Moving In

Moving into the big white church building was a bit of an adjustment for me. Growing up, I had never attended any kind of church or been a part of organized religion. As a young man, I joined a community that identified as a non-denominational Christian church. It was casual and relaxed and emphasized learning the Bible. We met in a gym, drank coffee, ate cookies, and loved Jesus. As with most churches, we had a big chunk of music followed by a big chunk of teaching. We learned about God through doctrines and the careful study of scripture. For me, this was normal. This was all I knew. Instead of hymnals, we had an overhead projector. Instead of pews, we had folding chairs, and instead of a choir, we had a "worship team" that resembled a rock and roll band from some west coast suburban garage band. We had drums, a keyboard, and electric guitars that pumped waves of music into giant black speakers that pumped enough power to push one into the back of their chair. Apart from the faint dank smell of sweat that lingered after basketball games played in this space, there wasn't anything unusual about the room itself. It was just a space to gather and worship God.

However, this new building held so many possibilities that it seemed we were limited only by the bounds of our creativity and imagination. The building had a large meeting room they called the sanctuary. But it also had a gymnasium, classrooms, prayer chapel, kitchen, library, and offices. I set up a time to meet with Richard for the official tour of the building. I found him in the kitchen, staring out the window across the street toward the children's playground in the city park. He confided in me that it was one of his greatest frustrations that, no matter how much he persuaded, preached to, or implored his people to go to the park and bring the park people into his building, they would not do it. Immediately, I felt our purpose for coming into this space was clear. Our community was younger, less rigid, and willing to try different approaches to reach the people in the neighborhood. We would step up and give it our best shot.

As I toured our new space, I had many questions about the building, and Richard had many stories. For instance, I wondered why people's names were engraved on stained glass windows in the main sanctuary. The eight windows surrounding the pews told the story of Jesus' life on earth, starting with the birth of Christ and ending with His resurrection. But engraved on each one was a name like Swanson, Dwight, or Newberg. And, like the Swansons, the Jesus depicted in the images looked far more Scandinavian than middle eastern. With some pride, Richard told me that this was one of the first projects he had accomplished in this church many years before. To replace the old windows (which told no story whatsoever), he initiated a yearlong fundraising campaign. Every family was expected to give something, if even a little. But the wealthiest families, those who could afford to provide the most, had their names forever recorded on the windows for the following generations to see. Although I didn't recognize any names, I didn't ask Richard where those families were today.

I learned that fundraising was an annual activity necessitated by the upkeep and repairs demanded by this colossal building. When we passed the room that contained a giant boiler system that provided heat for the entire building, Richard mentioned that it had been replaced just a decade before. That had required a two-year funding drive that involved everything from appeals from the pulpit to periodic sales of baked goods as well as many calls and home visits. When we passed a giant poster of a thermometer in the gymnasium (colored red up to the halfway point), Richard shared they were raising more than 100 thousand dollars for a new roof. Of course, our community was welcome to contribute.

The carpet in the main sanctuary was red. To my horror, Richard told the story of frequent and lengthy building committee meetings where people fought over the color of a new carpet. The red carpet faction and the green carpet faction yelled and called names and almost came to blows. People brought biblical passages supporting a particular color option, and some families (I guessed from the green carpet faction) later left the church forever. One of the old timers who had attended and served in the church for decades claimed he had poured his sweat and blood into this church, and he wasn't going to see it tainted with green carpet. At the time, I felt that a Christian claiming they had bought the church with his own blood suggested a misreading of scripture. But I was a guest in this place and did not press the point.

I came away from the initial tour with the realization that pastoring in a big building, while offering wonderful opportunities, came encumbered with concerns and responsibilities that were at the very least distracting.

Once when Richard and I were standing in the church kitchen, sipping a coffee and discussing some point of theology, something caught my eye. Etched into the ancient linoleum covering the floor were small crescents pointing to the butcher block that stood in the center of the room. They were not part of an original pattern, and I wondered what might have formed them. Richard noticed I was distracted and paused. So I asked if he knew what these marks were–how they were created. The subtle smile that formed in his eyes, in retrospect, I think, reflected a kind of gentle nostalgia or longing for a different time.

Those marks, he said, were formed over decades by women preparing meals for countless easter lunches and Christmas celebrations and after-church fellowship events. The men sat around large round tables with their jackets and ties and starched white shirts; the women prepared string bean casserole and filled gravy boats wearing hats and pearls and dresses with wide skirts and shoes with stiletto heels. The crescents were formed by those heels. Those crescents were echoes of an era when men sat back after church, discussed sports, and critiqued sermons while the women gossiped about their men–all dressed in their Sunday best because God was watching.

As Richard's mind drifted back to the present, his smile faded. "Those were the days," he said, "when people took God more seriously." Though the Sunday worship group had shrunk over the decades from hundreds to just a handful, Richard wore his fine suits and ties when preaching his Sunday sermons. He firmly believed that "one ought to wear their best for God when one comes to worship." Today women wear pants and sweaters, and men wear jeans and sneakers. Some of the old-timers still wore suits, but they were the exception. Richard longed for a time when people took God more seriously. Times had changed.

Back in the '70s, some young people experimenting with psychedelic drugs and free love found Jesus. Or perhaps I should say Jesus found them. By some estimates, almost half a million of these folks gave their hearts and lives to Jesus. But there was a problem. As if God didn't care about what kind of clothes they had on, some of these folks wanted to learn more about God and came to church without suit coats or stiletto heels. I wish I could have been there when some of these long-haired hippies with sandals (should Christians wear sandals?) and tie-dyed shirts wandered into a church and sat between starched shirts and poofy dresses.