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Itâs Sunday morning, and weâve yet to visit our first church. Even though itâs only been a week, I already miss my friends at our church. I already miss what I know and expect, even though I know to expect the unexpected. At least the unexpected happens in a familiar place and with friends.
As an introvert who excels at social awkwardness, I relish familiar surroundings. Going somewhere new produces a deep fear I yearn to avoid. I have driven into a parking lot at a new place, panicked, and driven away. Instead of fighting fear, I prefer to flee it. I understand panic attacks. It takes prayer and Godâs help to subdue them.
I get up around 6 a.m., as usual, but Church #1 doesnât start for five hours. Thatâs far too much time for me to wait. I wonder, and I worry. Doubt creeps in. My fear grows. If only the service started earlier. Then there wouldnât be as much time for the enemy to whisper his lies: âThis is a stupid idea.â âYou will fail.â âNo one will read your book.â
I must resist the devil, so he will flee from me (see James 4:7). Or at least I can distract myself by working on this chapter. My insides churn with equal parts excitement and fearâor perhaps itâs just the sausage pizza from last night.
It doesnât help that my bed provided more restlessness than rest. I add âtiredâ to my growing list of reasons not to go. I now understand why the non-regular church attender can so easily stay home despite their best intentions. The living room recliner and television remote are much more inviting and much less threatening.
Yet I press on. This isnât due to my character but to avoid embarrassment. Too many people know about this project for me to abort my mission on day one.
The first of fifty-two churches is a small one in an old building. I know nothing about them, even though theyâre a scant one mile from home. For years, weâve driven past their tiny church, yet Iâve never met anyone who went there. How strange. Weâve lived in this community for nearly a quarter of a century, and my connection to it goes back even further. I know people from the other local churches, why not here? Does anyone actually go to this one? Learning about them online isnât an option. They donât have a website or even a Facebook page.
Candy and I discuss when we should leave but donât agree. We donât want to breeze in at the last minute, removing any opportunity for pre-service interaction. Yet, arriving too early opens us to awkwardness if thereâs no one to talk to, leaving us with nothing to do but squirm.
We pray before heading out. I ask God to bless our time at church and teach us what he wants us to learn. I request his favor, so we can have a positive impact on this church and the people there. We say âamen,â and then we leave.
Candy shows no apprehension, and I doubt sheâs aware of mine. She keeps our conversation light. In the two-minute drive, thereâs no time for my angst to grow. Before I know it, weâre there. My palms grow sweaty and my heart pounds. Nausea overtakes me. What have I gotten us into?
Takeaway for Everyone: Make it as easy for visitors as possible. Providing helpful information online is critical: what to expect, how to dress, a theological overview, and any distinctive characteristics.
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Church #1: A Friendly Place with a Homey Feel
We arrive ten minutes early and are the eighth car in the lot. Itâs an older one-story building of simple wood-frame construction. An unwieldy wheelchair ramp tacked onto the front desperately needs painting. We bypass the ramp, but it remains our focal point as we approach, forming our first impressionâand itâs not good.
I canât believe what weâre about to do. Iâm in a near panic. My impulse is to run. Put one foot in front of the other. Remember to breathe. Act calm.
I exhale slowly and open the front door. Ever the gentleman, I gesture for Candy to go first. She scowls as she walks by. Itâs the smallest of entries and dark. Three people, hovering just inside, act surprised to see visitors. We take a couple steps forward and are in the sanctuary. With no room to mingle, we sit down, second row from the back.
As we wait for church to begin, the pastorâs wife introduces herself, but a hard-to-understand man has already cornered us, recounting the diseases and deaths of his parents a few decades ago. We canât escape his plodding monologue. This guy has mental issues. Of course, this is an unqualified diagnosis on my part.
Nevertheless, some people acknowledge our presence with a quick smile or inconspicuous handshake, but no one rescues us from his unfiltered spew of personal information. The pastor also squeezes in a brief introduction.
The sanctuary is a rectangular room with paneled walls. On our right hangs a copy of the Ten Commandments, the opposite wall displays their Church covenant. Mounted front and center is a traditional cross, adorned with a crown of thorns and a purple cloth. On each side stands a flag, one for the United States and the other for Christianity. A Sunday school placard in the back reveals last weekâs attendance was twenty.
The building has a distinct odor, but we disagree as to what it is. Rotating ceiling fans keep the air, and the smell, moving. I soon forget about it, but Candy isnât so fortunate, with the aroma lingering in her nostrils the entire morning.
A pianist plays a small upright. Sheâs skilled at her craft. Having background music is nice. In addition to the piano, thereâs an electric organ. I also spot an electric guitar and amp, which seem out of place, but theyâre not used today.
I count seventeen people, including us. Most of them are well into their senior citizen years. All the older men wear suits and ties, with their wives in dresses. A few people, in their thirties, sport casual attire, but none as informal as meâeven after I passed on wearing a T-shirt and opted for a polo shirt I found hiding in the back of my closet.
There are no school-age children, teens, or young families, but there are two toddlers with their grandmothers. Numerous times, the grandmas remove the crying tots from the sanctuary. At one childâs third outburst, the grandma leaves and never returns.
One member opens the service, leading us in a song. Neither Candy nor I know it. I find it hard to even mouth the words, let alone sing. The song leader then asks if there are any birthdays. The pianist stands for us to honor her, leaving no one to play Happy Birthday. After a bit of scrambling, the pastor does something out of sight to generate music as we sing.
Thereâs also a second verse, something about a second birthday. Candy later tells me the words: âHappy Birthday to you, just one will not do. Born again means salvation. How many have you?â The song leader says his second birthday is coming soon. It will be thirty-eightâor is it thirty-nine?âyears.
Apparently for our benefit, the pastor shares that there are normally forty to forty-five in attendance, with this Sundayâs number being unusual. Some absences are due to illness and he reels off a list of names, but, for the rest, heâs unsure why theyâre gone. The pastor was sick last week, and the song leader quips that todayâs illnesses are his fault.
The pastor conducts some church business, roughly following Robertâs Rules of Order. He wants to go to a conference, which will cause him to miss a Sunday. The song leader moves that they approve his request and use âpulpit supplyâ to find a replacement. Someone seconds the motion. After no discussion, he holds a voice vote. Motion approved.
The minister looks at us. With a pleased smirk he says, âIf there are any first-time visitors here, please raise your hands.â
Isnât it obvious? I groanâhopefully to myselfâas I force a pained smile. Reluctantly, I raise my hand. Can things get any more awkward? Their focus on us lasts too long.
Although foreign to me, the service matches Candyâs childhood church memories. Though thereâs nothing remarkable about it, sheâs comfortable with their format: a few old-time hymns with piano accompaniment, sharing prayer requests, an offering, a message, and a low-key altar call.
The people make the difference. Theyâre comfortable with each other, accepting one another. Thereâs no pretense, just nice folks. Itâs like family, albeit quirkier. Despite the creepy guy who first cornered us and the ridiculous request for visitors to raise their hands, I feel contentment, a peace perhaps best attributed to Godâs presence.
The two-hour service is mostly preaching. The message rambles a bit, peppered with frequent mentions of Jesus, faith, and heaven. Our future in heaven is also the topic for many of the hymns. I wonder if these themes are common in their services.
The pastor says there are seven thousand promises in the Bible. We need to accept them by faith, know them, claim them, and believe them. With much alarm, he also alerts us to the ârapid worldwide growthâ of Chrislam. (Wikipedia later informs me that Chrislam is a comingling of Christianity and Islam, but I donât get a sense of the ârapid worldwide growthâ the pastor claimed.)
Afterward, everyone lingers to chat. Our stomachs tell us itâs past time to eat, but we tarry. Many thank us for visiting and invite us to come again, but they arenât pushy. Iâm not going to mislead them, so I simply smile and nod to let them know I heard.
The pianist invites us back that night for their monthly hymn sing and meal. There will be plenty to eat, so thereâs no need for us to bring anything. For a moment I consider it, even though church music bores me, and I hate to sing.
We leave feeling...
