Since we’ve been back from England we’ve been church hopping, following preachers we like, service times we prefer in the hopes that we may stumble upon a choir, an organist, a warmth that will remind us of St. George’s, our English parish church in Beckenham.
For three months now we’ve been without a church family and I am getting restless. I’ve already writen this week about our children becoming de-churched and how I think they may be blazing the trail for us.
In an attempt to keep ourselves in the liturgical tradition we’ve grown up with, this week saw us at a Sunday morning service at a large Episcopal church. We had attended their Saturday evening mass a while back and thought we’d return to hear their choir accompanied by their impressive pipe organ.
We entered the front doors and were immediately struck by the displays of activity in the massive entranceway. People were gathered around the coffee pot chatting, sipping and eating donuts and pastries. Tables were set up with information about upcoming events, craft shows, theatre, Habitat for Humanity and the Parish School news. Everywhere we turned there were groups of well dressed folk, talking. It was loud.
Outside the doors to the sanctuary we were greeted by congregants who milled on the indoor labyrinth set into the marble floor of the high ceilinged vestibule. Children ran around the circles of the mandala. If I or anyone else had wanted to walk this sacred circular space meant for a contemplative, moving meditation, we would have been out of luck.
We passed through the narthex, a space with metal sculptures, a large font housing bronze fish and a water fountain gently cascading. My eye was caught by the stained glass windows and the beautiful stone work that made up the walls. Inside, the church was booming with chatter. So far there had been nothing hallowed about this building. I had not been put into the frame of mind for silent, mindful, prayer, instead my head was swimming with the activity.
I felt as though I was at a social function.
We found a vacant pew near the front and knelt for a few moments bent low over the heads and shoulders of two women sharing news and views oblivious of our bowed heads behind them.
We sat back and waited for the service to start, reluctant eavesdroppers on the chatter around us.
When the organ started up everyone stood and the singing began. The procession was long consisting of both the youth and the adult choirs. The altar party included three women and a man, the priest. Their faces were set to the Eastern wall and they were impassive.
Throughout the service their countenances did not alter and I caught myself thinking,
“If this is what having a saviour looks like then count me out!”
Our Reverend Margaret at St. George’s radiated a joy so contagious I wanted to have what she had, Jesus nestled in her heart.
The altar party’s lot did not appear to be a happy one and the church we had chosen that Sunday morning bore the name of Transfiguration!
There was no transfiguring going on in that church that I could see.
There was no respect for the service taking place.
There was a lot of visiting going on.
When we sat for the sermon murmurings accompanied the shuffling in the pews.
During the exchange of peace there was no disguising the out pouring of words and comments.
When we sat for the collection voices were raised to others’ in surrounding pews.
At communion, with all the moving around, the volume rose until the organ took over with an antiphon.
I was astounded a few hundred people speaking in hushed tones created a din that drove out all prayer. I had to trust that my soul was somehow being re-freshed without my help.
When we were finally sent forth, hubs asked,
“Was that a church social or mass?” he was right.
The service kept intruding on the fellowship taking place all around.
Home church anyone?
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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