What is a church?

Warning: This post is a random, unrevised roaming of my thoughts. I would say a work in progress, but I don't know if I will ever make progress on it. Still, I needed to put shape to some of these ideas. Read at your own risk.

Tonight I met with our church's Worship Committee and Liturgy Team to view a video: Ancient Future Worship by Robert Webber. We only made it through about half of the video due to engaging discussion. We got really stuck on the section about "hospitality." It was interesting to hear the differing experiences of the 9 people gathered.

We revisited a concept that has stumped our Worship Committee many times in the past. Some people relay the glowing reports they have heard from visitors, about how our church is an incredibly welcoming church. Others, like myself, express a profound dismay at the lack of true Christian fellowship available even to long-time attenders, let alone newcomers.

The issue of post-church coffee time always is a focal point of such discussions. Our pastor relayed a tale that saddened him, that a family left our church after 7 years because they still didn't feel as though they had ever really been invited to become part of the body. One long-time member (40-ish, single, male) replied in some astonishment, "Oh, come on. You have a directory and a phone. Reach out yourself if you need to meet someone. I don't want to be cornered at coffee time and queried about my week. I just want to run. I am ready to leave." Now, to be fair, this man (who I have come to cherish during our 2 years of work together on this committee) is a lover of hyperbole and enjoys playing the curmudgeon. So he may have been overstating his case a bit. But, he goaded me all the same into a response.

"I totally disagree with you. We have had the same experience here In our first year in town, we probably visited a dozen churches. This was perhaps the least friendly. Then, after we were here probably about 5 years, we still had made no significant or lasting connections. We tried to find ways to get involved, but felt rebuffed at every attempt. Small groups we tried to join were full. Nobody asked us to serve in any way - we didn't even know what service opportunities were available. So, we started shopping, for nearly a year. Even now, after 11 years, I find it extremely uncomfortable during coffee time, because I rarely find a conversation, and if I do, it is painfully brief - so little to discuss."

A woman about my age piped up that she doesn't always feel up to a conversation after church herself. She is glad now to have a "job" of supervising her kids as they peruse the library, since it relieves her of a sense of duty to engage in chit-chat. Well, I could identify with that. Since John became mobile, coffee time is certainly less awkward for me. I am always too busy finding John to worry about whether I am standing dumbly and alone in the corner again. But I still long for the fellowship of the church we attended in Illinois, where we could hardly make it into the service or home for lunch because of all the "chit chat." I confess that I longed for that connection with our Christian family as much as for the time of worship itself.

After my various stories, the pastor looked at me in some bemusement and asked, "I must admit, I find myself wondering why you are still here after these experiences with our church." (Thankfully, this was asked in a welcoming tone implying that he was, in fact, glad that we are still here.) And I have to admit, I often wonder this, too. From all outward appearances, we are now firmly ensconced in this body. There is much here to love. And yet, I find that I have a roving heart.

I voted yesterday, in the church just down the street from us. I lingered after casting my ballot, gazing at the "family" photos all over the walls of this church. I found myself longing for what I saw captured there. So, on top of the pastor's comment, I had to wonder, what is it that I am really looking for?

Well, I think I have to go back, and trace our various decision points, many based on gut instinct. We first chose this church because it was the closest one to our house - we could walk to it. I couldn't explain why at the time, but I had always wanted to belong to a church that I could walk to. We liked the preaching, but the pastor soon left. I was uncomfortable with the lack of any apparent leadership roles for women. But, we kept coming back to the church closest to home. We couldn't be sure anything else was better, so why drive far away to get it? So, we stayed and trusted that the fellowship would follow.

It didn't. Eventually, after years, we looked around again. But now, we found we were comparing the welcoming hospitality of strangers at new churches to the friendly indifference of familiar faces. I suppose leaping from the pain you know to the unknown was just too intimidating. As I wrestled with the decision to leave, I was struck by an overheard comment: "If you find the perfect church, don't join it. You will ruin it." Convicted, I decided that I should stick it out and make it work at our current church. If I didn't feel fellowship, I could work to fix that. But jumping ship would be the equivalent of spiritual consumerism, not Christian fellowship and maturity. So, in that pivotal time, we committed. Finally, for the first time, though we had been members for years, I had decided in my heart that I was staying and would make it work.

Interestingly, and perhaps or perhaps not coincidentally, I think this is when things started to change, if slowly. I was asked to join the Nursery Committee. A terrible fit for me, but I took it. It was a start. At least I learned a few names and invested a bit of time. Then, Jeremy was asked to be a deacon. Now, our names were known, at least. I was invited to join Worship Committee. As part of Council, Jeremy was instrumental in changes that allowed for women to take on more substantial leadership roles. Women elders had been "allowable" for some time, but it never practically occurred. So, as Jeremy's term ended, I found myself selected as the first ever female elder at this church. Suddenly, I was charged with spiritual and practical leadership of the church I had been only ambivalently attached to for so long.  We have begun not merely inhabiting this church, but shaping it and forming it as we also grow and mature in Christ. My commitment is now made in the form of official vows, which I do not take lightly. We are here. So, yesterday, why did I still look longingly at the photos of the church family at the church just down the road from our new home?

Ultimately, I think I cannot underestimate the role of community in a church. Church is not a place to "drop in" and sing a song and hear a sermon. Church is a living body. It is organic as well as spiritual as well as physical.  As a child, my family belonged for some time to a church in the next town, a 15 minute drive from home. Most of the other families were from the church's town, and the kids attended school together. The kids might walk together to visit at someone's house while their parents stayed late for an adult education session. They belonged. Even as I made an occasional friend, I never felt that I did belong there. My invitations were rare, and left me feeling like a fish out of water as I didn't know the neighborhoods or routines. A middle schooler has so little tolerance for these feelings.

The first church I picked "myself" was our church in Illinois. We went there the first week and never went anywhere else. We were embraced immediately. We knew people and they knew us. We visited, in and out of church. It was still a 15-minute drive, but I was content. And bereaved when we left. I think as we came to our new town, I was looking to fill this hole.

Perhaps that is why I so longed for a church that I could walk to. I didn't want a church to visit on Sunday mornings. I wanted to place ourselves in a place and be a part of it. I wanted to belong fully to a community, to be part of the "in crowd," even.

Now, 11 years later, I am part of the in-crowd, in many ways. Jeremy and I have both held leadership roles.  We are known by more people than we know in return. We love and are loved by many in our church. So why do I still sometimes feel a wandering heart? Is it physical? We have moved to a new neighborhood. Do I just long to again be able to walk to our church? Or perhaps I suffer from a deep-seated inability to commit? Am I still, at some level, more interested in what church can do for me than in what I can offer? Or perhaps, I am in love with a fantasy. The photos of the nearby church showed a true family - folks sharing their lives. I may claim to want that, but am I willing to give up something I already have to make room for that?

In the end, I have raised more questions for myself than answers. But I think the questions are important. And I think the answers are things that I should seek to find in community - my church community. Whatever that might mean.