One Snowy Sunday: Part One
When I willingly stepped into a church for the first time in two decades.
As my daughter and I carefully watched our steps, navigating our way over snow and ice, a greeter stood at the Episcopal church’s front glass doors and waited to welcome us. Once inside, we stamped our feet and my glasses fogged, while our smiling hostess chatted warmly.
During my 62 introverted years, I have developed adequate social skills, but since I’ve been a content hermit for the last five of those years (working from home and mostly leaving the house only when necessary), I am out of practice. Thankfully, my extroverted 35-year-old daughter, who works with the public and leaves the house on purpose to replenish her energy, was there. As she cheerfully responded, I quickly scanned my surroundings. It was the first time in many years that I had been inside a place of worship.
Since the service was about to start, we hurried through the tiled lobby and entered the nave using a side door just as the robed choir reverently walked through the main entrance and down the center aisle. (As an aside, I recently learned that instead of the Baptist “sanctuary,” the Episcopal church calls the space that includes the congregation the “nave.” They have a sanctuary but, if I understand correctly, it’s limited to the altar area.)
I was relieved we’d made it there at all. The night before, my oldest son’s neighborhood had flooded while he was at work. We were glad to find out later that his home was spared but, at the time, the roads were closed, and he called near midnight needing a place to stay.
By the time he arrived and we finally remembered how to inflate the air mattress, it was 2 AM. The service started at 10 AM and, though the church is only a few minutes from us, that meant we wouldn’t get much sleep because my daughter needed to be up early due to physical limitations that require extra preparation.
We set our alarms anyway, slept fitfully for five hours only to discover in the morning that the rain had turned to snow and an inch or two of white had accumulated. Which made getting to the church more daunting, though not as daunting as the winter storm of 1994 when almost two feet of snow fell in a couple of days.
That Sunday, some three decades earlier, driving the 25 miles to the Reformed Baptist Church we were members of was unwise. There was, however, a small church not far beyond our backyard fence, so my then husband, our four children (at the time ages 4, 5, 8 and 10), and the young woman temporarily living with us as she attended our university’s school of music, bundled up and trudged through the snow to the narrow, brick building.
Those of the congregation who’d braved the weather were glad to have us worship with them. It turned out they were Pentecostal, and I was glad our Calvinist offspring remained respectful (though, their eyes were wide) when the whole group spoke, or rather shouted, in tongues all at the same time.
Back to the present wintry day, my daughter and I decided that lack of sleep and a little snow would not keep us from our goal. We had been trying for weeks to visit this Episcopal church, and we were determined that that Sunday was the day.
So I hurriedly dressed (and by hurriedly I mean frantically changed clothes numerous times because the black pants and olive green sweater I’d chosen to wear was a no go since I’d not done the wash due to freezing temperatures and landlord rules so couldn’t wear my beige bra because it was in the clothes hamper and my black bra showed through the thin sweater, and even though if Jesus were there I don’t think he’d care one bit there was absolutely no way in Hades I was attending a worship service for the first time in 20 years with my bra showing). I ended up in a tunic-length black sweater and dark blue jeans. My daughter, having planned much better than her mother, wore black slacks and a becoming black and white striped blouse.
After finding seats in a pew not too far and not too close to the pulpit (or "ambo" as some call it), I glanced at the church bulletin to see what the opening hymn would be. This was the first Episcopal church I’d ever attended so their order of service was new to me. After our family left the Reformed Baptist church two decades ago (a long, complicated story), we visited a number of different churches.
I particularly remember an Evangelical megachurch and a Catholic church. I don’t recall much about the former’s service, except that they had prayers, songs performed by a worship team then a sermon ending in an invitation (similar to an altar call, however, those who responded were guided to a side room). What I do remember, probably because I’ve retold it multiple times: as we exited with thousands of others, a man waved to another across the vestibule and yelled something like, “Bill! Good to see you! Is this your first time visiting?” and the other man replied, “Why, John, we’ve been attending for years!”
Thinking about the Catholic church we’d visited, what we’d soon discover was that the Episcopal service was much closer to it just minus the incense. Although, at this Episcopal church, fewer genuflected before taking a seat. Talking with the Reverend later, we learned that their church is open to differing expressions of spirituality, and we appreciated that.
Something else I appreciated: for the Old and New Testament readings, the congregation remained seated. But for the reading of the Gospel there was more fanfare, for lack of a better word. A red, hardbound volume containing the four books of the Gospel (also called the Evangeliary or Book of Gospels) was held aloft as it was carried to the pulpit, and the congregation stood for the reading.
On future Sundays, when more members were in attendance, two young people (carrying lit torches) walked behind the priest or deacon holding up the book and then the two teens flanked the pulpit during the reading. And though I’m not as drawn to ritual as my daughter is, I appreciated that because, at this point in my journey, the life and teachings of Jesus, as told in Mark, Matthew, Luke and, yes, even our dear “difficult to understand” John, deserve special recognition.
Decades ago, I might have disagreed with the me of today because I had different views about the Bible. But that was before I examined almost everything I ever believed. Before I researched a lot, thought a lot, cried a lot, emerged an agnostic, and left the faith.
After that period of deconstruction, I rarely read the Bible. Instead, I filled my time with books, music, movies, plays, art…and board games. And though I did miss the community I’d lost, I never really missed the scriptures or the church.
Until now.