T.V. Reality Show Worship

Trying to describe our church home is not easy. We are a polyglot of poor and upper middle class, black and white, educated and barely able to read, young and old, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic, Baptist, employed and unemployed. Our church building presents its back first. The city powers in the days gone by restructured the streets in an Urban Renewal frenzy and we lost the front door access as our main entrance. The ramp is at the back door, the NA group on Wednesdays comes through the back door, and most of our parking is at the back door. As we drove up yesterday, Miz Vivian was walking up the ramp slowly, hat firmly in place. Choir members Jackie and Ernestine were standing at the door. Mike and Judy, one of our interracial couples, were getting out of the car. A visitor was standing in the parking lot playing with her toddler son. As Michael let me out at the back door he said, “I know how to describe our church…it is like a t.v. reality show!” We have a core cast of characters who show up week after week and others who come as they can. But, you never know what is going to happen in worship even though we use a liturgy and an order of worship.
Yesterday our music director was absent. His grandfather died and he was back home with family. I grabbed our other pianist as he walked in the door and begged for help. He played songs he had never seen before as I stood in front of the choir pretending to be a director. Miss Louise told of a fire at her apartment building that morning. Our guest toddler worked his mother over during worship and ran the aisles during communion. Madge was back for the first time since her stroke. Mike has some construction work and is grateful. Mr. Eddington, the retired pastor of Calvary, came to worship for the first time since the funeral of his wife was held in our sanctuary. I held his hand and thanked him for the privilege of playing the piano at the service. He held my hand and spoke of his loneliness. I cornered L.J., one of our young men, and nagged him into saying he would play the trumpet for Thanksgiving worship.
And as always, the two most important parts of worship took as long as the sermon. We pray for each other and for our world. Time is spent voicing joys and concerns… deaths, illness, birthdays and births, new jobs, no jobs, wars and the soldiers who bear the burdens of those wars… everything is gathered into prayer and offered up to God. We pass the peace walking the aisles, hugging, shaking hands, speaking words of welcome and affirmation and concern. It is noisy and messy and wonderful. No one leaves our church untouched by human hands on Sunday morning. Pastor Pat’s sermon quiets us down as we hear the scripture and her words crafted just for us that morning.
In my life I have been without church two times. Those times were painful, lonely and meaningful. Like New York City for a country girl, they were a great place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there. Corporate worship matters to me. As a veteran of both large and small churches with conservative, fundamental and liberal theologies, I have seen and heard enough different kinds of worship to be able to fit in almost anywhere for a short while. But, there is one value I hold dear in worship. Above good music, thoughtful sermons, carefully prepared liturgy and beautiful surroundings, I must have a place where I can be myself, the good, the bad and the ugly. I can worship God with support and love from others in the same boat, wounded believers who worship because it keeps the loose ends tied up, binds up the broken pieces and sets our souls soaring towards the infinite… not many answers but peace with the mystery.
So I show up for worship hoping I can find God there. Most Sundays I do. Every Sunday I see God’s face in the faces that sit next to me in the pews and I hear God’s voice in toddlers protesting and Miss Ida Mae’s soft words, the joyful rhythms of gospel music and stately movement of traditional hymns. It will get me through until next week and I am grateful. Thanks be to God.