Why go to church?
I’ve been thinking a lot about church lately. Somebody asked me the other day what my earliest memories were. Surprisingly to me, they were all of church, and they were all bad. We left this particular church (it’s not going too far to call it a cult) when I was seven.
The rules were evil - complete obedience to Pastor, attending church at least five times a week, and when it came to marriage... look out. If you were even suspected of holding hands before marriage, or of meeting without a chaperone, you wouldn’t be allowed to marry. My grandparents even accompanied my parents to look for an engagement ring. There were no dates, no romance, no proposals. Once a man had asked Pastor for a particular girl and they had had conversations in the carpark after church for a few weeks, they were considered to be engaged. I remember that on the night of my first date when I was sixteen, my mum said to me, “I’m so glad you can do this. I was never allowed to have a date.” When my parents left the church (Mum had been there over 30 years), no-one ever spoke to them again. Last year my dad went to a funeral at the church. Twenty-one years after they’d left, he stood in that hall and every single person turned their back on him, all except the father-in-law of one of my friends. The guy who’d been Dad’s best man walked by him in the carpark with an angry glance. What Christian charity.
Next, we church-hopped around places that encouraged interpretive dancing and where the pastors said stuff like ‘just go on - give the person next to you a big hug and say “I love you in the Lord!”’ I never said I loved anyone in the Lord.
Then we went to a church I never liked. I was manifestly aware that I wasn’t cool enough to go there - I remember going on kid’s camp and being spoken to by only two people. The church was too big, too insincere, and I disliked the senior pastor. (I hated the way he’d cry EVERY TIME he preached.) Then it was discovered that he was having multiple affairs. Wonderful.
Then we left there and went to a little local Presbyterian church that was just perfect. Tiny, worshipful, safe. As far as friends went I was still horribly insecure and didn’t feel I belonged, but made a couple of good friends I still have now. A couple of years there was enough though, it was just too small.
Then a friend took me along to the “it” church for young people. I spent the entire week planning what to wear, because that was the most important consideration. I got there and realised I’d never belong because my clothes weren’t cool enough. No-one spoke to me, even though I tried. I went to a few events and felt so depressed about the fact that I’d never be good-looking enough for them that I stopped going.
That’s why not to go to church. Because none of that is what church is about. The problem is that church is a human construct and therefore fatally flawed. However, the story does get better.
Eleven years ago I landed at the church I’m at now. I’m still there because the pastor doesn’t drive a flashy car, give sermons on “Twelve Steps to Financial Blessing” or tell us to hug the people next to us. He reads from the Bible and talks about things I still remember days later. I’m still there because I can look around the congregation and see people from at least twenty countries - educated and uneducated. Last week I was looking around and saw one of New Zealand’s top heart surgeons. Across the auditorium were a couple of ex-prostitutes, and behind me was a homeless man. There are asylum seekers who come every week praying they won’t get deported, and millionaire businessmen. There are eighty year-olds and eight day-olds. And then there’s Matthew. Matthew seems to me to represent everything that’s right with this church. Matthew is so disabled he can’t do anything except move his arms a bit and shriek. People like him sometimes aren’t tolerated in public places. They make too much noise, they’re too disruptive. I imagine in some churches Matthew and his parents might be asked to leave. He’s thirty-four, and knows about three things. He knows when we’re singing and tries to sing along. And he knows when his dad is more than three or four feet from his wheelchair. If his dad is away too long, Matthew starts to get agitated, then he shrieks. But all his dad has to do to calm him down is to put his hand on his shoulder. Matthew and his dad seem to me to represent God and us in microcosm. We’re all completely helpless when it comes down to it, and all that will restore us is the touch of our Father’s hand.
So if the thought of a gathering of Christians is the worst possible thing you can imagine, never fear. Sometimes it’s the worst thing I can imagine too. But Christians, and church, are merely a cracked mirror held up to perfection. We’ll never fully be able to reflect the God we serve, because as humans we’ll always be imperfect. The best we can be though, is humble and inclusive, and to point to God rather than ourselves. If you find a church like that, stay there.
The rules were evil - complete obedience to Pastor, attending church at least five times a week, and when it came to marriage... look out. If you were even suspected of holding hands before marriage, or of meeting without a chaperone, you wouldn’t be allowed to marry. My grandparents even accompanied my parents to look for an engagement ring. There were no dates, no romance, no proposals. Once a man had asked Pastor for a particular girl and they had had conversations in the carpark after church for a few weeks, they were considered to be engaged. I remember that on the night of my first date when I was sixteen, my mum said to me, “I’m so glad you can do this. I was never allowed to have a date.” When my parents left the church (Mum had been there over 30 years), no-one ever spoke to them again. Last year my dad went to a funeral at the church. Twenty-one years after they’d left, he stood in that hall and every single person turned their back on him, all except the father-in-law of one of my friends. The guy who’d been Dad’s best man walked by him in the carpark with an angry glance. What Christian charity.
Next, we church-hopped around places that encouraged interpretive dancing and where the pastors said stuff like ‘just go on - give the person next to you a big hug and say “I love you in the Lord!”’ I never said I loved anyone in the Lord.
Then we went to a church I never liked. I was manifestly aware that I wasn’t cool enough to go there - I remember going on kid’s camp and being spoken to by only two people. The church was too big, too insincere, and I disliked the senior pastor. (I hated the way he’d cry EVERY TIME he preached.) Then it was discovered that he was having multiple affairs. Wonderful.
Then we left there and went to a little local Presbyterian church that was just perfect. Tiny, worshipful, safe. As far as friends went I was still horribly insecure and didn’t feel I belonged, but made a couple of good friends I still have now. A couple of years there was enough though, it was just too small.
Then a friend took me along to the “it” church for young people. I spent the entire week planning what to wear, because that was the most important consideration. I got there and realised I’d never belong because my clothes weren’t cool enough. No-one spoke to me, even though I tried. I went to a few events and felt so depressed about the fact that I’d never be good-looking enough for them that I stopped going.
That’s why not to go to church. Because none of that is what church is about. The problem is that church is a human construct and therefore fatally flawed. However, the story does get better.
Eleven years ago I landed at the church I’m at now. I’m still there because the pastor doesn’t drive a flashy car, give sermons on “Twelve Steps to Financial Blessing” or tell us to hug the people next to us. He reads from the Bible and talks about things I still remember days later. I’m still there because I can look around the congregation and see people from at least twenty countries - educated and uneducated. Last week I was looking around and saw one of New Zealand’s top heart surgeons. Across the auditorium were a couple of ex-prostitutes, and behind me was a homeless man. There are asylum seekers who come every week praying they won’t get deported, and millionaire businessmen. There are eighty year-olds and eight day-olds. And then there’s Matthew. Matthew seems to me to represent everything that’s right with this church. Matthew is so disabled he can’t do anything except move his arms a bit and shriek. People like him sometimes aren’t tolerated in public places. They make too much noise, they’re too disruptive. I imagine in some churches Matthew and his parents might be asked to leave. He’s thirty-four, and knows about three things. He knows when we’re singing and tries to sing along. And he knows when his dad is more than three or four feet from his wheelchair. If his dad is away too long, Matthew starts to get agitated, then he shrieks. But all his dad has to do to calm him down is to put his hand on his shoulder. Matthew and his dad seem to me to represent God and us in microcosm. We’re all completely helpless when it comes down to it, and all that will restore us is the touch of our Father’s hand.
So if the thought of a gathering of Christians is the worst possible thing you can imagine, never fear. Sometimes it’s the worst thing I can imagine too. But Christians, and church, are merely a cracked mirror held up to perfection. We’ll never fully be able to reflect the God we serve, because as humans we’ll always be imperfect. The best we can be though, is humble and inclusive, and to point to God rather than ourselves. If you find a church like that, stay there.