This past year, I’ve been trying to go to church again.
I used to go to church fairly often in my childhood. Then almost regularly when I was an undergraduate.
Then not at all for a few years.
Later, I went on occasion – at Christmas, Lent and Easter. No more.
Of late, I’ve felt a real desire to go more often.
In the last couple of months, I’ve gone three times. For me, that’s a lot.
One was a Byzantine Rite Catholic church.
Another was Lutheran, which is my family background.
The last was a radical, leftist church.
The leftists had the best music – gospel-type singing and lots of clapping, spontaneous outbursts, and terrific piano-playing. The preacher (pastor?) was funny and referred to his gay partner casually. A woman gave communion. It wasn’t my thing, but it was genuinely infectious and welcoming. No harsh words. The crowd was about 65% gay, a number of black people, some seniors.
The Lutheran church was definitely much more bourgeois and more formal. The priest was stout and cheerful, I remember. The hymns were the old ones and the liturgy was traditional, but not in any way boring. The crowd was mostly white, middle and upper- middle class folk. They went out of their way to talk to me and ask me to come back.
Culturally, they were closest to me.
The Byzantine Rite Catholic church was mostly Eastern European. I understood the service only intermittently by reading the translation. The music was unaccompanied chant and there was a lot of standing and kneeling. My knees hurt. A young man crawled on his stomach the full length from the door to the iconostasis. The women were carefully dressed and their heads were covered. They lifted up the little children so they could kiss the Bible and the crucifix. From every corner, red candles flickered and the somber faces of ancient saints and angels looked down on the congregation.
There was no quick good feeling to be had. No infectious singing. The chants were spare and medieval.
Yet it was here I was most at home.
Each church offered something.
For those who scoff at foot-thumping, head-nodding services, I say, remember King David.
He danced and sang in exaltation in his worship. He even took off his robes while he sang. Some people pointed the finger and scorned him for it.
For those who mock the stuffy middle-class, remember that Jesus never did. He was at home in the houses of tax-collectors and publicans, drank at their marriage feasts and played with their children.
He didn’t deride their conventions, even when he flouted them. Instead, he kept traditional feasts in the traditional manner.