For people of faith, church is one of the best times of the week. The gathering of the saints. The only place you'll hear freestyle electric guitars played by a 60 year-old investment banker during a non-denominational worship jam. And the only place where strangers can lay hands on you without fearing second degree assault. However, in my 14 years of avid-church going, I've seen, and experienced some pretty unpleasant moments.
Fruitless Husband Hunting
There is nothing worse for a long-suffering single gal, especially in New England where the chance of meeting a born again Christian male over 30 is like winning the Texas Powerball. All of the perfectly-timed sanctuary exits, hoping to score some eye contact have been for nothing. All of the "not-too-sexy-because-I'm-wife-material" outfits? Wasted. Zero return on that wardrobe investment. Seeing your future husband share a Bible with this blond homewrecker triggers memories of your high school crush, seen hand-in-hand with some ditzy freshman who's only after his football jersey. How dare she....
The Curse of the Tythe
Pastor hasn't preached about money in five years, and he's picked today to not only preach on the 10 percent rule, but take church-wide offering to tangibly display obedience. Your friend thought you joined a cult before this, and now she's convinced you're involved in investment fraud. Perfect. I tried to assure her that next week's sermon was sure to be full of love, forgiveness and maybe even a proverbial promise, but she checked out before that basket came full circle.
Whose Kids are Those?
Our church has long, contemplative worship, where you just want to get lost in the moment. Just closing your eyes, sing-"Honey, STOP it, shhhh!"....and reflecting on all God has -"I STOP SPITTING!"... you get the point. To me, the misgivings of toddlers and boyish antics seem extra flagrant around church brethren, who apparently all have perfect children-never hitting each other with Bibles, pulling at their mother's skirt or barking like a dog during that thirty seconds of silent prayer. During one particularly nightmarish experience, my son noticed the sweet old ladies behind us, apparently smiling too much for his liking. And with that, he yelled "I'm going to kick your butts!" at the top of his lungs, during a time of complete silence. I made it outta the aisle in five seconds flat. This of course pales in comparison to re-claiming my one-year-old at the nursery, only to discover he bit another child, whose parents had clearly not grasped the concept of New Testament forgiveness. They wouldn't talk to me for weeks. Other cheek, people.
The R-Rated Mom's Room
For the modest first-time mom, the nursing mom's room brings shock one never imagines. Upon entry, all seems safe. Cozy rockers, a TV displaying the message for your convenience, and even some complimentary water. Gotta keep up that milk supply. However, without fail, usually sometime midway into the service, a more "free" Christian sister will bare her breasts for all to see. My kids have long been weaned, and the visual still haunts to this day. At first I thought maybe she was having an episode of some sort, or was so moved by the Holy Spirit she forgot her breasts were hanging out like banana samples at Costco. What else could explain her mindless abandon nursing cloth or blankie? But years of begrudgingly nursing three babies in that room of horror have taught me this was a conscious act of breast-baring phenomena was there to stay. Ugh.
Surviving the Dunk
As Christians, we're charged with abandoning our vanity and pridefulness for the sake of spiritual growth. And what better way to achieve such refinement than the adult baptism? One of Americans' biggest fears is public speaking. Adult baptism can top that. First try dressing in a robe big enough to shade Florida, get submerged underwater, then tell a bunch of strangers how God set you free from all your shameful habits. Good times. Baptism is necessary, and it's powerful, but it is oh so humbling. My adult baptism, eternally preserved by the Gateway Church video staff, began with me tripping down four steps, plunking into unacceptably cold water and sputtering something about Jesus after the shock. He understood completely.
Prayer and Perspiration
I know we're not supposed to be cranky at church. We should choose to forget that our spouse left the car window down in the rain all night, and our kids had a head-butting battle on the car ride into glory. Usually the worship drowns out my inner turmoil, but on the rare day you need a little extra time to "regroup," the worst words to hear from the pulpit are: "Now turn to someone next to you, and spend some time praying for their needs." Oh, look at the time. But you're trapped. Even in good spirits, I always had a hard time with the discomfort felt praying with a complete stranger. Frankly this is torture for those big on personal space. I find it awkward holding hands with relatives on Thanksgiving, let alone the brother across the aisle. But alas, the hopeful gaze of your prayer-seeking pew neighbor is the only thing stopping you from pretending the nursery just paged you. So you put your flesh aside, join sweaty palms, and pray for-"what's your name?" "Ben." Pray the Lord would answer Ben's need for help, and forgive you for being such a brat.