Adventures in Church-Hunting, Part 1
As I mentioned a while ago, I have decided to try to find a new church out here (or rather, an old church; my main complaint against most of the local evangelical churches is that they seem embarassed by, rather than proud of, the fact that they are doing the same things Christians have been doing for 2000 years). So, while my blog was sleeping, I set out on my quest.
My first stop, on the first week of Advent, was St. John's Anglican Catholic Church in Menomonee Falls, some 45 minutes from my house. An adorable little white clapboard church nestled between houses, it was so inconspicuous that I passed it the first time and had to turn around and drive past very slowly until I saw the sign. Ten minutes before the service, there were only two cars parked behind the church, on a strip of gravel that looked as if it could accomodate perhaps five. This did not look promising, but a van drove up shortly and began to unload children, and I took courage (it turned out, later, that the family in the van were also visitors, but fortunately I did not know that at the time). "We are brave," I said to myself, "we are very brave," and stepped out of the car. (I am sure my habit of referring to myself in the plural on such occasions indicates some deep psychological insecurity, but it does seem to help). I followed the family in the van through a basement door, into a dusty-feeling fellowship hall where my name was demanded by a cheerful elderly lady, and thence through a winding hallway and up steep creaky steps to the sanctuary. A priest in the corner was mumbling something that, according to the bulletin, must have been the office of morning prayer, but from the fifth row where I sat not a word was audible; a woman sitting alone in the front row was the only person giving the responses. As other people came to their seats, I noticed most of them genuflecting before entering their pews, and thought: Oh dear, what kind of church is this?
The bulletin informed me that it was the feast of St. Elizabeth of Hungry. I was quite curious to know who St. Elizabeth of Hungry was, and remain so, for other than the collect which asked that her influence might help us shun worldliness, no attempt was made to satisfy this curiosity. The entire service, in fact, seemed designed to create cognitive dissonance (perhaps Dr. Noe would approve). The priest (who was the assistant, the rector being on vacation) did not speak any more clearly once the service began; he speed-talked through the entire liturgy, leaving me, the poor hapless Bible Church refugee, always half a page behind. I had, therefore, no warning when a hymn was about to begin, and by the time I had consulted the board at the front of the church listing the hymn numbers (for the priest to have said, "Now we are going to sing 120" would obviously have made things too easy) and found the appropriate page, the organ was already well into the first verse. To make matters worse, singing was obviously not this congregation's strong point, and there was no one even trying to lead (the priest returned to the pew for the songs, abdicating all responsibility).
The sermon (homily?) was on "render unto Caesar what is Caesar's and unto God what is God's", and dealt with the evils of our modern society so firmly that, had it been three or four times as long, it would have done credit to any Baptist preacher. I did not go up front for the Eucharist, because the bulletin sternly stated that only those who had been "confirmed by a bishop in proper apostolic succession" were invited to participate. As I failed on all three counts, having been baptised by a pastor who thought apostolic succession nonsense, I kept my seat. The entire congregation fit at the communion rail at once; there were only about two dozen of them, seen all together, from the lady in the front row who was too old and frail to kneel, to the young couple whose two year old chattered as the priest passed the elements.
Afterwards, munching on peanut bars in the fellowship hall, I chatted with a couple of ladies of the congregation. "We're a small congregation," one informed me, "but a vibrant one. We're just a bunch of sinners who love God." She beamed with the sort of enthusiasm one doesn't expect to find in dusty fellowship halls. Another, who was there with her two young teenage daughters, was delighted to hear that I had attended PHC. "I've heard such good things about them," she said. "Oh?" I inquired neutrally, "what have you heard?" "I like the fact that they're so unapologetic about who they are and what they believe." "Mmm hmm," I replied. I did not pursue the subject, as there are some things one really can't say in dusty fellowship halls.
My first stop, on the first week of Advent, was St. John's Anglican Catholic Church in Menomonee Falls, some 45 minutes from my house. An adorable little white clapboard church nestled between houses, it was so inconspicuous that I passed it the first time and had to turn around and drive past very slowly until I saw the sign. Ten minutes before the service, there were only two cars parked behind the church, on a strip of gravel that looked as if it could accomodate perhaps five. This did not look promising, but a van drove up shortly and began to unload children, and I took courage (it turned out, later, that the family in the van were also visitors, but fortunately I did not know that at the time). "We are brave," I said to myself, "we are very brave," and stepped out of the car. (I am sure my habit of referring to myself in the plural on such occasions indicates some deep psychological insecurity, but it does seem to help). I followed the family in the van through a basement door, into a dusty-feeling fellowship hall where my name was demanded by a cheerful elderly lady, and thence through a winding hallway and up steep creaky steps to the sanctuary. A priest in the corner was mumbling something that, according to the bulletin, must have been the office of morning prayer, but from the fifth row where I sat not a word was audible; a woman sitting alone in the front row was the only person giving the responses. As other people came to their seats, I noticed most of them genuflecting before entering their pews, and thought: Oh dear, what kind of church is this?
The bulletin informed me that it was the feast of St. Elizabeth of Hungry. I was quite curious to know who St. Elizabeth of Hungry was, and remain so, for other than the collect which asked that her influence might help us shun worldliness, no attempt was made to satisfy this curiosity. The entire service, in fact, seemed designed to create cognitive dissonance (perhaps Dr. Noe would approve). The priest (who was the assistant, the rector being on vacation) did not speak any more clearly once the service began; he speed-talked through the entire liturgy, leaving me, the poor hapless Bible Church refugee, always half a page behind. I had, therefore, no warning when a hymn was about to begin, and by the time I had consulted the board at the front of the church listing the hymn numbers (for the priest to have said, "Now we are going to sing 120" would obviously have made things too easy) and found the appropriate page, the organ was already well into the first verse. To make matters worse, singing was obviously not this congregation's strong point, and there was no one even trying to lead (the priest returned to the pew for the songs, abdicating all responsibility).
The sermon (homily?) was on "render unto Caesar what is Caesar's and unto God what is God's", and dealt with the evils of our modern society so firmly that, had it been three or four times as long, it would have done credit to any Baptist preacher. I did not go up front for the Eucharist, because the bulletin sternly stated that only those who had been "confirmed by a bishop in proper apostolic succession" were invited to participate. As I failed on all three counts, having been baptised by a pastor who thought apostolic succession nonsense, I kept my seat. The entire congregation fit at the communion rail at once; there were only about two dozen of them, seen all together, from the lady in the front row who was too old and frail to kneel, to the young couple whose two year old chattered as the priest passed the elements.
Afterwards, munching on peanut bars in the fellowship hall, I chatted with a couple of ladies of the congregation. "We're a small congregation," one informed me, "but a vibrant one. We're just a bunch of sinners who love God." She beamed with the sort of enthusiasm one doesn't expect to find in dusty fellowship halls. Another, who was there with her two young teenage daughters, was delighted to hear that I had attended PHC. "I've heard such good things about them," she said. "Oh?" I inquired neutrally, "what have you heard?" "I like the fact that they're so unapologetic about who they are and what they believe." "Mmm hmm," I replied. I did not pursue the subject, as there are some things one really can't say in dusty fellowship halls.
posted by Deborah | 2:07 PM
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