs of supplication for what seemed like hours, but was probably only fifteen minutes: “Spare us, good Lord, spare thy people, whom thou hast redeemed with thy most precious blood, and be not angry with us forever.” After three pages of petitions, calls, responses, the Lord’s prayer, another prayer, a third prayer, and a scripture reading, the service proper began.
I sensed this worship was too formal for me. The gloomy sanctuary with its ornate wood carvings, dioramas of saints, and dusty damask reinforced the chilly temperature until I was damn near shivering. Even the sermon left me in existential despair. “Repent of false gods and look to the light,” the minister intoned from the high pulpit, but it was so dim in there, I could barely read the church bulletin. The hymns — all set in a minor key — reminded me of funeral dirges. I’ve always appreciated the mysteries of high church, but this atmosphere was impenetrable.
Afflicted with malaise, I followed the other church-goers across a cobblestone courtyard to the Parish House, a historic mansion which had once served as General Sherman’s headquarters. In the front foyer, polished wood tables held serving trays of pastries and crust-less chicken salad sandwiches cut in triangles. I sipped coffee from a bone china cup and shifted uncomfortably in the parlor while folks socialized but no one acknowledged me. Taking in the opulent antiques and wool rugs, I asked the Chanel-suited lady next to me, “Is this your fellowship hall?”
“Yes,” she smiled, “the place most churches have in the basement where you eat Oreo’s and drink coffee out of Styrofoam cups.” She didn’t introduce herself or follow up in any way, so I drained my coffee and prepared to leave, walking past three clergymen huddled in the doorway who also didn’t make eye contact or engage me with a friendly greeting. I didn’t depart so much as flee the impersonal place. (But the petit fours were good.)
A neighbor asked me if I wanted to visit a new church plant she and her husband, Sam, were trying. They’d heard about it through friends and wanted to support it.
Located near the shipping ports in the rundown part of town, the church had re-purposed a former machine shop using vision and lots of elbow grease. The greeters in the foyer warmly welcomed us, signed my friend’s daughter into Sunday school, and offered us pre-service coffee from a selection of mismatched mugs. We visited with the minister who, upon hearing Sam was a fitness fanatic, invited him to use the cross fit gym they’d rigged up on the second floor. The pastor’s wife was a tall, blond, beautiful physical education teacher at the public school where her three daughters attended. They lived in the adjacent neighborhood which looked sketchy, but they were enthusiastic about it.
Instead of pews, the worship room was furnished with secondhand tables and chairs unified with a coat of turquoise paint. “Everything came from Goodwill and yard sales,” they told us. The stage was constructed from shipping crates and pallets. Strands of white lights lent a smoky, jazz club atmosphere. “We intended this to be a place for the community to have meetings and wedding receptions,” the pastor said. This bootstrap operation had a lot of heart.
Perched on a wooden stool in front, the pastor didn’t so much preach as facilitate a Socratic discussion on the Psalms. We all attempted to read our bibles in the semi-darkness using our cellphone flashlights. Fortunately, it was easy to find solace in the Psalms. The only drawback to the service was the music, which was a little tedious with soundtrack instrumentals and a tambourine-wielding female singer who seemed to make it all about her.
The gathering closed by saying goodbye to a soldier leaving for deployment. His fellowship group laid hands on him and spoke a blessing and prayer of protection over him. The preacher’s daughters clung to him so tightly that I got choked up. This was pure love.
On the way home, Sam said many of these churches that skew young are uplifting but don’t mention Jesus enough so they’re not “Christian.”
“If it’s a group of people who are positive and look after one another and the community, isn’t that pleasing to Jesus?” I asked.
“That’s nice and all,” he said, “theism or whatever, but it’s not Christian unless it’s Jesus-centered.”
My Catholic ex-husband used to say I wasn’t “Christian” because I didn’t claim Jesus as my lord and savior, even though I believed (and tried to live) the gospel message of love and forgiveness. Jesus came to point the way to God, I argued. “God is my focus.”
“Then you’re not going to heaven,” he responded. This particular thicket made it difficult to find a church home.
My neighbors began attending the church plant regularly. While I genuinely admired the group for doing God’s work, I kept searching for a place which satisfied my deeply-held longing for the consolation of ritual.
“The first refill’s on us,” the thirty-something man said as he slid my coffee across the counter. We were in the cafe around the corner from my apartment, where I and many others brought our laptops and worked all afternoon for the price of a brewed beverage. I’d often wondered something, and this day I found the courage to ask it.
“How do you guys make it just selling coffee here?”
“Food creates a lot of overhead cost,” he began, before abruptly changing his tack. “We’re actually owned by a non-profit,” he explained. “The Methodist Church. This is an outreach center and I’m a minister. They call me Rev Kev.”
That explained a lot, especially the personable, non-corporate vibe I’d noticed there. For example, the Tuesday board game nights, the shabby upright piano in the corner, and the room in back used by mother’s groups and book clubs.
During my church search, I’d attended the Methodist Church once, but couldn’t commit because I was still dating around. The conversation with Rev Kev was the impetus I needed to return. The following Sunday, I was almost skipping as I crossed the city square to the front entrance steps.
The sanctuary of the historic building, though spacious, was inviting and intimate. Front and center was the fabulous pipe organ, and the young woman organist genuinely seemed to express her soul as she played. The red-robed choir processed in and up to the loft, which was also arrayed before me to visually anchor praise and worship. That day we sang three of my favorite hymns, and — this is a strong personal preference — we used hymnals.
The minister, Reverend Ben, reminded me of a high school baseball coach with his athletic build, salt-and-pepper crew cut, aw-shucks manner, and Georgia twang. As he leaned forward, peered over his readers, and gripped the pulpit with both hands, I felt like he was having a conversation with only me. His folksy, scripture-based sermons came rolling out of him as if he were anointed. They were also full of sports metaphors, like when he imitated tennis great John McEnroe’s famous line, “YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!” to illustrate what is often our first reaction to life’s challenges. Ben administered holy pep talks like he was pumping up his team for the county playoffs. Like most things about this church, they both calmed and inspired me.
This day was special because of a baptism, notable for the sweetness in which the baby lay in the minister’s arms. After he blessed and baptized the infant, Reverend Ben carried the child before the congregation. “He is ours,” he affirmed, “entrusted to us by God. Let us wrap this young family in love.” His use of the plural possessive created community and accountability. Members of the choir leaned over the loft to see. Reverend Ben lifted the baby up to them.
Another thing I liked was the lively children’s ministry. The little ones scampered up to the front and sat on the steps with rapt attention as the children’s minister (who knew them all by name) delivered a sermon, simply illustrated with a prop like a cell phone or pennies. The message was so clear and powerful that the adults seemed to get as much out of it. Then the Sunday school teachers shepherded their charges out the door, leaving us all in the throes of a cute attack. Because of the attached preschool, this church attracted a lot of young families which gave it an appealing vitality.
Also, the commitment to outreach was immediately apparent. Another established church consigned their good works to the Women’s Auxiliary, but here the charitable attitude seemed to be a part of the collective DNA. When I walked in, the greeter had handed me a brown bag to take home and fill with items for the homeless shelter.
I appreciated that people still dressed up to come to church. “We’re a traditional, historic, downtown church,” Reverend Ben said. “We won’t be installing screens in the sanctuary anytime soon.” Being grounded in ceremony while remaining a place of growth and renewal was tricky, but they navigated it. As for the “born again” thicket which routinely tripped me up, he offered this: “We think of salvation as a continuous process of repairing our relationship with God, not a one-time event.”
The closing voluntary ushered me out the door and into the square where sunlight dappled through oak trees. Two tourists on the park bench heard the organ music and watched the churchgoers spill down the steps. “What kind of church is that?” they asked, enchanted. “Methodist,” I answered. My church.
