Ever been to a church with a very different tradition from your own? A few times in my life I have and my experiences have ranged from intriguing and powerful to laughable and pathetic.
Last week, some of my favorite church members lost their daughter/sister suddenly. Erin and I, as well as six other church members made a Saturday trip to Alabama to a community that was little more than a wide-spot in the road. It reminded me a good bit of the part of Georgia that my father comes from. Rolling hills, pastures as far as you can see, and old, small houses interspersed between the multitude of single-wide trailers. The air was refreshing and the people were friendly. Sadly, my Blackberry still got a full signal, so I wasn't far enough off the map (in case you're wondering: Am I on the blue map or the red map from tv? Neither. I'm on the yellow map.)
Our first stop was to the funeral home. Our other members had already arrived some time earlier. The family wasn't expecting us, so they were glad to see us. After greeting and hugging everybody, Erin and I headed out to try to find the church.
Several miles up the state road, we turned right on an obscure, half-gravel, half-asphalt county road. After a couple of miles, the scenery changed from run-down homes and cow-pastures to a sheer cliff on our left and dense trees. It was the kind of road you feel compelled to ride down with your windows open - an urge that was easy to fight since it was cloudy, cold, and windy.
At the end of the road, we found Antioch Missionary Baptist Church. A small sanctuary with a small building behind it. The church had no parking lot and the funeral directors lined us up on the lawn for an expedient departure for the graveside.
The service was incredible in so many ways. As soon as we walked in, I immediately recognized the five-foot church covenant framed on the front wall - it was the same one that I had read on the wall at my father's home church in Mt. Airy, Georgia.
Wisdom told me to find a pew toward the back. We sat down and when we tipped backward slightly, we immediately realized that the pews weren't fastened to the floor. As we settled in, the next thing I noticed was the ceiling. Someone had gone to great lengths to ensure that the lighting was worthy of worship - they had a dozen small brass chandeliers - with a handful of cheap ceiling fans interspersed between them. The ceiling itself was painted with white paint that had glitter mixed in, giving the feeling that you were sitting beneath the stars. The corner opposite us was also a sanctuary for ladybugs that covered the ceiling and found shelter from the cold.
With 90 minutes to wait before the service began and still nothing much to do, Erin taught me the hymnal game. (as you randomly flip through the hymnal, add the words "between the sheets" or "under the covers" to the end of song titles and get a good laugh) With two varieties of hymnals, we had plenty of songs to flip through.
I noticed that with a plethora of gospel hymns to choose from, there was an auspicious absence of Bibles. I was relieved when I finally saw a man arrive with the Ten Commandments on his tie - at least we had access to scripture, even if reading it was a little awkward for a stranger.
The man with the tie sat down with an older woman. Now, we've all heard of "blue hairs" in church. As I understand it, some of our more mature women end up "blueing" their hair to get the yellow out of their gray hair. When they add too much product to it, it turns a light blue color. I remember as a child the women who sat close to the front in church either had hats on or had blue hair. The older woman I saw in church last weekend was something totally different - her hair was distinctively PURPLE.
At this point, my mother's voice started echoing around my head and the commentary was hilarious! I employed every technique I could think of to keep from staring or snickering to myself. About that time, a younger woman rose from her pew and went to the bathroom, located just behind our pew. Minutes later, she emerged and as she walked past us again, the pungent odor of Jack Daniels wafted behind her. It was sudden, but it was strong enough I could tell you it was Old No. 7 and not Gentleman Jack. (for those scratching their heads, I'll just say I haven't always been a pastor)
Finally, the service started. Three pastors took their place up front. One was youngish and looked very uncomfortable in a suit. The second was an older gentleman that had a smile that could slay all the ladies. The third was well-dressed, yet humble and quiet. His tie featured some doves and text, though I'm not sure what it said - probably something from the Psalms.
The service was unique. It was an open-casket service that concluded with a final viewing. Before the viewing though, we got a show.
As he prayed and sat, Pastor #2 got up and spoke in hardly audible tones. As he quietly told a story about his departure from Vietnam, he set and baited the trap before springing it on us. He muttered something about being glad to meet the family and that the family had asked him to preach. His voice began to amplify and he warned us one last time by saying that the family may regret their request and yes, he used the word "regret."
#2 proceeded to "preach". In seminary, we referred to this style as "suck and blow" preaching - where there is constant shouting in short, bursting phrases. In many other traditions, this is referred to as "Holy Ghost preaching." I'm not one to criticize someone that has been struck by the Holy Spirit and preaches the powerful message that comes straight from God. I do not believe, however that this is what #2 was doing.
What I saw was a minister that was too lazy to prepare any remarks and opted instead for a simple-minded, non-coherent rant. He moved around the sanctuary and shouted the basic message that we must all repent and be saved. My hand, gently placed on Erin's knee began to clench until blood flow to her foot was cut off and she moved it to the back of the pew, where I proceeded to embed my fingers in the oak.
As he returned to the pulpit, still screaming and turning a lovely shade of Alabama Crimson, he shouted something about somebody that none of us knew and began to jump up and down. As he landed, his voice softened and he staged insincere tears I have only recently seen in my two-year-old daughter's eyes when she wants something she can't have. Finally, he closed his "sermon" with these comments: Ye must be saved. If you haven't been saved, then you need to find you a good country baptist church somewhere or at least an old country preacher.
Personally offended and disappointed that the family had been greeted and implicitly told that they don't matter, I rose from my seat for the final viewing. As I neared the front, I took the opportunity to express some grace to the parents and to pray in front of the deceased.
Back in my truck, we fell in line for the procession to the graveside. Back across the state highway and through miles of farmland, we came to a United Methodist Church with a large cemetery. Pastor #1 showed up with a big chaw of Red Man in his left cheek and in an effort to be discreet, he swallowed his spit for the duration of the graveside service. Pastor #3, who said and did nothing at the church, offered some words at the graveside that included some grace, but were mostly directed to Pastor #2 as appreciation for his sermon.
As the Navy honor guard wrestled with the flag in the gusting wind, the family huddled together under the tent. I felt bad for them. My heart broke for them when I found out about their daughter/sister, but now that they had been dismissed at the funeral as unimportant, my pastoral instinct was screaming at me louder than Pastor #2 had been. As everyone dismissed, hugs were given and words of grace were shared. Herman, the father, and one of my heroes, took the opportunity to introduce me to Pastor #2. I felt like I was being showed off and I didn't mind one bit. Unfortunately, the pastor had very few words to say to me as if I had been an uninvited guest to his party.
Now, understand that I have no desire to discredit any other Christian tradition, though I may make fun of some of the details. I do, however wish to express my disappointment in simple-minded, insensitive pastoral care. There is no excuse for ignorance on anybody's part - ESPECIALLY when you stand in the gap, connecting people to the God that loves them.
The truth is that we all stand in that gap. Whether we have "Rev." before our names or we are the unknown behind-the-scenes worker at church, we have a responsibility to make people's lives better by pointing them to Christ and representing Christ in our words and deeds. When we break people down or become lazy in our witness, we damage the image of Christ in the world by damaging the image of the Church in the world.
No excuse for ignorance. And there's just as much ignorance in the inner city and the suburbs as there is in the rural areas. Sadly, I see more ignorance in the 'burbs than anywhere else, but here its accepted by people who have heard what they wanted to hear. Whether you worship with 20, 200, or 2,000, you have the responsibility to live with the highest character, marked by the grace of God.
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