We have been visitors in eight different churches over the past nine weeks. This is surely a record of some kind, and a streak that I do not hope to extend. The experience has been, however, educational.
It’s actually not quite fair to say that we have visited all eight churches, because we started at Crossroads, our own joyful, multicultural, multilingual congregation in Ferney-Voltaire, France. At Crossroads, the music is unpredictable and depends on who is leading. One Sunday it could be Dolly from Nashville with gospel hymns, another it’s the youth pastor’s tribute to Edwin Hawkins, then it’s Mosh-Pit Terry and the band. The Crossroads congregation, composed of expats, is a flexible and sporting bunch who celebrate in whatever way they’re led. My thought when we first visited, two years ago upon our arrival in Geneva, was: “These people really love Jesus.” And it makes them really happy.
Mosh-Pit Terry’s louder twin was leading music at Hunt Valley Church, which we visited on our house-hunting trip to Baltimore. The worship hour was like being at a deafening concert and I didn’t know a single song, all of which made me grouchy and judgmental. Nevertheless, the congregation was into it -- even the white-haired members. I did chuckle, slightly, when a woman tripped up to the podium to announce an upcoming silent retreat. But then, not only was the sermon Biblical and interesting, but the pastor quoted Flannary O’Conner. I started to unbend. Some other members of the family, who shall remain nameless, appreciated the fact the the service lasted EXACTLY one hour. I later noticed the digital clock on the back wall. It’s matched by one in the lobby that lets lingerers know how many seconds they have to find a seat before the service begins.
The next Sunday felt like Homecoming Weekend for the Aliens. After having been members of North Cincinnati Community Church in Mason, Oh., for seven years, we knew people from the greeter at the door, to the minister, to the family sitting in front of us. Some of our closest friends were there, and it took us at least an hour to extricate ourselves after the service. Though the music has gotten a bit peppier since we left, the service was familiar. It felt safe and comfortable to listen to a sermon from a pastor whom we knew -- from years of experience -- that we could trust to be seeking what God had to say to his congregation.
The fourth week found us in Grand Rapids. Eric’s dad is the Michael Jordan of ministers -- he just can’t seem to stay out of the pulpit. He has officially retired from his second denomination, but still seems to be preaching every Sunday. We went with him to the small congregation that he was leading. The organ music, the traditional hymns, the well-thought-out, three-point sermon all prompted Drew to say, “This is the kind of service I’ve been waiting for.”
Orange United Methodist welcomed us the next Sunday. It’s a tiny church that shares a pastor with another congregation -- and the pastor isn’t seminary-trained or full-time himself. I think most of the people there moseyed over from the houses nearby. We immediately doubled the size of the group when we walked through the whitewashed doors and sat in the age-worn wooden pews. Pastor Dean greeted everyone by name and told us that he was going to preach the Bible, “and I’m sorry if your feelings get hurt.” I can’t imagine anyone having feelings hurt by this jolly, country Santa Claus of a man, but I always appreciate his candor. The truth that those tiny country churches embody is that in God’s family, everyone is important, everyone is noticed, and if they’re not there, everyone is missed.
I like Trinity PCA in Northern Kentucky because: 1) They’ve taken over and are refurbishing an abandoned church building, which is recycling at its best, as far as I am concerned; 2) I taught English years ago to the pastor’s kids -- and his daughter-in-law; and 3) Lots of people whom I have met through the years in various places have drifted there. I also (and I am kind of alone in my family in this) get a real kick out of liturgy. Don’t tell Lucas, or it will further confirm his opinion that I am just plain boring. Also, the Westminster Catechism makes me cry, which I realize is not so much boring as really odd. Trinity was extremely convenient, as Lucas, Johanna, and I were headed to the airport afterwards to pick Drew up. He was returning from India, where his church experience rivaled mine, to be sure. India seems to specialize in the two-hour church service, as a starting point. The translation of the sermon did add some extra time. Eric was back in Geneva that Sunday, at Crossroads, the lucky dog.
I don’t know why, but North Baltimore seems to be a hotbed of Presbyterianism. This is good, because it provides a variety of churches with which we feel doctrinally aligned. This is bad, because it makes us picky. We visited Timonium Presbyterian Church the first week after we moved into our new house. We visited Hunt Valley again the second week, and last week we ended up at Aisquith PCA. The pastor at Aisquith told us we had come to the wrong service (the 9:30 one), because that was the service where all the old people used to come. When they were still alive. He really did say that, though not in exactly those words.
When we visited Hunt Valley for the second time, Johanna told us it reminded her of the churches she had visited earlier in the summer in Uganda. Only quieter. And no one was dancing in the aisles at Hunt Valley. The pastor talked about how the church is like an ancient Cathedral that has been added onto through the years. The foundation might be from the 500s, there might be Gothic buttresses and Romanesque columns and a modern glass steeple. It’s a good illustration of our summer, visiting different churches that sing, preach, and pray in a variety of ways (and languages), but are all part of the House of God.
