It’s hidden so well, you wouldn’t have any way of knowing it
was there unless you were invited. And I was. So I went. The directions were to
take one country road through the cornfields of Southern Illinois, turn left at
the end of the road and take an immediate right then keep following the
cornfields until the road opened to a wide spot. There might not even be a
parking lot for it. You might not be sure if it’s a church or a home except
that it has a peeling wooden sign with the name and year of establishment that
likely hasn’t been painted since. Your first thought might be, “How would
anyone find this place?” and it’s like I said; you’d have to have been invited.
That’s the only way.
It’s normal to feel uneasy as you approach the building.
You’ll see others enter with far less deliberation than you, but they know
where the front door is. They come every week. You’ve never been there before,
so you wait to see which door they approach and follow them in like you know
exactly what you’re doing. You don’t. You stand awkwardly off to the side
looking around taking in the small, musty sanctuary. You contemplate whether
you should start introducing yourself by name with a completely unnecessary
explanation that you’ve never been there before. And just when you’re about to
make the first move, someone will come right up to you and let you know they’re
glad you came.
That first person is likely to give some form of apology for
the smallness or oldness of their church and building followed by an
explanation for his choice of attire. It’s not that he’s ashamed, but he knows
about the churches with full-time staff that draw people in; even people who
don’t know the first thing about Jesus. That’s where they’ll hopefully meet
Him, but this is where this guy meets Him. In his overalls.
Soon after, the pastor himself will come shake your hand and
when he says he’s glad you came, he means it. Even when you tell him you’re
from out of town and probably couldn’t find your way back there even if you wanted
to drive the four hours it would take to do it every Sunday. He’s already let
the teenager in your group lead his Sunday School class for that day WITH his
baseball hat on, no less!
The aged aroma of the sanctuary carries its own
accompaniment. It’s not always an organ, but even if it’s a piano of some sort,
it will sound like an organ. That’s just what happens when certain atmospheric
components converge. The piano player, who is likely the pastor’s wife, will
start playing a song and the music director will take her place up front only
she won’t need the microphone, she announces, she’s loud enough without it. And
the mixture of the 35 or so voices tentatively harmonizing to Hymn number 391,
“I Surrender All” (the first, second, and fourth verses) serves to show that
the music leader was right. The microphone was completely unnecessary.
It will take quite some time for an older gentleman to take
his place up front for the ministry he’s been set aside for; providing the
message to the children before they are dismissed. But the members of the
congregation will position themselves to help him get there without
compromising any of his dignity. He has help from his puppets to get his
message across, and the children eagerly come forward and wait with anticipation
to hear what their puppet friends have to say this week. Today’s message will
be about courage told as only two puppets can tell about it with an
illustration of how hard it sometimes is to simply get up in the morning. Then a young girl, who has been invited to speak, will share
an essay she wrote about fear and how to overcome it; all the while shaking in
her tennis shoes. Then it will be the pastor’s turn to share his message on
overcoming fear. He’s been the pastor for years and considers himself lucky and
equal to the congregants. He probably has another job Monday through Friday to
make ends meet.
During the service, many things will be assumed: that
everyone already knows everyone else, that everyone knows the order of service
even if it’s not printed in the bulletin, that everyone knows the prayer
requests whether they’re printed in the bulletin or not, and that they’ll know
when to stand and sit and pray and speak. And if it’s your first time there,
you might feel like an outsider to it all. And every time I’ve invited someone
to church with me, that’s my fear—that they won’t feel comfortable right away
and maybe won’t want to come back.
That’s when I’m most thankful for all the different cultures
in which the Lord is welcome and able to work. Through mega churches and mini
churches. Through home churches and secret churches. Through American churches
and Chinese churches. Through old-fashioned churches and modern churches.
Through well-planned churches and spontaneous churches. Through transient
churches and established churches.
The vast array of venues to preach Christ and who He is,
what He’s done, and how He wants to work through us is one of the means by
which the gospel can spread. The central message of Christianity is not confined
to one culture; even among all the cultures in America. And when you leave the
tiny sanctuary in the middle of the cornfields, you’ll realize this very
important thing: the message wasn’t spoken as much from the pulpit that Sunday,
but it started with the invitation to come.
And I’m glad I did.
