congregation consternation

There was, in the deep, unfinished parts of the Cimmarron Church of God, an elevated baptistry which opened upon the congregation, and basked in the glow of the electric cross which adorned the brick wall above it. After the hymns were done I would tuck my violin under my arm and exit by the louvred door behind the baby grand, and, navigating slowly through the darkness like a cat on the hunt, I would make my way to the hidden stair that led to the baptistry. I’d climb until I was afraid I would be seen by the people on the balcony, and then, quietly, carefully, slowly, I’d settle myself upon the last four steps.

It may be such experiences which have led to my mental regimine when I sit under the sound of the gospel’s teaching. My mind seems to wander, but in actuality it rushes along on parallel tracks, sometimes pacing the sermon step for step, and sometimes ducking through hedgerows of current events to wander far afield. Most sermon’s are staid and predictable –at least I could nearly always predict them. My years of Sunday School seldom leave me surprised.

Of course, sometimes I am surprised, and I am always peculiarly delighted when that happens. At the tail end of one series of revival meetings, our pastor calmly walked up to an enormous paper banner which my parents (and others) had labored many hours to create –a banner which commemorated those very revival services– and tore it down as we all watched. I don’t remember exactly the point he was trying to make, but of course I shot a glance at my mother and father –were they offended? Not in the slightest. My father had a serene and slightly amused smile upon his face, and my mother’s face was animated with suppressed laughter, as if someone had said something hilarious, something true but something not to be openly laughed at. They clearly liked surprises too.

Years later another such surprise came in an evening service in a small house church where my parents had but recently become the pastors. The church was excited, expectant and hopeful now that our family had come. My father handed each person in the little group a piece of paper and a pen. “Write down your vision. Write down everything you believe this church should do and be.” After a few moments he gathered up all the papers, shuffled them into a stack and settled himself as if to read them. As he began speaking, he picked up the first sheet of paper, and crumpling into a ball, he dropped it to the floor. The next sheet he also crumpled as he continued talking. He continued this distruction as he spoke; some he ripped, some he crumpled, one or two he burned. And all the while he spoke to us about the requirement God had for us as a church. All our ideas and notions and visions and plans must yield to God’s vision for our church. I was ecstatic with shock.

And so, always longing for that fresher, surprising kind of communion, I have become a haunt of the outter corners of God’s church: not because I dislike church or eschew unity, but because I love the church enough to hate any substitute for true unity. This unity is as far beyond doctrinal cohesion as a living creature is beyond a pile of charred meat. This unity is a miracle as spontaneous as a waterspout; it cannot be coordinated, contained or reallocated. Committees cannot inspire it. Colleges and synods cannot summon it forth, for by it’s very nature it must come unbidden, uncommanded, even unexpected. It must be a surprise.

I don’t know any way to make it happen, except to seek to make it happen in me. Meanwhile I lurk in the deep, unfinished parts of the Church of God, sometimes creeping through the unfrequented passages, and sometimes bolting across deserted pastures, the booming voices of our preachers fading through my thoughts, seeding the rocky soil of my mind and heart with seeds that have fallen there so often before. We have so much of the seed, and it falls in such even rows. But I am anxious for the shoots to begin to show.