Gathered

The problem with doing something every week is that, no matter how enthusiastic or passionate you might be about it, routine inevitably sets in. The person who lives for the Friday after dinner dessert of ice cream with chocolate syrup and a cherry will soon be looking to add nuts to spice things up a bit. The same applies to Sunday morning church.

I think it is important to constantly be reminded why we are gathered in the first place, but even that can bring howls of protest from dissenting corners of the sanctuary. Apparently the preferred method is to forge ahead with the routine and let each person determine what it all means to them. What may appear as chaos is actually fellowshipping taking place in pews 3 and 4, spiritual meditation under the balcony, liturgical recitation in pew 10 left, utter confusion in random seats of pews 1,3,6,7, 9, and 10, and a few odd naps sprinkled in.

So this past Sunday, at the appointed time, I meandered into the middle of the fray, as opposed to up on the stage, and tried to calm the gathered. The fellowshippers ceased their fellowshipping and turned in their seats to stare. The traditionalists looked around for board members in wide-eyed nervousness. And the bored looked up with only a slight hope of being freed from bondage. All the while the worship team assembled on stage looked on with impatience. I stammered a few words about how wonderful it was to be together at that moment and then cajoled everyone to their feet for an opening prayer. Then the proceedings rushed off, back in their normal rhythm, much to everyone's relief, except mine.

I doubt anyone noticed my protest and that's okay. I'm not even sure if it was a protest. It was more a shout of, "What, in heaven's name, are we doing here?" Maybe I need to be more direct.