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 90th 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)