I want to do a quick FAQ before we continue.

Jesus is my boyfriend?  Isn’t that a little irreverent of you?  And why do you care?

Jesus is my boyfriend isn’t my term, actually.  I wish it was.  It’s been around since I was born, and Google shows 1,310,000 hits using the Jesus is my boyfriend search term (only 47,000 with quotes around the phrase; this doesn’t include the modifiers “lyrics,” “songs,” and “music” which also are popular to add on at the end).  Is it irreverent?  Yes, but I never claimed not to be (and am okay with being labeled such, just like I’m okay with “heretic” and “apostate”). My issue with these songs are simple: they leave us at a shallow theological/relational/religious place.  They don’t carry you beyond having a crush on Jesus.  And I mean crush.  These songs are about (or come across as) naive, butterfly-in-your-stomach, unending love.  Anyone who’s been in a relationship knows that it is a lot more complicated than that.  People disagree, go different directions, fight, throw things, and yell.  They also surprise each other, make sacrifices for their partner, kiss, sit down and talk it out, throw things, and cry.  “Jesus is my boyfriend” songs, however, don’t acknowledge that reality, and don’t let a person grow beyond that.  Worship music can be used for a lot more than to set the mood, they can teach us about the Bible, doctrines (who hasn’t used Amazing Grace to teach about God’s Grace, and if you haven’t, why not?), and actions.  The “Jesus is my boyfriend” songs have a place in worship sets (the good ones at least) but they shouldn’t dominate them, as is often the case in churches.

This song takes some of lyrics from the Bible!  How can you ridicule it?

Just because it’s Biblical doesn’t mean it is inspired without context.  I strongly believe the Bible only gains meaning and has inspiration because it is a collection of arguments from people struggling to understand how God works.  Their story is our story.   We’re all trying to figure this thing out—life, God, Jesus, religion, and nacho cheese dip.  We can take a verse from the Bible all we want, but one verse doesn’t transcend an argument into the divine, and one verse doesn’t make a song good.  For more on this, read somebody smarter than me: N.T. Wright, “How Can The Bible Be Authorative?”

How can do this and not feel blasphemous?

These are songs written by regular people.  I’m not denying the Trinity, the Cross, the Resurrection, or anything else (including a direct action by the Holy Spirit).  I’m critiquing these songs as art.

But these people wrote these song about their feelings towards God, and you’re belittling their relationship with God.

These are songs written by regular people.  I have no issue or judgments about any of the song-writers relationship to God.  But they wrote songs to be sung by people, and therefore have subjected themselves to the field of art criticism.  We pass criticism on personal art all the time—film and TV, secular music, books, photography, drawings, paintings, radio dramas, and shadow puppets.  Evoking God doesn’t give you a free pass, and neither does playing the emotions card.  All art is created to get across a message, to convey a feeling, and it is subject to criticism on how well the artist succeeded (both in technical and thematic elements).  Criticism isn’t a bad word, in its purest form criticism analyzes what works, what didn’t, how was it interpreted, what needs to be improved on.  Once these songs were put out to the public, they became fair game for criticism.  Both on technical and thematic aspects.

Okay, but how do people outside of our faith view this?  Aren’t you worried how they’re gonna take it?

Actually, the non-Christians (agnostics/atheists/other faiths) have responded positively to this, and haven’t viewed this as an attack on the Christian religion or its beliefs.  Just on what I’ve decided to call the “Christian Industrial Complex”, the stuff created by Christians for other Christians.  It has opened up a lot of great avenues of discussion to explore our beliefs.  The stronger reaction—unsurprisingly—has come from Christian circles.

Are you going to repent?

No.

With that out of the way, here is the follow-up to the critically mixed “Jesus is my boyfriend”!

Revelation Song

Honestly, this is the most uninspiring song, with the most uninspired title, to hit the worship circle in a while.  Apparently, according to gig-performing Jordan, this is capturing the hearts and minds of evangelical worship sessions everywhere.  It makes sense—the world gets Justin Bieber, and us enclave Christians get this song.

Breathe

By request!

Trading My Sorrows

Let me make this perfectly clear: if you were offended by our adaptation of “Madly”, or offended in general, do not listen to this song.  If you like “When Harry Met Sally”, listen to this song.  If you’re unsure use these steps to help: (1) Think of this songs chorus; (2) Think about what we’re doing; (3) Lightbulb.

(Original: Trading My Sorrows)

Unfortunately, due to time constraints, this post didn’t go up as soon as planned.  But it was always planned that we would have songs we think should be sung more often at worship services.  Some aren’t your typical worship songs, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have value as teachable elements in Church.  This was one the main points of protest with the last post—overly critical with no suggestion as to change. I’ll take the fall for that one, splitting into two posts seemed great at the time, but the lag time between this post and the last one may have killed the momentum.  Without further ado, here’s what you should be singing.

Stare at the Sun

Why wouldn’t you sing Thrice?

Micah 6:8

The only traditional worship song in this list, and something that comes from the Bible which I think holds the same impact it does when you read it in context.  Of note, this song eventually got nixed from my Church’s set list because it was deemed “not congregationally friendly.”  Some of the songs deemed “congregationally friendly” are the altered songs in the last two posts.

Beggars

Again: Why wouldn’t you sing Thrice?  Just sing their whole catalog and you’ll be much happier.

Bonus Track!

This is what happens when we mess around, and no, this has no bearing whatsoever on worship.

What? Don’t believe me? Take a listen.

My brother Jordan, Honorary brother Stu, and I got together to showcase some of the best examples of the “Jesus is my boyfriend” genre. We had a one simple rule: only change words that referred to God, or a God Event specifically (Jesus, Lord, God, Creation, etc.). Some words were changed to match the rhyming scheme that had changed due to taking God out of song, but we kept it close to the original meaning as possible. On a couple of songs we didn’t have to change a damn thing.

Three observations that came out of this project:

1. These songs are amazingly dirty when they are about a girl.
2. These songs are amazingly bad when they are about a girl.
3. How the hell are these songs popular?

So, for the romantically challenged coming up on an important relationship date, fear not, we got the out for you. Here are 7 “Jesus is your boyfriend” songs.

Better Is One Day
(There is a Song of Solomon inspired version [NSFW for you non-Christianese speaking people] of this that will remain unrecorded, but it’s bad.)

Faithful
(We had a little bit more fun with this one–it’s now about either (1) a cheating boyfriend, (2) a stalker girlfriend, or, (3) both.

Indescribable
(Billy Collins pretty much sums up why this type of writing sucks.)

I Want To Know You
(We changed only a few words in this–possibly less than 5?)

Let My Words Be Few
(Another we changed less than 5 words on)

Madly
(Uh, yeah, we didn’t have to change anything on this but they got a little carried away at the end. In a hilarious way.)

No One Like You
(Another one where we didn’t have to change much. Also notice the chord progression on this song.)

So, grab a bouquet of flowers, your guitar, and go woo a girl in the sappiest way possible. Also possible to woo with these songs: your perception of Jesus.

I have trouble with Easter, and my trouble with it is mostly because I have difficulty finding meaning in it without regurgitating the entire manual of Christian idioms and vernacular I learned as a child. All of the natural, knee-jerk phrases I would use to talk about Resurrection Sunday all consist of things that I now hear myself say and think What does that even mean? I was hard-wired to recite and understand events like these like the story of Hanzel and Gretel. And I mean that not so much in the sense that reduces Easter to just a story, but more in the sense that if any seven-year-old at a modern evangelical church were asked to retell either story, both are automatic, integrated stories that can be recited at any moment’s notice.

For family reading, stop panicking that I’ve backslidden (another nicely packaged word with a bow on top that is not heard in any other normal situation) and listen to what I’m saying.

I need Easter to be fresh. I don’t want to reduce or downgrade the potency of its meaning; I don’t want that to go away. I just want to find meaning and an understanding that doesn’t involve a communal feeding on verbal vomit that’s brought back up the Church’s throat every year in April. I no longer can glean meaning out of what I’ve been fed all my life. I can’t sit through another church service and hear the pastor with his happy smile, arms lifted hear him say “He is risen!” and we, as the lovely congregation repeat back “He is risen, indeed!” Don’t misunderstand me, I mean nothing against churches that do that. I just need to understand the exact implications it has on my life. Because as far as I see, it doesn’t mean anything other than a new dress, an ungodly (pun intended, shut up) early church service, brunches, cantatas and lots of irritating Easter basket grass.

Well, it means that he has conquered death! Yes, but what does that mean? It’s great, I appreciate it, but if this holiday is so huge and so integral to the Christian faith, how exactly is my life suppose to change because of this? What does it mean for me, Deanna, in Michigan on April 8th, 2010 to live as if “death has been conquered”? We no longer have to fear death because Christ has be victorious! Once again, what does that mean? When I wake up tomorrow at exactly 7:45am, how should my life be different because of that fact? Because right now it doesn’t. And at least, it doesn’t in most people’s lives that I know. So why is this holiday like a lesser cousin to Christmas for the church?

It’s just a too well packaged, too concise a holiday full of over-arching phrases that have lost their deeply practical meanings. I now am in a place in my life where I have to step away and approach this all from a different angle to even keep it around.

Maybe this is exactly what people mean when they say “Christmas is dead.” It’s not so much that other people (or things) killed it (because if I hear ONE more person say that commercialism killed Christmas, I will probably snap), it’s that it’s lost all meaning in and of itself and it’s lying there on the ground, and all that’s left to say is “I either need to give this holiday a funeral, or take time to find true meaning in it.”

The night before Easter, my husband and I ate dinner over at my family’s house, which was wonderful. There was wonderful food, lots of laughing, and a few Office episodes squeezed in. It was warm, sweet, and what I hope to be doing every Easter. Sunday morning we (surprise!) slept in, went to see Clash of the Titans (because we all know that Easter is not properly celebrated without a Greek mythology 3D action flick), and then went over to Drew’s house to enjoy the new Rob Bell video (happy lights?) and delicious food with his folks and our small semblance of a house church.

We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary to celebrate Easter. We just talked about the video for a few minutes, and then went upstairs and spent the next 7 hours just talking.

This is what I desperately need in my life. No amount of new dresses, annoying white sandals, or Easter cantatas can deliver, for me personally, what I need on Easter or in the rest of my life. I don’t need formality, I don’t want gospel songs (GASP!). I need connection, sounding boards, people to laugh with and people who (I am resisting the urge to say “edify” because no one really knows what that means) challenge my own thoughts and ideas. While most of the conversation was talking about the French Connection UK brand of clothing, griping about Flash and how we can’t wait for HTML5, Keisha lyrics, and all things pop culture, we often have conversations that last late into the night about All the Things That Matter. We sit around watching movies and end up in mind-blowing conversations about point of views, the rifts between political parties, the reason Detroit is dying and how it should change, religion and what it means in our lives, etc.

All of it is meaningful, and I am a better person every time I leave those conversations.

If traditional Easter services work for you, great. But they don’t do it for me anymore. They’ve become devoid of meaning because I’m jaded and because I harbor cynicism that’s crept into my life over the last couple of years. I had to find a different way to see Jesus this year. I had to find Him in the people around me and in the community of close friends that I call home. And even in all my pessimism and irritation with my perception of the church, He still showed up. And that, is what I desperately needed to know on Easter this year.

Here’s to finding what you need, and here’s to looking at Easter in a new way.

So, Happy Easter. Or for those of you who hate cantatas, Happy Zombie Jesus Day!

It soon dawned on me I should try it instead of just boldly proclaiming it.  On my day off I attempted my own Sabbath, no computer (meaning no Twitter, Facebook, audio editing, or e-mail), no cell phone, no car radio, and no TV (luckily it was Tuesday and Chuck had aired the night before).  And in what some would consider a modern, high-tech miracle, I came out alive.  And it was—and this is even more shocking—painless.  But I did notice a few unexpected side effects, and discovered a few things about myself.

(1) I need a watch. I do not own a watch; my primary timepiece is my cell phone.  Out of all the functions my cellphone offers—text messaging, phone calls, the internet—the one I missed the most was the time.  I just want to make this clear: I suffered withdraw from not knowing the time, not the communication.  I had nothing to do that day (except for an informational meeting in the evening) but not knowing if it was 1 or 1:45 really messed with my head. Granted, the world ran this way for a long ass time, not everyone could find out the time at any given moment.  I adjusted, but honestly, I really need watch.
(2) Volunteering isn’t a 24-year olds game. I attend a training/informational seminar for Detroit Reading Corp, and I swear I was the only person under 35 there.  This is usually the case in political campaigning as well (the staffers? Usually fresh college grads.  The volunteers? Usually mid-30’s and beyond).  So, is volunteering uncool?  You can tell me, I can take it.  I’m used to being a nerd.
(3) Holy crap did I miss Chuck. I’ve been re-watching the first two seasons of Chuck, that show is awesome.  And with all the stuff on my computer—my podcasts to edit, my podcasts to listen too, the amazingly just discovered music of Nataly Dawn and Jack Conte, Twitter, and Facebook—the thing I missed the most was THE TOTALLY LEGAL COPIES of Chuck’s second season (now on DVD and Blu-ray! IT IS TOTALLY LEGAL), I really wanted to watch an episode.  That show is like crack.
(4) Only two exceptions for the entire day. I know it seems kind of cheap.  But two exceptions came up when I deemed it necessary to break the Sabbath.  The first, in the morning, I heard my phone go off three-times in a row.  I assumed—especially since I did not use Twitter or Facebook to announce my intentions for the day—that someone really, really needed to reach me.  It was brother Sean, and he was having computer difficulties and needed my help submitting a paper for a class.  So, do I be a dick and hold fast to my self-imposed technology exile, or help Sean not fail a class?  Considering that one of the tenants from Sabbath Manifesto is “Give back,” and I wasn’t using my computer or phone as a boredom killer, I figured I could help Sean out and not feel bad.  The second exception?  I granted immunity for the cell phone rule to my friend, Danelle, in Georgia.  My rationalization?  Another tenant is “connect with loved ones” and the only way I can do any sort of fellowship with Danelle is (a) drop a couple hundred bucks on a plane ticket, or (b) answer the cellphone.  Guess which one is cheaper.  I didn’t carry my cellphone with me, but if I was around when she called, I’d pick up (she did, and I was, so I did).

I have to say, I felt a lot better at the end of the day.  I read, went for a walk, pseudo-volunteered (is training really volunteering?), and found silence.  The Sabbath Manifesto folks (a Jewish organization called “Reboot”—like the TV show—is behind the concept) had the right idea, and my technological Sabbath is gonna become a regular part of my week.  It’s amazing how much easier it is to find God with all the shit turned off.

This is the downside of Church-hopping, well honestly, church attendance.  After awhile everything gets dull.  It’s the nature of life, and relationships, you hit a rough spot, a boring spot, you start drift, look at another Church the wrong way, and before you know it, you’re Church-cheating.

Granted, SoulQuest was an interesting experience (flag-waiving, rocking and crying, CD-tracking, and Dominion theology preaching church; I think my reaction is obvious) but at the end I didn’t feel moved.   This could be because I think the name should’ve been a spin-off to the KingsQuest video game series, and not a Church.  I was sorely disappointed.

But Churches are becoming less and less interesting.  And all seem to be working for the same things: more people, better numbers, bigger buildings.  I’m beginning to think it’s no coincidence my most spiritual church moment came listening to Rob Bell’s sermon, “Christ in the Common” in my car.

I think I should clarify, at this moment; I’m referring to church as vehicle for teaching, not community.

The most spiritual teaching moment came in my car.  When Rob Bell was talking about how Christ is in the everyday stuff you usually don’t think about.  Your job, your interactions with others, your trip to the grocery store.  I was on my way to Mount Pleasant, stuck in some accident/rush hour traffic nightmare hybrid.  Trying to figure out if it was worth changing lanes, or would Murphy’s Law apply and I’d be stuck regardless.  I’d also remember getting angry at the gawkers who kept staring instead of moving, and the people who waited until the last second to merge.  It’s an accident, how can you not see the lane closure coming?

Then, it clicked.  What exactly Bell was talking about, and how it was more than just a good point, but something I could apply.  And it was a simple thing.  It was a stupid thing.  A really stupid thing.  But it worked.  It clicked.  I had transformative experience you always hear about, but I’ve never had in Church.  The point where you walk away and know the message is for you.  That this means something, and you have the uncanny feeling God smacked you around and told you to straighten up.

So, I took a deep breath.  Finished the sermon and cued up “The Treatment” with Elvis Mitchell on the next podcast.  And laughed.  And smiled.  And generally had a good time crawling in a long of line of cars for a half-hour on I-75.  I can’t identify with more people, bigger buildings, but I totally get finding Christ in the commute, your living room, or at your job.  This is what I’m noticing in several of the Church’s I’ve been too.  The messages aren’t for me; they’re for another Church goal, or the virtues of another Church function.

Just so you know—I’m taking next week off too.

Now, I’m not saying we should go to church to be entertained.  I’m pretty sure I’ve lambasted that before, but if you’re gonna be sitting in a chair for two hours, it helps to be into the service.  The first hour at Base was music and two separate altar calls (one to be baptized in the Holy Spirit, and the other for those who needed physical healing), and they almost lost me.  After 15 minutes of Chris Tomlin, Matt Redman, Louie Giglio, and David Crowder songs—they start to grate on me, and I realize they really are all the same.  So, an hour in, even with a brief pause to greet people, announcements, and a few jokes I’m seriously considering turning off the sound system, or committing suicide in the sanctuary.  I think none of these are overreactions.  And in case you’re wondering, I don’t think Christian’s sing enough Sufjan Stevens or Thrice.

Luckily, by the time they hit the hour mark, Base’s pastor, Devine Meyers, starts his sermon.  It isn’t an exaggeration to say that Devine knows how to give a sermon.  He knows how to engage a crowd, make everyone feel involved, how to make a tangent not seem pointless, and knows how to make a joke.  I actually made myself known when they asked if anyone was visiting because the man is a silver-tongued devil.  And I mean that as a compliment (he’s not the devil, or a false prophet, stop freaking out, my conservative friends*).  I left halfway through his sermon, as I noted, but I was able to hear him talk about the strength of the body of Christ.  How we are stronger when we work together, support each other, and don’t try to overturn believers.  Meyers commented:

“I never like it when someone leaves a church and says, “I left there because I didn’t like what the Pastor said,” or, “I left that church because I didn’t like the direction they were going.”

Now, Meyers wasn’t around when Base started, and I don’t know how many Shepherd people still remain (I didn’t see anyone I knew).  But every once in a while a genuine moment comes along where it really did “take everything I had” to restrain myself from raising my hand and commenting, “Dude.  Do you know why you’re here?  Do you know how Base started?”  I did not, however, stop myself from laughing loudly.  (PRO TIP: Just nod your head while you do this, people will just assume you’re laughing in agreement, remembering a similar incident you went through.  Like a group people leaving your church to form another.  That was awesome.)

To be fair, knowing the guy beforehand, it wouldn’t surprise me if the formation of the Base was spun to sound better.  This is your obligatory cynical comment of the post.

Meyer’s continued with his sermon, unfazed by the irony of his comment, and delivered a perfect organizer message.  If you’ve ever worked on a political campaign, or at a food bank, or anything where you needed to get people to volunteer, you know the spiel.  You tell your story, fit it into your narrative, and finish with a concrete ask (“Want to make phone calls? No, I don’t need a media planner, but would you like to make phone call?  No, we let other folks deal with overall strategy.  DO YOU WANT TO MAKE PHONE CALLS DAMMIT!?!”  This is organizing).  I have no problem with this, I’ve done it and it’s effective.  Especially when your story is genuine and you’re passionate about the cause.  And I don’t doubt Meyers lacks either, but I do have one comment about the half sermon I heard.  Base has makes it clear on their website, and alluded to it in the sermon, they want another building.  Something that reflects their personalities more.  They even pulled the classic “God will provide if we give and pray” routine.  Anyone who’s read one of my posts knows what I’m gonna say next, you have a building.  Be happy.  Focus on your congregation, the needs in your community, and don’t worry if your building looks stuffy.  Who cares?  You have a building.  The appeal and allure of a modern, huge building is understandable.  We’ve all grown bored of steeples and sanctuaries.  But don’t make that your goal.  It’s okay to grow as a church, but don’t grow just for the sake of adding numbers.  Grow because whatever you’re preaching is registering with people, and they want to be a part of your community because they’re genuine—not because you ran a good PR campaign.

And once you get big, prepare for the schisms.  They’re the best part.

Before Grandma was put into a nursing home, we each had to take turns watching her.  She had Alzheimer’s and she couldn’t be left alone.  Not that she would’ve intentionally burned the house down, but leaving the oven on, the hair curler plugged in, or messing with the breaker box and forgetting about it 10-seconds later wasn’t out of the question.  So, we’d go and sit with her.  Read a book, watch some TV—but nothing more complicated than the news or sketch comedy if you could help it, she’d get angry if she couldn’t remember what was going on—or do homework.  Sometimes you’d talk to Grandma, but it was really Grandma talking to herself.  Conversations with Grandma reset every few minutes, and you’d have to start from scratch.  They’d always trail off, or abruptly switch topics.

One day, Grandma had found some old photographs.  These ranged from pictures of my Dad and his siblings in elementary school to pictures of Grandma and her siblings growing up in Kentucky.  These stack of old photographs laid on the table in front of us, and Grandma picked them up, and started to tell me the stories of each photograph.  And not just, “this is your Dad in school” or “this is me growing up in Kentucky” but detailed stories of the day it was taken, the weather in Kentucky, the attitude of the subjects, the difficulties in getting people to sit still, and what they had for dinner.  For a woman who was convinced that I had a brother named Chris, the stories were impressive.  The attention to details, the funny anecdotes, and the slight laugh as she told the stories of how difficult my Dad and Uncle Timmy where in getting ready for school, all the detail built a wonderful family history.

I took the pictures from her, flipped through the stack for 10 seconds, and then handed them back.  She smiled, her face lit up, as she turned to me and told the stories of each photograph.  And this time, everything changed.

My Dad became Uncle Timmy.

The picture of her and siblings in Kentucky became pictures of her Dad and his siblings growing up in Kentucky.

Pictures of me became pictures of Brett.

The kid across the street became a family member, a cousin.

She couldn’t even identify the people in the picture of her and my Papa.

No story stayed the same.  No photograph even had similar participants or stories attached.  Everything changed.  The carefully crafted world changed in 10-seconds.  My wonderful family history was reduced to a sham.  In 10-seconds, I went from thinking I should write these downs—‘cause who knows the next time she’ll be this lucid—to thinking why would I write down someone’s senile ramblings?  Watching your Grandma’s brain degrade in front of you hurts at any age.  And like most hurt people, I got frustrated, and like most frustrated people, I angrily added my own comments.

I told her that wasn’t Uncle Timmy—she just said it was Dad!  That wasn’t her Dad and his siblings; it was her and her siblings.  That it wasn’t Brett, it was me.  And no, the people she couldn’t identify were actually her and my Papa.  This, to no surprise, didn’t go over well.  She got angry. I got angry.  She pointed out she was there, and knew who was who—especially in her own family.  I realized the futility (and outright meanness) in fighting with an Alzheimer’s patient.  And I asked to see the pictures, and held onto the stack as she watched the 5 o’clock news.  I flipped through the pictures for 10 seconds, and handed them back to her.

“Hey Grandma, who’s in the pictures?”

She smiled, her face lit up, as she turned to me and told the stories of each photograph.  And this time, everything changed.

Uncle Timmy switched back to Dad.

Her father and his sibling became her mother and her siblings.

Brett became Brett.

The kid across the street became Aunt Susie.

And she and Papa became her and Papa.

And this time, I just listened.

The stories became more vibrant, more detailed, and more poignant.  Sometimes the handwriting on the back was wrong; sometimes it helped the story along.  I realized as she told the stories, the point wasn’t the photographs.  The point was the stories.  When I tell this story people always ask, “how can you trust what she said?”  For the same reason I can trust any other story.  Every true story is inherently fiction.  It’s told from the perspective of the storyteller, and we always have an agenda.  But the point of a story doesn’t hinge on the veracity of the facts, but the emotions of the story.

I learned the difficulty of raising 4 kids after a divorce, and how my Dad and Uncle Timmy were a pain to get ready for school.  I learned about the beauty of the hills of Kentucky, and growing up when your father was a coal miner.  I learned about my family.  The details might be hazy, but in a story, details just deliver the emotions.

And after she was done, I’d take away the photos, flip through the stack for 10 seconds, and hand them back.  She’d light up and tell the stories, and everything would change.  I learned not give up on people, if you hang in there long enough they’ll show you their good side, but if you shut them down, you’ll just be dealing with your antagonism and miss opportunities.  I learned that if you have a story worth telling, you have a life worth living.  And it doesn’t matter how you get there, just that you found it.

And then after she was done, I’d flip through the stack for 10 seconds, and hand them back.  She’d light up, and we’d start all over again.  And everything changed.

You can tell the size of the church based on the format of the announcements.  If they are strictly regimented, read off a piece of paper, with no extemporaneous audience comments allowed, you’re at a big church; over a hundred where inviting in the peanut gallery would bring mayhem.

If they ask for announcements, and the congregation rambles on about their own stuff, you’re at a small church.  An extremely small church.

“I just wanted to say I hoped everyone had a great and safe New Year, and wanted to welcome any visitors we have with us today,” the woman said, staring right at me when she said the last bit.

At extremely small churches they also know who the new guy is.

So far I’ve gone to decent size churches—two megachurches and two medium size churches—churches that you don’t have to try to be noticed on Sunday, and can walk in and out with ease.  You can’t sneak in or out of St. Andrew’s, when the church barely tops 50 people you’re pretty noticeable (especially if you show up 5 minutes late).  It also helps when someone stares you down in the announcements and makes a generic “Welcome to our guests” comment—as if there was more than one. (To add: it was funny and not annoying.)  The small congregation of the church lends itself to something I haven’t seen yet: a genuine, close knit, community.  I commented on the strawman argument of community in mega-churches, but it’s fair to say there’s a good chance that you won’t know the people sitting next to you at Sunday morning service.  With St. Andrew’s everybody knows everyone and the “turn around and say hi” part of the service lasted a good 10 minutes because everyone went around to greet each other.

Recently, I’ve joined a small house church with a few friends.  We meet eat pancakes, listen to a few Christian podcasts, and talk about what we learned (sometimes we watch The Office).  We started for a lot of reasons, but I joined for the same reason I started the project, a sense of community.  I had lost it in the church.  While Kensington and Woodside were friendly and serviceable St. Andrew’s showed me something I hadn’t seen at any church: an observable community.  It was weird, and almost uncomfortable.  I felt like an outsider invading a private gathering, but they were so excited to have a new person I didn’t feel like I crashed the party.  Even with all the upheaval going on at St. Andrew’s—they are searching for a new Rector (pastor)—the congregation seemed excited by the simple fact they had someone visiting them.  When people get excited by the little things—or what you think the little things are—it’s hard not to be happy too.  It’s reassuring, knocks away some of the jaded armor, and puts all your issues in perspective.  But none of the excitement of having a visitor can top this exchange with the Interim Rector, a man in his late 60’s-early 70’s:

Rector: And who are you?

Me: Drew Proctor, I’m just visiting for the next few weeks.

Rector: I’m Les Holdings (name changed), I’m the rector here.  The interim type.  It’s great, I can say whatever the hell I want and go home at the end of the day.

Me: That’s the best gig—challenge their outlook and not have to deal with the drama!

Rector: Yeah, after 53-years of doing this you just don’t care [about angering the crowd].

If he was their regular guy, I’d be hard pressed not to go.