On Sitting In Church, Squirming

I sat last Sunday in my seat at church looking for some way to feel comfortable. It was not the first time I've struggled to find even a semblance of peace for my body while sitting in a church, but it was the first time since I began attending -- about 4 months ago -- the local evangelical church that I was afflicted with the squirms and twitches.

In front of me sat a married couple I've known -- only casually -- for nearly twenty years. They were guests this particular Sunday morning, that much I knew, but it was what they said to me at the beginning of the service that set me on edge: they announced they were members of the Churches of Christ. This is not in any way a bad thing. In fact, it is as far as I know a good thing. But what makes the Churches of Christ unique is that they do not use musical instruments in any part of their worship or liturgical services. "We sing everything a cappella," the couple affirmed as we prepared for worship. The lovely couple also affirmed that their children -- all of whom I had known -- were indeed off and married, having graduated from Church of Christ colleges like Harding University (where their eldest son attended).

Now, trust me when I say this idea of "a cappella" singing attracts me to no end; trust me too when I say that the church in which we were seated was about as far from a cappella as one might get. There are on any given Sunday morning at least a dozen microphones on the stage in my current church, with amplifiers and keyboards and drums and guitars and flutes and cellos all raring to go. This network of electrified instruments and voices is what is known as the Praise Team; the team includes a Praise Leader who cues us as we sing a prolonged series of praise songs. As many of you know, this is fairly common stuff in evangelical churches these days; many of you also know that what my friends in front of me were about to explore was not going to be anything short of a G-rated rock concert. And for this Episcopalian-in-exile, as I call myself, I had been quite content adjusting myself to the Praise Team's rambunctious musicality, content right up until last Sunday morning when the a cappella couple sat in front of me.

Seriously, my first reaction was to want to apologize; my second was to look for two sets of earplugs. And my third reaction, honestly, was to pray for a power outage. But I mortified my flesh and chose option four: I squirmed and stewed and even left the sanctuary during the offertory. It was all rather juvenile of me.

But you see, the presence of this couple suddenly made me very self-conscious (or at least overly conscious of them). My pride and vanity were partly brought to the fore: I wanted to let everyone know that I was not overly given to this sort of exuberance in worship (which is quite true). And I was suddenly obsessing about hospitality; I was like a fool rushing around his house declaiming before his guests that his domicile was "not usually this messy." But I was a mute fool, unable to issue apologies because my guests were distracted by everything else, including their own courtesies.

And my obsession did not rest. I noted that it seemed the congregation was standing too long, singing too much. I noticed that the husband before me leaned on the back of the chair in front of him. "Oh, no! Is he tired?" I wondered. I noted how he and his wife looked around as others more familiar with protocol fell to their knees or sat down to pray while the Praise Band wound its way through another chorus. I swear the couple was asking, "Should we sit down? Should we kneel? When can we sit? When should we stand?" I wanted to be their own personal and certified Worship Guide: "Mr. and Mrs. Smith? How nice to meet you. This morning I will be your personal guide as we wend our way through worship. As you may have already seen, there is no bulletin or outline or form of liturgy here; after all, we must not thwart the Spirit. We are a country without maps where each of us citizens nevertheless moves about quite ably. I do hope you will enjoy this time with us. Now, if you will put in these earplugs and follow me, I will lead you safely away from this place."

OK. I would not have led them away. But I did feel a compulsion to intervene.

On top of all this I noticed that the Praise Band seemed unusually loud, unusually repetitive, and unusually and intolerably off-key. It was this last quality that forced me from my seat; I took refuge in the corner of the church kitchen as the offertory began. And believe it or not, as I stood in the corner with my forehead pressed against an overhead cabinet, a church elder came in to see if I was OK. (I am not lying about this.) I smiled, shrugged my shoulders, and simply said, "You know, K., how I struggle with things." I then made my way back to my seat.

The Churches of Christ folks I know have told me that part of the reason musical instruments are not included in worship services is that instruments can be a distraction. I should think my incessant squirming proves their point. But maybe it only proves that I am at times prone to spasmodic fits and catatonia, symptomatic, I am sure, of underlying mental illness.

Or are my fits consistent with hospitality: that people are freer when there is a set, prescribed and known order? Is it loving for a church to have its visitors guessing what worship -- or the structure and discipline of it -- is all about? Is it hospitable to have guests guess? Is it polite to give them no guidance, no frame of reference or sense of time? Would a dinner party be fun if no one knew what to wear, what to expect, what to say or when to say it; would it be fun if no one knew when the party might end?

When I think of the times I dined as a child at my neighbors' homes, I was never relaxed at those homes where I was unsure of the rules, of the protocols. Those families who patiently and kindly taught me their forms and rituals were always my favorite families with whom I would dine; where there was no guidance, I was adrift and often unsure whether the snickers and glances at table were directed at me. And in those homes where meals were served so informally there was no predictability at all, such homes were not one whit comfortable, as chaos and turmoil and even hell seemed just one misstep away.

I guess I will simply have to let go of it all when it comes to church. Besides, to my surprise, the couple in front of me did not sprint out once the benediction was given. Instead, they lingered for the better part of an hour, meeting people and plunging into conversations with a few folks they knew from outside the church's walls. To be honest, it is a very loving and comfortable church; there is much, very much, that commends it. I know this very well, and that is why I attend services there. So there were many good reasons for my friends to have lingered.

I, on other hand, ended worship in a struggle to understand my own problems. I am sure some of my issues are rooted in some perverse pride. But I know that there has got to be something to this idea of order and form and even quietude; there seems to be something wise in the ancient forms of hospitality.

All I know is I say these words here a cappella. And I pray that I do not become a distraction. Perhaps I always need to busy myself in the kitchen when surprise guests arrive; maybe squirming is my a cappella call to action, and retreat.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.