I have a lot to be grateful for. I may not have been raised as financially privileged, but my family made sure I attended good churches and Christian schools the first two decades of my life. I had a stream of very committed people who invested in me, spent time with me, and showed that they cared about me. Being that I’m a nostalgic person I frequently look back over my shoulder feeling that my journey forward is enhanced by understanding where I’ve been.
The church that I visited this weekend I never, ever intended to leave. I would still be there today if I had had my way. Unfortunately, as can happen in any man-made ministry, the Kingdom can take a back seat to vision. And when vision is at the wheel, there can be a lot of casualties on the road. I watched a terrible wreck, several years ago, that I believed was very unnecessary. And even though by that time I was on staff at my childhood church, when I spoke up about this needless damage it wasn’t well received. And I didn’t receive it well that it wasn’t received well. And well, I ended up tending my resignation, and it created a political nightmare for the church administration. And then I was made to look bad so that church vision and visionaries wouldn’t be questioned. And then I felt hurt that I was made to look bad. And then I shook the dust off my feet as I left for the last time as I thought it was within my rights to react when I was convinced I had been right and had been wronged for it.
That was almost 18 years ago. I’ve been back for a baby dedication and a surprise party for one of my friends but other than that I’ve never darkened the doors of this space that used to be so sacred to me.
I’ve wrestled this year whether or not to include this church on my visitation list. It is on the border of my neighborhood’s 50-church circle and I could easily make an excuse about leaving them off the agenda. But this project is supposed to be about facing my fears and going where I don’t necessarily feel comfortable or welcome. This church really fits that bill. So this week when one of the people on staff at the church contacted me about getting together to discuss a missions project I knew I had a perfect excuse—to go.
Timing is everything. And this time I didn’t approach the thought of going back through the lens of a victim. I went hopeful that it would be a healing experience. What I saw as I approached the church made me laugh. A woman was standing out on the street in front of the church waving a sign and dancing back and forth like she was selling Little Caesar’s Pizza. The scene was ridiculous till I took in her sign. The two big words in the middle of her white poster board were COME HOME.
“Is that for me, God?”
“Do you want it to be for you?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know…”
“Rest in my peace.”
I parked my van and entered the church. I recognized the woman handing out the bulletins and her eyes caught mine but I bolted for the sanctuary before she figured out what to say. I made my way through a few more doors and down an aisle and found a spot on the end of a pew where I thought I could go unnoticed. I was feeling very emotional and wanted to get my bearings and steady myself before being faced with a lot of interaction.
The music started and I stood up with the others for the time of worship. I noticed the changes. The carpet was a different color and the pews have been reupholstered. All the crimson reds have been exchanged for emerald greens, but it is still all rather garish. The piano is now located on the east side of the stage and the choir has been replaced by a modern band. Their previous worship leader, who was a close friend of mine, has been swapped for her daughter. The change in music styles has affected the seating arrangement; the older generation now sits in the back half of the sanctuary, most likely because of the noise level, and the younger people are now positioned towards the front of the room where they worship with exuberance.
I took in the baptismal, where I dedicated my life to God, the platform where I had performed so many holiday church plays, and the pulpit from behind where I’d preached in school chapel services and to this church congregation. I close my eyes to remember the view from the stage and I remember the day when I watched my bride come down the aisle as we were married in front of more people in this room than are at this service today. I tear up, and figure the people around me must think that it is just the worship song.
After announcements they asked all the high school graduates and their families to come forward so the congregation could honor them and pray over them. I see a couple of the parents who had been pregnant alongside my wife and I head to the front. I realize this would have been my daughter’s celebration had we stayed.
When they paused in the service to greet the visitors my anonymity was up. Even though I’ve changed a lot over the years I now look too much like my dad, who was much loved in this church. Several people made their way over to me to kindly reconnect and ask about my family. I started to relax.
The staff pastor who had the preaching assignment this Sunday took us on a trip down memory lane to discuss the spiritual DNA and history of this church. He talked about days that took place before he was born but are vivid memories for me. Most people in my neighborhood would consider these the glory days of this church because they had been running three services each Sunday morning in order to get everyone a seat. The overflow was full, the balcony was packed, the air was electric, and the Kingdom seemed to have touched down. Of course on this Sunday morning the staff pastor was pumping up the congregation to not only get back to that place in attendance, but to overtake it. He used a passage out of Haggai chapter 2 - ‘The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house.’ And of course all the people in the congregation gave a hearty ‘Amen;’ especially the young people who hadn’t lived through those days and perhaps saw this charge as a competition.
But what brought me peace as a child was listening to my former pastor teach about a God who loved us. This pastor would get so overwhelmed trying to describe it that sometimes he’d get weepy, and sometimes he’d get loud, and sometimes he’d be really hushed. And I believed him. And it registered deep within my DNA. And today I needed to come home for a little reminder that being loved by God and learning to love others are the two most important aspects of church life.
There were other gifts during this little homecoming. One of the deacons, who was kind to me and my family when we chose to leave the church, saw me and hugged me. He wouldn’t let go and I didn’t want him to. And the woman who was my children’s pastor so many years ago was back in town visiting her old stomping ground as well. She told me I look more and more like my dad.
The service was long, over two hours. Finally I caught up with my friend who has remained on staff all these years. Over lunch at a local restaurant she and her husband asked me about how it felt to return. I shared some of my experiences from the past couple of hours.
“I couldn’t believe you guys have a dancing sign lady out on the highway.”
“What do you mean?”
“The middle aged woman who was dancing around with the ‘Come Home” sign in front of the church.”
She smiled at me. “I don’t know of any ‘sign lady,’ at least nobody else on staff has discussed this with me.”
We just looked at each other a moment, then she laughed, “But it wouldn’t surprise me at all if there was an angel out front of the driveway this morning.”
And as I consider what I know of the Kingdom, and of a God who so enthusiastically loves me that he uses sign boards and memories to speak to my heart, that I’m overwhelmed trying to describe what it was like to safely return to a place that once was a spiritual home for me. All I can whisper is, ‘His peace!’
Have you ever returned to your childhood church? What did you experience?
