It was 10:20 a.m. I was in a little early. In the pew in front of me were a young couple I had not seen in church before. They seemed uncertain. He had his own Bible.
There was the usual confusion before worship starts; the last-minute sound checks, the quick choir rehearsal, the greetings, the sotto voce conversations.
I did what I should have done when I first sat down. I said hello to them. They had just moved to the western part of town, to the apartment building across the street. They were both from small town Ontario, and had been living and worshipping in the eastern part of town the past few years. When she got a new job at a school in the west end, they decided to be closer to both their workplaces. They had moved in the night before; they had never been to a Presbyterian church. They seemed pleasant, if a little guarded.
Two stalwart members walked by and one said to the other, “I think I’ll sit beside you today, somebody’s sitting in my pew.” I could see the couples’ shoulders tense.
Just as worship was about to start, as the buzz silenced itself, they excused themselves and left. I haven’t seen them since.
I don’t blame them of course; they were sitting in the old gal’s pew and they knew they could not ever be forgiven for that sin. No point hanging around for the inevitable shame.
I was camping with the family and I decided to go to church. After a quick scan on my phone I found a Presbyterian worship about 30 kilometres away.
I had just enough time.
It was summer; I was camping. I hadn’t shaved in a few days; I was in shorts and sandals. I drove as quickly as I dared, and managed to catch most but not all of the vaguely marked rural roads. I was a few minutes late; the first hymn was a few verses along.
Nobody acknowledged me. I found the bulletin and the hymnbook and Bible. I sat in the back pew of the small church. Throughout the worship, folks, old enough to be my parents or older, kept looking back at me. No one ever smiled at me.
I should have left, found a coffee shop, got a paper. How dare I make those people feel uncomfortable, a dark skinned bum intruding on their perfect self-supporting community?
I now rarely go to church while on vacation; I can’t take the rejection.
I’ve known her for years; she’s a very good actor. We’re in a pub after a weekly workshop. She’s got a glass of wine; I’ve got a pint. She’s aghast I go to church. “You believe in God, and all that stuff?” I assure her I do. All that stuff.
She’s quiet a moment. “I guess I believe in God,” she says. “Not that old guy, white beard, sitting on a cloud stuff; that’s kinda stupid. But I believe in something. Not like a higher power, kind of thing, that’s kinda paternalistic, I think, but something. Like God.
“Like God. I like God.” She laughs at her own wordplay. “Yeah. I like God.”
Then with a conspiratorial dropping of her voice, she leans forward and says, “But I hate church.”
