Experiencing a Holy Awe of God
I awake both excited and unsettled.
I’m excited at the prospect of returning to Church #28 (“Intriguing and Liturgical”). There’s much for me to learn from their mystical worship of God, from their rituals steeped in meaning that I don’t yet comprehend.
However, I’m also unsettled having awakened with an unknown anger. Four times I ask God to remove it from me. Then I change my request: remove this anger and replace it with peace, with a godly contentment.
Slowly my angst subsides, and clarity emerges. I had gone to bed with unresolved frustration towards my wife.
As I slept, the enemy multiplied it, turning frustration into a roiling anger. All he needed was the emotional door I left ajar. He seized it as an invitation and fomented a full-scale wrath. Yet God is good. Although it takes some time, he removes my infuriation.
Arriving Right on Time
Today we plan to not arrive early at church. With no opportunity for pre-church interaction, we time our arrival to avoid sitting in silence for the service to start. I cut things too close, however, and we breeze in only seconds early.
The minister’s wife recognizes us and thanks us for returning. Hoping she will again guide us through the liturgy, we slide into the row in front of her. A few more people trail in behind us, and the service begins as the last person scrambles to sit.
Last time only five people attended. Aside from the minister, I was the only male. Today I count twelve total, three men, plus the minister.
Panic hits me. Last time we greeted each other with a holy kiss, the most awkward, uncomfortable moment out of all our visits to fifty-two churches. Today, not only will I need to give a holy kiss to women I don’t know, but also to three men.
Even more disconcerting, however, is the presence of a teenage girl, perhaps the only person there younger than my wife. It seems completely inappropriate for adult males to greet an unrelated teenage girl with a holy kiss.
There exists such a fine line between acceptable actions and creepy behavior. I’m not sure if I’m more uncomfortable for myself or for her. I hope in vain he’ll skip the holy kiss greeting part today.
My other concern is their incense. I’m extremely sensitive to scents. Last time, just when I feared I’d break into an uncontrollable hack, God intervened, protecting me from being overwhelmed by the odious odor.
Though the unpleasant smell lingered in my nostrils the entire service, at least it didn’t overcome me. Today, I smell nothing and whisper to my bride, “Do you smell any incense?”
“Oh, yeah!” She gives me a quizzical glance. “Don’t you?”
I shake my head. “I guess I’m still congested enough from my cold that I can’t smell a thing.”
The Ritual Routine
The minister moves through his rituals of preparation. As he does, we bounce around the liturgy, aptly guided by the expert whispers of the pastor’s wife, who breathes each page number to us just moments before we need them.
For his part, the minister moves through the liturgy with deliberate speed, a kind of reverent rush.
The words are familiar to him, but not to me. I’d like him to slow down so I may contemplate their meaning, yet he breezes through them before I can grasp their full significance. Some of his phrases emerge as a melodic chant.
I’ve heard recordings of priests doing this, as well as seen monks do this in movies and TV shows. To me, the result is both spooky and intriguing. In the middle of this, a member reads portions of Acts 16, but the minister conducts the rest of the service.
This portion passes much quicker than I remember. Soon he turns around to share the message, starting by reading from John 17. Again, the contrast between the reverent solemnness of their rituals and the informal, casual delivery of his message strikes me.
Be a Follower of Christ
“I rather we call ourselves ‘followers of Christ’ instead of Christians,” he says. So many people call themselves Christians that it means little—and carries much baggage.
Being a follower of Christ shows commitment. It sets us apart. I agree. Personally, I prefer to call myself a follower of Jesus.
The other thing I jot down is that we need to “pray to the Father, seek intercession from the Son, and appeal to the Holy Spirit.”
I’m not sure if he’s advancing a theological distinction or merely encouraging us to comprehend God as Trinitarian, that is, as three persons in one.
Indeed, my prayers became enlightened when I began praying to specific members of the godhead, according to my understanding of their character.
We must balance this, however, with the acknowledgement that as a three-in-one entity, praying to any one of the facets, effectively communicates with the other two.
Holy Communion
The message is short, and soon he’s reeling off announcements. Then he begins the mystical overtures for Holy Communion. When he’s ready, the small congregation lines up side by side along the front.
I can’t remember if we partook last time or not. I consider just observing, when the minister’s wife whispers that if we’re baptized in Jesus, we may participate.
At this point, to remain seated would imply we’re not baptized, so I go forward to confirm we are. We join the end of the line.
The people cup their hands to receive the bread and eat it immediately. We do the same. Then he moves back to the beginning of the line with the cup.
We squirm at the thought of a shared Communion cup. I consider our options: We could sit down and skip the wine.
There’s a precedence, of sorts. Church #35 only did half of communion, offering the bread but no wine.
Or I could cross my arms over my chest to receive a blessing, as instructed at Church #32, but what if this confuses the minister? Of course, I could conform to their practice and slurp from the cup like everyone else.
Instead, when he gets to me, I give my head a slight shake and hold up my hand as unobtrusively as possible.
He understands. “Oh, you just want a blessing.” Before I can agree, he makes the sign of the cross on my forehead and does the same for my wife.
Relieved to have bypassed drinking from the shared cup and avoided calling undo attention to ourselves, we gratefully head back to our seats. That’s when he stops us.
“Next time you can just dip the bread in the wine. We call that intinction.” I nod to show I understand. With all eyes upon us, we slink back to our seats.
I think we may have avoided the holy kiss part, but he squeezes it in. Though I don’t end up kissing all twelve people present, I have to kiss too many. I discover people do this with varying degrees of compliance.
The minimal interaction seems to be merely touching cheek to cheek, sans lip action or smacking sound. The teen girl avoids me, and I’m grateful.
One woman, who I know from the food pantry, doesn’t know what to do seeing me in an unfamiliar venue, so she merely mouths “Hi” from a distance.
Reluctantly, I share a holy kiss with one of the guys, but not the other one or the minister. With the awkwardness of the holy kiss behind us, we sit down to conclude the service.
There is more liturgy and more ritual. The minister wraps up his part and exits. Then his wife extinguishes the rest of the candles, and she leaves too. Slowly others depart the sanctuary in silence.
Some people leave offerings in a receptacle by the door. Though I never gave an offering at any of the fifty-two churches we visited, God prompted me to do so today. I drop off a check as we leave the sanctuary, the last to do so.
The After Party
We don’t leave the building, however, but instead head to the other side of the small structure. We share a snack and conversation. It’s a grand time of fellowship. Though not needed, the minister gives us his full attention.
My bride enjoys his story-telling ability and knowledge of church history. I, however, grow weary of his rapid-fire delivery that seldom finishes one thought before moving to the next, leaving no room for me to ask questions or interject.
He declares that in two thousand years, no one has ever gotten sick drinking wine from a gold cup. While it may be true, I still view the practice as unsanitary.
He also talks about the importance of liturgy, as it ensures all aspects of faith and worship are covered. Emanating from the fifth century, everything they do has meaning.
Why use fifth century practices? I wonder, but don’t ask. Isn’t the Bible a better standard to follow?
He offers to loan me a book that explains their practices. I’m tempted but decline with the excuse that I’d likely never read it.
I also remember the book loaned to me that explains the Catholic theology behind the Holy Eucharist. It proved inaccessible, and it bored me.
Throughout his stories, a reoccurring theme is the work of the Holy Spirit in his life and ministry. At times he seems charismatic and an enigma for this most traditional, liturgical church.
This encourages me. It also reminds me of the danger of making assumptions about people and churches based on labels. While labels can help in our basic understanding, they can also mislead.
May our common focus remain on Jesus, as we make all else secondary.
As his monologue continues, the people trickle out. Eventually only he, me, and our wives remain. Undeterred, he continues to talk as his wife locks up the building and we walk to our cars. Though my better half enjoyed listening, I didn’t so much.
Two and a half hours after arriving, we head home, in more awe of God and his diverse church, along with a greater appreciation for liturgy and tradition.
Takeaway
Whether or not we embrace tradition and liturgy, our church practices should generate a holy awe of God.
My wife and I visited a different Christian Church every Sunday for a year. This is our story. Get your copy of 52 Churches today, available in ebook, paperback, hardcover, and audiobook.
Peter DeHaan writes about biblical Christianity to confront status quo religion and live a life that matters. He seeks a fresh approach to following Jesus through the lens of Scripture, without the baggage of made-up traditions and meaningless practices.
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