By Amy Butler
I had a free evening last week, so I decided to go to church.
Though I spend quite a bit of time at church, I don’t often go to church in the way that most people think of going to church — that is, as an attendee. But I saw a sign for a Monday evening Taizé service at a little Lutheran church in my neighborhood and I decided I would give it a try. Nobody would need to know I was a pastor; I could just be anonymous and get to worship for a change!
I confess I almost didn’t go in the end. After all, I had never been to that church before; I didn’t know where to go; I didn’t know anyone there; I had no idea what the service would be like. When I finally realized that I was saying all the things to myself that I spend a lot of time encouraging people to overcome when they are thinking about trying church at Calvary, I decided to buck up and go anyway. A little discomfort might be good for me, right?
And so, I went. I found a place to park in a rather deserted parking lot and made my way to the front doors. There were some signs giving good direction, so I followed the arrows into a tiny room with a few chairs set up. There were about four people sitting there and Taizé music was playing from a CD player in the corner. The lights were off and candles flickered. I made my way in and took the first seat, closest to the door.
I tried to get my mind focused on worship — really, I tried. But just when my mind turned toward prayer I would notice the chipping paint and stained, fraying carpet … the out-of-tune voice of the older woman in the back row who was (very loudly) singing along with the CD player … the sad faces of the few people present … the pastor, who was wearing jeans (gasp!).
I confess: my mind wandered toward the professional perspective I’ve worked to cultivate for so long: This is clearly a dying congregation … I wonder if this service is a last-ditch outreach attempt … the sign was good, but did they do a mailing? … their website is really out of date, you know … I don’t see any younger faces here, and everyone is Caucasian — is this the demographic of the whole church? … the pastor seems pretty mad to be here on a Monday night (can’t blame him) … why are they using a CD player — what’s up with the music staff?
All these thoughts and more ran through my mind, rendering me functionally unable to pray or worship or even be still. I finally shook myself into the realization of what I was doing: this wasn’t worship; this was Amy’s professional assessment of this congregation. But I wasn’t there that night to evaluate the health and effectiveness of that church; I was there to sit in the pews and worship God.
I confess it took some serious concentration, but once I realized what I was doing I was able to let most of these thoughts fade into the background. The candlelight filled the room with a warm glow. The silence invited me to calm down and pray. And the music (if you tried not to listen to the woman in the back row) did its work to help me be still and listen for God’s voice.
Nobody said anything to me when the service was over, but by then I already knew I was not there to offer a critique of the way the congregation welcomed visitors. It was worship, and I was just there to be a worshiper.
I left that night feeling thankful that this church created a little space where I could come and worship. As I drove home the echoes of the music rang in my ears: “In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful, in the Lord I will rejoice. Look to God, do not be afraid. Lift up your voices, the Lord is near; lift up your voices, the Lord is near.”
And I thought to myself, “I should really go to church more often.”