a cynic's sunday rest
Church has been a difficult and uncertain area of my life for quite some time, and right now is possibly the peak of it. I can't seem to reign in my inner skeptic when I show up, I spend most of the time wondering if they know all the issues behind what they're saying and singing, some of the time wondering if they believe it, and the rest of the time reprimanding myself for being so critical. I have felt lonely and foreign in church settings lately as I wade through the slow process of piecing apart everything I've ever believed, holding the pieces at arm's length, and imagining life without them. The easiest option would certainly be to just not go, and I know I have that right. Inwardly I have given myself permission to question everything and require nothing, but perhaps it is that very inward freedom that somehow still leaves me wanting to be in a group of people who have chosen to commit, and who aren't afraid of wherever I'm going.
So this morning I drove through the rain to St. George's Anglican Church in Fort Langley. It is a tiny, old church with a tiny, pretty-old congregation, one that I had walked by many times on warm autumn days hopping between coffee shops in Fort Langley, but never been inside. As I locked my car and walked toward the open door, I wondered fleetingly what I was really here for. Maybe it was for community, maybe it was out of guilt, maybe it was giving God a chance. Before I could sort anything out I was inside.
I've become fairly adept at hopping in and out of church services unnoticed. I looked quickly for the closest set of empty chairs and squeezed behind the back row with the aim of seating myself in the next row up where I would have a solid five seats between myself and the next congregant. It seemed I'd successfully maneuvered in unseen, but I was wrong. A woman with a name tag walking about between the rows saw me heading for my seat, made eye contact, and said loudly, "I've never seen you here before!" I smiled at her directness, and answered, "I've never been here before!" She was thrilled and proceeded to introduce me to the couple behind me, tell me that this side of the room was for people who liked cats, and get me a name tag of my own. I kept waiting for her barrage of questions about who I am and where I'm from and what I'm studying and what I want to do with my future and whether I've been Anglican my whole life or not, but it didn't come. By the time the service was starting, I was just Shelby, the new girl who liked dogs best but still liked cats and was thereby allowed to keep my seat on the left side of the church.
There was a lot of joy and laughter as the service began. It was a "Welcome Back" service geared toward those beginning a new school year, though only three of us were university students and only I was new. In order to make potential newcomers more comfortable with the rituals and liturgies, the priest and a few of her helpers gave a quick explanation of what to expect, all in the format of an airplane safety demonstration that left everyone laughing at their antics. But the humor gave way to sincerity as the first hymn opened on the upright piano behind the altar; I knew it was way out of everyone's range, but that didn't seem to stop many. No one was here to impress.
Reading the words of the liturgy together - some so familiar, others new and deeply significant - made me feel like I was just one of the many, and it was welcome. For a few moments, it felt like I could rest, could give my fears and questions a sabbath, could just put all the doubts on hold and enjoy the present. After so many days with no words to pray and no desire to really find them, they were given to me on a sheet in bold letters with people around me to drown out my voice just enough to where it felt like I could pray the words without committing to necessarily believing them yet.
As usual, the service climaxed in the serving of the Eucharist. I've received the bread and the wine in many places, many styles, and oh so many times. But today, more than ever, when I was given a piece of bread and a blessing, then a cup of wine and a blessing, what struck me was not the symbolism of the elements or the words of the priest. What struck me was my instinctive desire to respond with a polite "Thank you," something to acknowledge the gift from these people I had never met but who blessed me by name. But unlike most of the liturgy, this part has no congregational response. The blessing is given, and the recipient receives. No requirement. No exchange.
As I sat down and as I walked back through the rain to my car, I was grateful. My journey through absolute uncertainty is not over, it may still be just beginning. But I was grateful that if my journey leads me back to the God of these words, this bread, and this wine, then I have nothing to fear. This is the God who gives to those who simply open their hands. And my hands are more open now than ever.
So this morning I drove through the rain to St. George's Anglican Church in Fort Langley. It is a tiny, old church with a tiny, pretty-old congregation, one that I had walked by many times on warm autumn days hopping between coffee shops in Fort Langley, but never been inside. As I locked my car and walked toward the open door, I wondered fleetingly what I was really here for. Maybe it was for community, maybe it was out of guilt, maybe it was giving God a chance. Before I could sort anything out I was inside.I've become fairly adept at hopping in and out of church services unnoticed. I looked quickly for the closest set of empty chairs and squeezed behind the back row with the aim of seating myself in the next row up where I would have a solid five seats between myself and the next congregant. It seemed I'd successfully maneuvered in unseen, but I was wrong. A woman with a name tag walking about between the rows saw me heading for my seat, made eye contact, and said loudly, "I've never seen you here before!" I smiled at her directness, and answered, "I've never been here before!" She was thrilled and proceeded to introduce me to the couple behind me, tell me that this side of the room was for people who liked cats, and get me a name tag of my own. I kept waiting for her barrage of questions about who I am and where I'm from and what I'm studying and what I want to do with my future and whether I've been Anglican my whole life or not, but it didn't come. By the time the service was starting, I was just Shelby, the new girl who liked dogs best but still liked cats and was thereby allowed to keep my seat on the left side of the church.
There was a lot of joy and laughter as the service began. It was a "Welcome Back" service geared toward those beginning a new school year, though only three of us were university students and only I was new. In order to make potential newcomers more comfortable with the rituals and liturgies, the priest and a few of her helpers gave a quick explanation of what to expect, all in the format of an airplane safety demonstration that left everyone laughing at their antics. But the humor gave way to sincerity as the first hymn opened on the upright piano behind the altar; I knew it was way out of everyone's range, but that didn't seem to stop many. No one was here to impress.
Reading the words of the liturgy together - some so familiar, others new and deeply significant - made me feel like I was just one of the many, and it was welcome. For a few moments, it felt like I could rest, could give my fears and questions a sabbath, could just put all the doubts on hold and enjoy the present. After so many days with no words to pray and no desire to really find them, they were given to me on a sheet in bold letters with people around me to drown out my voice just enough to where it felt like I could pray the words without committing to necessarily believing them yet.
As usual, the service climaxed in the serving of the Eucharist. I've received the bread and the wine in many places, many styles, and oh so many times. But today, more than ever, when I was given a piece of bread and a blessing, then a cup of wine and a blessing, what struck me was not the symbolism of the elements or the words of the priest. What struck me was my instinctive desire to respond with a polite "Thank you," something to acknowledge the gift from these people I had never met but who blessed me by name. But unlike most of the liturgy, this part has no congregational response. The blessing is given, and the recipient receives. No requirement. No exchange.
As I sat down and as I walked back through the rain to my car, I was grateful. My journey through absolute uncertainty is not over, it may still be just beginning. But I was grateful that if my journey leads me back to the God of these words, this bread, and this wine, then I have nothing to fear. This is the God who gives to those who simply open their hands. And my hands are more open now than ever.
I understand ❤
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