Karen and I will be a mixed marriage of sorts. She's an independent Baptist, I'm a lapsed Catholic. We joke that our deceased parents would have had difficulties with our union because of the different faiths, but we've worked around it pretty easily. I've learned a lot from Karen that went untaught in Catholic schools, and I've demystified some things about the Catholic faith.
I made a promised to Karen years ago that I would never knowingly as her to go to Mass with me. Once, my niece's eighth-grade graduation, we got snookered into a Mass that I didn't know was coming. Other than that, we've attended solely Protestant services, something a few decades ago was unimaginable to me.
Karen's particular about the type of service she'll attend. For me, what's comfortable for her is what matters to me. Right now, I'm still trying to figure out whether the person on the altar is a minister or a reverend. I'm still trying to stifle calling someone Father. It's a lot easier not having to kneel in church, although I find myself more lost than anything.
In our search for an acceptable church, we've been to some doozies. We've been to Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian and non-denominational Christian churches. Some have been terribly off-putting, others have been near misses. But we still haven't found one that is truly acceptable to us.
In Illinois, we first went to a Methodist church in our town. The best thing about the church was the physical building, and that's not much. Although Karen's quite used to it, this visit started my annoyance at being approached and quizzed as if I were at a used car lot looking for a ride. In my experience, there weren't a lot of people who just came up, introduced themselves and then asked me name, rank and serial number. I would answer their questions tersely, uncomfortable about it, much to Karen's agitation. I thought I was simply answering the questions, but I wasn't friendly enough. My take on it was that I was there to worship, not make new friends. Some habits die hard. Karen also didn't like the Methodist minister inaccurately describing Baptist belief.
Then we found a Baptist church farther away that was all gilded out. All the men wore suits. There was a bell choir in addition to the vocal choir that was fully packed. They even had instrumentalists on stage. The problem with this place, beside its distance, was the fact that the person giving the sermon kept referring not only to himself in the third person, but mentioning how he was being asked about things on the basketball court, as he he wanted points for being Reverend Hoops. Both Karen and I were turned off by it.
We did find a beautiful church at Christmastime, but it too was too far away. By then, we were close to moving.
We found another Baptist church that allowed us to time travel. It was out in the sticks, which was fine, and allowed us to have a scenic drive. When we got there, all the women wore hats like frontierwomen, and all the children were in line. There seemed to be a rotation of men who either read or led the congregation in prayer, and then the head minister (the pastor?), got to the pulpit. At this point, he asked members of the congregation to offer testimonies, and one woman related a story about how she was adrift, went to a Catholic Church, met someone from a choir who led her back to church. She never said she'd become a Catholic, but when she finished, the minister thanked her for her testimony, complimented her and then hastened to add that this in way was an endorsement of Romanism. I felt like an interloper and started wondering how many I could take before they overpowered me once they realized I was a lapsed Catholic, but I held my tongue. The minister then launched into a fire and brimstone sermon that was an inappropriate as it was unnecessary. Karen got so turned off by that and the length of the service that she began doodling on the weekly newsletter -- which we still have. Then, at the end of the service, Reverend Fire and Brimstone was at the door to greet us as we left. I was probably rude to him, but I'm not sure Karen cared this time.
The only comic relief we got at that church was from the rather stout woman who sang with unrestrained yet tone-deaf gusto with every hymn. I can still hear her braying.
We went to a couple of churches that were either raise-the-roof types (objectionable to both of us), or had women ministers (mostly objectionable to Karen) or too focused on their trappings. We finally did find one whereat the pastor was marvelous. We both loved Pastor Tony. He not only knew his Bible, but he knew how to communicate it to his flock. He was so good we overlooked (mostly) the wretched musical attempts, which can best be described as Wait For the Copyright. The four-member Praise Team, as it was known, sang songs that were dirge-like in their quality and repetitive to the point of mindnumbingness. The only saving grace was that the lyrics were projected on screens on either side of the altar and when the copyright was seen, we'd know the song was at an end. The musical accompaniment was whimsical, with a teenager keeping the beat on a funky drum set and an old man assisting with a tambourine. At least the church was close.
When we moved to our new state, we tried a couple of churches. One had a long-winded pastor who spoke more about political issues than religion, another who thought he was trying out for a TV evangelist spot (and who happened to be conflicted out due to some internal Baptist disagreement that still escapes me) and sundry others that just didn't suit us. It may sound like we're the Little Red Riding Hoods of the religious set, but the truth is, when one is looking for a place to worship, certain things matter. Sure, being approached by sixteen different people may not bother some people, but I'm more private with my worship. Hymn choice doesn't matter to some people, but to Karen it matters a great deal. When I'm in a church and there are virtually no women our age in the congregation, but men our age are, I wonder. Hearing political speeches turns me off. And so on and so forth.
We think we've found a church that might suit us. Thankfully, it's only five minutes from our house. I'd taught a Spanish class there for a group that was going on a mission to Guatemala last fall. We thought we'd give it a try and made the service populated largely by the blue hair set. The music was good, although I wondered when the choir director was going to take flight given how much she flapped her arms. But there was no one who quizzed me on my background, no numbingly repetitive lyrics, no fire and brimstone denunciations of anticipated behavior. It was...calm and somewhat comforting.
I'm not sure this is where we'll end up. I know that when we exited the church we shook the pastor's hand and he'd obviously forgotten me, but recognized the face, because he called me his Spanish Guy. There are worse things to be called, for sure.
And I've never had to give name, rank or serial number to anyone there.
(c) 2014 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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