On not going to church

On Sunday mornings as I take a leisurely drive to the library, usually, or perhaps to the supermarket in Warkworth, I see all these people towing their boats or otherwise enjoying themselves who, I think by some ancient reflex, should really be at church.  The church carparks around here are still reasonably full but not overflowing except at very popular funerals.  Weddings don’t seem to happen in church any more – they have to be at a beach or a winery with marquees, wind and rain, purple wedding decor and endless sentimental kitsch. 

I at least have honourable reasons for not being at church.  I went, for more than half a lifetime.  I led it, studied for it, was ordained to do it, planned its events, officiated at it, administrated it, celebrated it, defended it, thought it through, prayed for it, even loved it.  Then I stopped.  The “Why?” is another story.  Quite suddenly, not going to church seemed the right course to follow.

Absenting oneself thoughtfully from church eventually lends you perspective.  You look back on it all, having discovered that there is indeed life beyond.  It is not the life of those who have never been to church or cared for any of it.  It is the life of someone who has departed from the church, but never for an instant from Christ, his teachings, his presence.  In my case at any rate, taking leave of the church has been a vital enhancement to faith and to life.

Then why, sometimes, do I revisit briefly?  I show up at the local Anglican church at Christmas and Easter, drawn by the meanings of these high seasons – at their 8 am Eucharist, because I think I will be spared noise and chatter and identification… and a sermon.  But it turns out, I am denied all that.  Chatter reigns at 8 am.  And what passes for a sermon these days… ye gods.  Good people, no doubt, no pretensions, telling it as they see it.  I understand all that.  And I also realise that I sound elitist… but what I am looking for isn’t happening in the local parish church, and perhaps I shouldn’t expect it.

What is it?  A depth, a thoughtfulness, a silence.  An affinity with pain and with truth and love.  An absence of fear.  A scholarly and honest approach to the Bible.  An ability by teachers to approximate to the simplicity Jesus showed in teaching, yet without superstition and credulity.  I think it is entirely too much to hope for. 

So I don’t go.  If I do go, I come home wishing I hadn’t – yet always appreciating those who are still immersed in all this, doing their best, continuing to believe in it, thinking it only has to be reformed… somehow.

The usual route of reform seems to be via doing what the church does best, better.  Food, for instance.  In my day we had policies about providing simple food at parish eating occasions including Sunday morning teas.  That meant biscuits and tea and (execrable) coffee.  On high festivals or when some had a 90^th birthday we might have muffins or Easter buns.  People had homes to eat in.

Now the local church has committees planning the food.  There are grand food occasions, and orders of the day go out – who brings what, savouries, strawberries, salads… ye gods.  I don’t find much of this in the Sermon on the Mount.  This kind of church is hospitable, it is mildly (but not greatly) outgoing, it includes good people – and it is utterly not for me.  It is a worthy community with a list of good works, and the country and the suburbs would certainly be poorer without these local churches.  They have invented something called Messy Church which brings in children and their mums to hear and enact Bible truths. 

Writing it thus far has made me realise that I do have some personal guilt about having departed the church.  But the next thought always is that I know I couldn’t bear it any more. 

The local churches that are thriving are the ones with cringe-making music and doctrine, where nothing must ever be “boring”, where there is a clear and simple moral and doctrinal code to follow based on naïve biblicism.  They have “pastors” who have never had serious or rigorous biblical or theological training, who confuse leadership with power, drama and loud-mouthedness with honest teaching, in whom humility is either absent or scarcely believable.  Bluntly, I do not know how anyone with intelligence can survive such a context for worship and growth in faith.

Then there is the question whether I should still pitch in with one of the sensible local causes, of whatever denomination, and try to lend whatever I might have to offer…  Oh, no…!  I wouldn’t last three weeks.  I find myself wondering how many of us there are, here and there, who simply have no church they can cordially attend, look forward to each week, take part in, grow within…  How many?

Some people of my acquaintance have labelled themselves Progressive Christians.  They have websites and blogs, and teachers who have written some great stuff which I have read.   Am I a Progressive Christian?  I don’t know what that expression means.  These people are often greatly preoccupied with what they can’t believe.  They have a need to reinterpret resurrection and just about everything else mysterious.  No, I am not a Progressive Christian.  I am content with the apostolic faith and the creeds and the bible, receiving it all as a wonderful and mysterious vehicle of love and grace.  I am content to be the recipient of love, and the bearer of unanswered questions, and the child of grace.  Is that a lazy mind?  Perhaps.  But it sure beats puzzling and cogitating, battling and bloody arguing. 

No, I don’t go to church.  It is at the same time a loss and a gain, and a puzzle.  I am 80 years old.  At that age you can do what you choose.

(30.03.2015)