A strange practice

I had a hard time in church today. It was hot and as I was sitting opposite the doors that were open in the front corner of the auditorium where we meet, my eyes kept straying to stare out the doors and windows at the trees gently swaying in a breeze, and the blue sky beyond.

I didn’t want to go to church today. I haven’t had enough sleep the last few days and I woke up with a headache. I went because – well, it’s what we do. I want to like going to church and often, I do.

But today, I kept thinking about how this crazy story of a man named Jesus who lived 2000 years ago (who we believe was God), has led us to do this strange thing called church. I mean, think about it – weekly we drive to a building, sit down with a bunch people, sing some songs that would make no sense to anyone not indoctrinated in the story, send our kids off to a class where they are taught the kid’s version of the story while we sit and listen to someone tell us some more about the story (referring to a the book that tells about the story). We drink some coffee, eat a bagel or a donut, chat with a few people, gather up the kids and head back for home. Your rituals and structure may vary.

So maybe that sounds a little empty, and we like to think that our experience of church is more meaningful. Maybe the worship music at our church is really good (whether it’s classic hymns sung by a choir or raucous rock music), the songs really move us, and we feel that something really mystical happens when we sing these songs that talk about the story, that the actual presence of God can be felt. Or maybe the person who talks to us is really gifted in teaching and communicating, and we are challenged in our understanding of the story and learn something new about ourselves. Or maybe this doesn’t describe your rituals at all, and what you do is deeply meaningful to you.

As I stared out the window at the trees, and the sky, and the cars driving by on the road in front of our church – all I could think about is how strange church is. What connection is there really in all these practices to the (God-) man Jesus, who lived 2000 years ago. How can we be certain – so certain – of our understanding of this story, of how we are supposed to read the book that we get the story from, and how we are supposed to respond to it today.

We sang a song today that makes no sense to me. It talks about “the wondrous cross”. The “wondrous cross”? The way I read the story and in my understanding of history, the cross doesn’t seem so wonderful. There’s some pretty incredible stuff that happens in the story after the cross, but the cross itself seems pretty terrible. That song makes me very sad.

I listened to a youth ministry presentation about a recent mission trip the high schoolers when on. They had wonderful stories, and it seemed like a very powerful time in the kids’ lives. And yet – I struggle with the process, with putting my children into a community who values teaching the story to children in no uncertain terms, while I struggle to be certain of anything about the story.

So I sat and stared at the leaves and the sky. These speak to me of a God who cares, who is involved with our story here on earth. I watched the variety of people who walked through our doors and sat down together to worship God. Their very faces speak of a history and a story that (with most of them) I will probably never know, and yet they speak to me of a God who cares. I was able to hug a good friend, and talk to another about getting together this week, and the love of these friends speaks to me of a God who cares.

I want to like going to church, I really do. I miss the assurance that I used to feel that these rituals are a very good thing, the right thing to do. I want my children to grow up loving God and understanding the story of His love for them. But some weeks I wonder if I can really keep participating in this strange thing called church.