A funny thing happened at church

Or: my soul is a pine tree

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

Yes, we still do the church thing now and then. Community is important to us, and it’s hard to meet people if they aren’t gathered in one place. Church happens to be a relatively familiar and family-friendly watering hole. Also, a vibrant and healthy spirituality, for my husband, includes church. It’s just a matter of finding one where I’m not likely to fight with the pastor and get us kicked out, and where there’s kids for the girls to befriend. So far the two have not coincided, but it’s theoretically possible; so, whenever we have a free Sunday and feel up to leaving the house (which happens about once every other month), we pick a place and go. This week it was a local Evangelical Lutheran church, because they are progressive and I thought a liturgical service would be interesting, and because Nadia Bolz-Weber, one of my new personal heroes, is Evangelical Lutheran. “Interesting” is a good word for it. I could see the comfort in the familiarity of reciting the same prayers and recitations week after week. The hymns were old-fashioned, but actually less offensive to me than most modern worship music. The small congregation was friendly enough, but decidedly insular. And also, decidedly elderly. It was pretty obvious from the moment we walked in that it wasn’t going to be home for us. By now I’m used to the cycle of initial hope followed by almost immediate disappointment, so that didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was how trapped I felt.

Low windows lined the tiny sanctuary on both sides. Our side looked out on a distant, busy main street, and before that, a grassy area overhung by powerlines. A lone pine tree stood next to a telephone pole, bending and swaying in the cool autumn wind. As the service progressed I found myself gazing out at that tree more and more, in between wrangling a bored-to-mischief almost five-year-old who apparently wasn’t feeling inspired by either the service or the activities they had brought. Can I just say that, with all the rage-inducing God-awful theology I’ve had spewed at me from the pulpit in the last few years, managing small children while preparing to be triggered at any moment is my least favorite thing about church? That particular combination of circumstances never fails to manifest my inner bitch. Is it any wonder, then, that I found myself longing to flee? That lonely pine tree looked so majestic out there all by itself. Solitarily bracing the wind, without other trees around to lend support, it could bend as far as it was able to with each gust. It looked in danger of breaking. It also looked utterly free. Sitting in a hard, dead wood pew, surrounded by fellow humans who were collectively facing the pulpit and reciting all the right words on cue, I was struck by the thought that the lone pine felt more spiritually alive to me that anyone else here. Not because the people around me seemed spiritually dead, but because I no longer spoke their language.

The realization, odd as it might seem, sent me into a tailspin of panic, frustration, and loneliness. I could not wait to leave. By the time we got home I was coming out of my skin, and could barely respond to my husband’s queries of “What did I think?” or even, “What should we have for lunch?” I spent a few minutes standing outside with my face to the sun, considering skipping lunch entirely and escaping to my woods along the reservoir. I haven’t been there since I hurt my back in September. But, we had planned on finally playing a board game together today, which also hasn’t happened since I hurt my back and have been unable to sit comfortably for longer than a few minutes. Sensing my mood, my husband (who, after almost nine years of weathering my moods could practically qualify as an Ohio meteorologist) quietly went about heating up lunch while I stormed back to the bedroom to strip off all evidence of churchmanship: I shimmied out of my breezy blouse and jeans and pulled on something loose and comfy, scrubbed off the makeup I had so painstakingly applied just hours before, unclipped my barrette and ruffled my beaded curls. Much better. I could meet my eyes in the mirror again, and I knew what was waiting for me there.