Even when you regularly attend the same church every week not every service feels like a home run. I shouldn’t expect every visit to every church I visit this year to be successful. This visit wasn’t exactly a strike out, but I feel like I just barely got to first base.
I walked in a few minutes before the service and wasn’t sure where to go. There was a blackboard in the entry way with several different instructions, but because there were people coming in right behind me I didn’t get to stop and read it. The narrow entryway pushed me right up the stairs and past the information table. I just kept moving into the sanctuary and found a spot on the back pew.
I watched others enter the room. They were all taking the hymnals off the information table I’d passed and bringing them with them. I didn’t understand why the books weren’t already located in the pews but now I was without one. It seemed like it was time for the service to start, and people weren’t milling around or being social so I didn’t want to get up and walk back across the room. I felt nervous and out of place. A majority of the people were in white shirts and ties. Even the kid quietly reading The Foot Book, by Dr. Seuss was dressed up nicer than I was.
A man stood to give the opening prayer. He mentioned the “Blessing Bearers” (whom I assumed were the apostles or some other high functioning leaders in the church), the departed souls, and baptism. I found it interesting that he covered so many of the distinctive points about this brand of Christianity in the prayer. All of the people stood and folded their hands the same way when the prayer started. At the end they all said, “Amen” in unison, but in a low, reserved tone. It weirded me out a bit. I guess it isn’t all that different from the physical responses to prayer that I practice like “Bow your head and close your eyes.” It is just different than what I am used to.
An usher with thick, coke bottle eyeglasses observed that I didn’t have a hymnal and gave me his. The organist started playing a song, all the way through, but no one sang. Then it got deathly quiet for a couple of minutes. I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to be meditating on the words we hadn’t sung or if we were waiting for some more church officials to enter the room. Then the organist started playing again and this time we joined in with the words. This was followed by all of the people in white shirts and ties circling the organ. They were the choir. Now I was glad I wasn’t dressed like them.
I wasn’t able to track with who was who and what was what. There were visiting priests and bishops and the mention of a district apostle. I’m not sure what was normal and what was unusual about this weekend. I took notes in my journal as the various men spoke and then handed off the next part to another leader.
The congregation sat very still and reverent through the procedures. They echoed their low ‘amen’ at the end of each section. Then it was time for communion. I didn’t really feel comfortable enough to participate with them. I was confused when I watched those sitting in the front row go forward and receive the elements. I only saw them get a wafer of bread, but nothing to signify the cup. By the time they got to the back row I just politely declined their invitation. When I got home I looked up how the New Apostolic Church took communion. They use wafers that are already infused with three drops of wine. I’m sure this is easier to set up and possibly more hygienic, but I like the physical experience of drinking, sipping or dunking.
Then all of a sudden the leaders were done officiating and the reverent part of the service was over. It was if the entire congregation had been carefully holding their breath and now they could relax. Smiles appeared, warmness entered the room, and people started acting like people instead of religious Autobots. It was during this part of the service that announcements were made, laughter was heard, birthdays were celebrated, and specific needs in the congregation were shared. I felt much more connected to the people in the New Apostolic Church than their religion. I imagine others could say the same thing about me when I’m acting religious.
It didn’t seem this church was all that used to visitors. Once everything was wrapped up, I realized that I had created a bit of a stir. The Pastor/Priest/Bishop’s wife wanted to know if I was from the local media. I guess most people don’t take notes during the service; maybe it was even inappropriate. When I told her that I lived in the neighborhood and just dropped by to visit she changed her concern. “Oh, well, I saw all the notes you were writing and all the verses you were looking up in your Bible.” (I only had my journal in hand, but it does look like it could be a Bible.) “I want to reassure you that everything we do is by the book. It is just scriptural, scriptural, scriptural!” She smiled. I smiled back at her. It made me wonder how much energy this church has spent with other Christians and people in the media who have labeled their denomination a cult. When she saw that I hadn’t come to argue she was very friendly. “Let me introduce you to my husband!”
He was concerned that some of the elements of the service that might have seemed chaotic. I told him much of it was new, but there was nothing that offended me. There were a lot of questions I could have asked about my experience that morning, but I was already exhausted from the effort of attending. Really I didn’t want to know more about the New Apostolic Church so I just asked him about the granddaughter he was holding in his arms.
At the end of our conversation he apologized that we’ve been neighbors for years and that they’d never reached out to me. I apologized for the same.
