Back Pew Religion
This past Sunday morning, I had the opportunity to visit my daughter's home church for the second time, the first being Easter Sunday when I vowed not to return because the sermon did not even approach the Easter message and I'm just old school enough to be offended by that mistake.
Despite my ruffled feathers, her house where I am staying for the next few months, is but a few blocks from her church, and it was a beautiful morning and the grand daughters love the walk and love the grandma so we all trapsed off to church.
I love walking to church. I guess there is a sense of humbleness about it. Of course, I don't walk to church when it's biting cold, blistering hot, pouring down rain, or otherwise uncomfortable. So I guess that tosses the humility right out the stained glass window, doesn't it?
When we arrived, the rest of the brood went off to their respective Bible study classes, and I ventured into a sanctuary of strangers and did what far too many visitors do. I sat in the fartherest corner of the back pew.
The service began with some riveting song, complete with band and choir and all the words cleverly flashing on a screen behind the entourage (which always reminds me of the old timey 'sing a longs' where they had that little red ball bouncing on top of the word you were supposed to sing...) so that all who cared to could join along in song or at the very least, lip sync along in psuedo song. But singing is such a good thing, and I truly enjoy and appreciate the effort.
Recently, I relinqueshed a forty year old habit (another time, another story for details) and suffice it to say that the habit had seriously hampered my ability to sing. I actually had not had the opportunity to find this out until now, and it surprised me to no end! We were singing praises loud and sweet when I suddenly realized that my own voice was a bit loud, but more importantly, it was one of the sweet ones! Years ago, years and years ago as a very young girl, I was the soprano, and now, while it was not the same innocent voice of long ago, it was soprano and it was holding the notes! My youngest daughter sings opera. She hates that I say it like that, but let's face it, she sings opera. And I am very proud and very much afraid that often I have tried to live my hopes and dreams of doing the same thing through her voice and her efforts. And although I was miles away from 'singing opera', I was singing, and it was beautiful to my ears. The young man in front of me started to turn my direction, but stopped himself just short of seeing me, possibly because in all my new found glory, I hit something that sounded like a note in despair, and promptly shrunk back into my usual state of non-singing for the next verse or two.
When the singing ended, we were asked to do a unified reading, with words still flashing on the screen for us to follow. The words that were up there were beautiful scripture and I absolutely loved the flow and was quite anxious for the end to come that would tell where in the Bible the words were written. But there were no clues as to where the scripture came from and being the Bible scholar that I am not, was faced with the dilemma of having to find out because I have made a pledge to myself to find out all I can about things that make me happy and those words made me happy. As I was looking around in the sea of faces for one that would appear to happily solve my plight, some evil person made that horrid announcement that we were all to turn to the people on our left, right, east, west, north and south and introduce ourselves. Helloooo?? Why do you think certain people sit on the back pews? Why do you think the Lord invented back pews?? Never mind the fact that I didn't put on enough hand lotion that morning and I was quite sure that if anyone reached out to me, they would probably pull back a bloody nub from the recent scratches and cuts caused from moving boxes and furniture. Never mind the fact that I had been lazy and put on the old granny specs that caused me to have to tilt my head back and [bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse] it to one side in order to focus on a face instead of taking the extra one whole minute it would have been to find my good glasses. Never mind the fact that I should have tried to match the two browns I was wearing a little more fashionably instead of thinking "I'm fifty four, people will nod and smile politely and wonder silently if I am color blind as well as old." There must be a special prayer for folks who sit in the back pew. If there is, I have to find it and memorize it.
So here I am, in the big middle of extended hands and well wishes and names that there is no way I am ever going to remember and this one dear woman, bless her heart, takes my hands in her hands (God help her) and says "Hello. I am ???????????. Welcome to the House of the Lord. WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF THE LORD. WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF THE LORD!" As if I was going to have a problem remembering whose house I was in! If she had repeated her name three times instead, I might have remembered that!
I decided not to ask that lady about the unknown scripture, for sure.
Then there was that dear, young man in front of me, the one who's ears I might have done damage to earlier. He again turned slowly in my direction, making it a bit farther this time, only to jerk back around as soon as he saw me head on. Now, I'm not a beautiful woman by any means. But I'm not that hard to look at, either, despite my mismatched browns and my old lady specs. (At least I don't have blue hair....yet!). So I have deduced that the only reason that young man turned away was because, although I am ok to gaze upon, I am not the angel from Heaven he had assumed I was while I was singing those praises in that angelic soprano voice. Makes complete and total sense to me. But it saddens me also, because there went another option to finding out the mysterious scriptures.
The introductions continued on for several hours, or maybe it was minutes, at the very least thirty or forty five seconds, and the woman sitting next to me sheepishly said, in a very small voice, "hello." I turned to repeat the salutation, but she had already sat down, opened her Bible, and plunged her face down into it. I started to yank her head up by her pony tail to see if possibly she had found the illusive scriptures, but I decided that might draw attention to me and that's the last thing I wanted.
So I had pretty much given up on finding any help with the scriptures, and the introductions had dwindled down to just a few, those 'lingerers' who had probably known each other from early childhood. Then the minister began his sermon.
Home Improvement Part IV. Oh goody. I must have missed the first three parts. But come to find out, that was ok. The Home Improvement series had to do with making marriages work. Like I said, Oh goody.
I am not proud to say, and I am sad to say, mine stopped working more than twenty years ago. But here I sat in the big middle of mostly couples, about to learn how they made it work, or will make it work, or hope to make it work. And as if that wasn't enough to make me feel like a lepor, the minister touched on the "s" word about two hundred and fifty three million times. While the couples would nod and laugh and tenderly kiss each other's ears during the sermon, I would see just how deep those pew cushions were and practice my sinking skills. I have to admit, had my husband and I gone to hear more Home Improvement series, we might have made it to those front porch years together. Ah well.
The young man in front of me was praying. Hard. Diligently, even. I convinced myself that either he had been an evil person the night before, and needed plenty o' repentin', or he was praying that I would turn into that angel he so badly wanted me to be before the services were over.
Then there was the couple in front of him. The epitome of good looking. Ken and Barbie even. The perfect couple who could simply not keep their hands off each other. It was more embarressing than the "s" word, but was unbearably embarressing when the "s" word was mentioned. Had it not been so frequent, the occasional public display of affection (commonly called PDA) is touching and sweet. But even though there were no mouth to mouth kisses, it sounded like a smacking contest. A little smack here, a bigger smack there, and then came one where I thought the girl's ear would come off! God love 'em. But they need to love each other at home next time.
Of course, no congregation is complete without the guy four rows up. Tall, lanky, slightly good looking, dressed just casually enough to avoid scandal in church. The kind of guy who thinks every point made during the sermon is directly aimed at him, and he's got the 'amens' and the 'yeah, brothers' and the 'hallelujahs' cornered. The 'amens' and stuff I can handle. But it's the 'laugh out loud's' that drive me up the proverbial wall. Now I was listening to the sermon, intently, and I did not hear one single 'knee slapper'. But this guy did. He must have heard several of them, in fact. And a few of those knee slappers turned into back slappers on the guy sitting just down from him. And I'm not sure, but I don't think the second guy appreciated the back slappers from the first guy one bit. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the verbal exchange that went on outside of church after the service between the two men was a testament to that opinion.
Ah well, once again.
I like for people to know why I share things and this particular adventure is shared here because try as I may to be honest in this life, when I met the kids outside of the church after services and we all began the walk back home, they asked me how I enjoyed the sermon. I just smiled that grandma smile and said, "Oh, it was lovely."
Dear Heavenly Father,
Please forgive my shortcomings and my mispellings.
And please send me directions on finding those scriptures, if it by Thy will.
Amen.[/FONT][/SIZE][/COLOR]
This past Sunday morning, I had the opportunity to visit my daughter's home church for the second time, the first being Easter Sunday when I vowed not to return because the sermon did not even approach the Easter message and I'm just old school enough to be offended by that mistake.
Despite my ruffled feathers, her house where I am staying for the next few months, is but a few blocks from her church, and it was a beautiful morning and the grand daughters love the walk and love the grandma so we all trapsed off to church.
I love walking to church. I guess there is a sense of humbleness about it. Of course, I don't walk to church when it's biting cold, blistering hot, pouring down rain, or otherwise uncomfortable. So I guess that tosses the humility right out the stained glass window, doesn't it?
When we arrived, the rest of the brood went off to their respective Bible study classes, and I ventured into a sanctuary of strangers and did what far too many visitors do. I sat in the fartherest corner of the back pew.
The service began with some riveting song, complete with band and choir and all the words cleverly flashing on a screen behind the entourage (which always reminds me of the old timey 'sing a longs' where they had that little red ball bouncing on top of the word you were supposed to sing...) so that all who cared to could join along in song or at the very least, lip sync along in psuedo song. But singing is such a good thing, and I truly enjoy and appreciate the effort.
Recently, I relinqueshed a forty year old habit (another time, another story for details) and suffice it to say that the habit had seriously hampered my ability to sing. I actually had not had the opportunity to find this out until now, and it surprised me to no end! We were singing praises loud and sweet when I suddenly realized that my own voice was a bit loud, but more importantly, it was one of the sweet ones! Years ago, years and years ago as a very young girl, I was the soprano, and now, while it was not the same innocent voice of long ago, it was soprano and it was holding the notes! My youngest daughter sings opera. She hates that I say it like that, but let's face it, she sings opera. And I am very proud and very much afraid that often I have tried to live my hopes and dreams of doing the same thing through her voice and her efforts. And although I was miles away from 'singing opera', I was singing, and it was beautiful to my ears. The young man in front of me started to turn my direction, but stopped himself just short of seeing me, possibly because in all my new found glory, I hit something that sounded like a note in despair, and promptly shrunk back into my usual state of non-singing for the next verse or two.
When the singing ended, we were asked to do a unified reading, with words still flashing on the screen for us to follow. The words that were up there were beautiful scripture and I absolutely loved the flow and was quite anxious for the end to come that would tell where in the Bible the words were written. But there were no clues as to where the scripture came from and being the Bible scholar that I am not, was faced with the dilemma of having to find out because I have made a pledge to myself to find out all I can about things that make me happy and those words made me happy. As I was looking around in the sea of faces for one that would appear to happily solve my plight, some evil person made that horrid announcement that we were all to turn to the people on our left, right, east, west, north and south and introduce ourselves. Helloooo?? Why do you think certain people sit on the back pews? Why do you think the Lord invented back pews?? Never mind the fact that I didn't put on enough hand lotion that morning and I was quite sure that if anyone reached out to me, they would probably pull back a bloody nub from the recent scratches and cuts caused from moving boxes and furniture. Never mind the fact that I had been lazy and put on the old granny specs that caused me to have to tilt my head back and [bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse] it to one side in order to focus on a face instead of taking the extra one whole minute it would have been to find my good glasses. Never mind the fact that I should have tried to match the two browns I was wearing a little more fashionably instead of thinking "I'm fifty four, people will nod and smile politely and wonder silently if I am color blind as well as old." There must be a special prayer for folks who sit in the back pew. If there is, I have to find it and memorize it.
So here I am, in the big middle of extended hands and well wishes and names that there is no way I am ever going to remember and this one dear woman, bless her heart, takes my hands in her hands (God help her) and says "Hello. I am ???????????. Welcome to the House of the Lord. WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF THE LORD. WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF THE LORD!" As if I was going to have a problem remembering whose house I was in! If she had repeated her name three times instead, I might have remembered that!
I decided not to ask that lady about the unknown scripture, for sure.
Then there was that dear, young man in front of me, the one who's ears I might have done damage to earlier. He again turned slowly in my direction, making it a bit farther this time, only to jerk back around as soon as he saw me head on. Now, I'm not a beautiful woman by any means. But I'm not that hard to look at, either, despite my mismatched browns and my old lady specs. (At least I don't have blue hair....yet!). So I have deduced that the only reason that young man turned away was because, although I am ok to gaze upon, I am not the angel from Heaven he had assumed I was while I was singing those praises in that angelic soprano voice. Makes complete and total sense to me. But it saddens me also, because there went another option to finding out the mysterious scriptures.
The introductions continued on for several hours, or maybe it was minutes, at the very least thirty or forty five seconds, and the woman sitting next to me sheepishly said, in a very small voice, "hello." I turned to repeat the salutation, but she had already sat down, opened her Bible, and plunged her face down into it. I started to yank her head up by her pony tail to see if possibly she had found the illusive scriptures, but I decided that might draw attention to me and that's the last thing I wanted.
So I had pretty much given up on finding any help with the scriptures, and the introductions had dwindled down to just a few, those 'lingerers' who had probably known each other from early childhood. Then the minister began his sermon.
Home Improvement Part IV. Oh goody. I must have missed the first three parts. But come to find out, that was ok. The Home Improvement series had to do with making marriages work. Like I said, Oh goody.
I am not proud to say, and I am sad to say, mine stopped working more than twenty years ago. But here I sat in the big middle of mostly couples, about to learn how they made it work, or will make it work, or hope to make it work. And as if that wasn't enough to make me feel like a lepor, the minister touched on the "s" word about two hundred and fifty three million times. While the couples would nod and laugh and tenderly kiss each other's ears during the sermon, I would see just how deep those pew cushions were and practice my sinking skills. I have to admit, had my husband and I gone to hear more Home Improvement series, we might have made it to those front porch years together. Ah well.
The young man in front of me was praying. Hard. Diligently, even. I convinced myself that either he had been an evil person the night before, and needed plenty o' repentin', or he was praying that I would turn into that angel he so badly wanted me to be before the services were over.
Then there was the couple in front of him. The epitome of good looking. Ken and Barbie even. The perfect couple who could simply not keep their hands off each other. It was more embarressing than the "s" word, but was unbearably embarressing when the "s" word was mentioned. Had it not been so frequent, the occasional public display of affection (commonly called PDA) is touching and sweet. But even though there were no mouth to mouth kisses, it sounded like a smacking contest. A little smack here, a bigger smack there, and then came one where I thought the girl's ear would come off! God love 'em. But they need to love each other at home next time.
Of course, no congregation is complete without the guy four rows up. Tall, lanky, slightly good looking, dressed just casually enough to avoid scandal in church. The kind of guy who thinks every point made during the sermon is directly aimed at him, and he's got the 'amens' and the 'yeah, brothers' and the 'hallelujahs' cornered. The 'amens' and stuff I can handle. But it's the 'laugh out loud's' that drive me up the proverbial wall. Now I was listening to the sermon, intently, and I did not hear one single 'knee slapper'. But this guy did. He must have heard several of them, in fact. And a few of those knee slappers turned into back slappers on the guy sitting just down from him. And I'm not sure, but I don't think the second guy appreciated the back slappers from the first guy one bit. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the verbal exchange that went on outside of church after the service between the two men was a testament to that opinion.
Ah well, once again.
I like for people to know why I share things and this particular adventure is shared here because try as I may to be honest in this life, when I met the kids outside of the church after services and we all began the walk back home, they asked me how I enjoyed the sermon. I just smiled that grandma smile and said, "Oh, it was lovely."
Dear Heavenly Father,
Please forgive my shortcomings and my mispellings.
And please send me directions on finding those scriptures, if it by Thy will.
Amen.[/FONT][/SIZE][/COLOR]