Is Big Church Really Boring? (Bored at Big Church)
Updated: 6 hours ago
Who brought in the sheaves? I really want to know… passing time during “big church” was a bit of a challenge. If my posterior wiggled or squirmed too much, I got the “silent pinch” from
Mom’s left hand. My Dad, on the other side, got the “silent elbow poke” when he drooled and
snored through Leviticus.
However, I found some parts of big church fascinating. Mrs. Bates, the organist, donned a perky new flowered hat each week as she tore into a lively chorus of “Bringing in the Sheaves.” I know that we had a clothesline, so it occurred to me that bringing in the sheets inferred cleanliness was next to godliness. Watching Mrs. Bates’ brown, bedecked bun was only half the fun. Melva Shofner, the sixty-something soprano in the choir, felt she had missed her calling as an opera star. No matter what piece the choir warbled, Melva stood out from the crowd. Shy Patsy McCormick hung her head in humiliation, as if guilty by association for sitting next to Melva. Jim Palmer, the choir director, always pumped his arms with unmitigated gusto as he led the congregation in a rousing version “How Tedious and Tasteless the Hours.” That’s a real hymn...no kidding!
The “welcome” of guests was a Sunday morning staple. If Laney Johnson, the fiery young
associate pastor welcomed the bunch, he intimidated the visitors by cheerily bringing them to
their feet to yell their names for the entire world to hear. Pastor Gaddy was much more sedate. Visitors quietly sat in their spots while the rest of the congregation greeted them in hushed tones. Either way, we all got a gander at the newbies and hoped they’d hang around until Easter.
Next on the agenda was a “responsive reading” from the gold-embossed tome the size of a
telephone book. The heavy hymnal contained congregational responsive readings. The pastor intoned a passage in a rather “Catholic” manner, and we hollered back a Bible verse or an enthusiastic “Amen!” Thank God we were reading English. I couldn’t yell as loudly in Latin. Responsive readings were the only part of the service where kids could talk out loud – a nice change of pace from sitting in stony silence on a hard wooden pew.
One Sunday morning I was particularly pesky and decided to keep chattering after the reading had concluded. I was on a roll. Apparently, my banter was incredibly clever because my sister Kathy giggled ‘til her tummy hurt. My mother was livid. She gave me “the look” that could curdle milk. I blithely ignored her withering glance. Mom subsequently tried finger-pointing, knee-slapping and other subtle warnings, but I still never got the message. Our church was small, and the pastor was so distracted by my antics that he lost his place and dropped his notes. My fate had been sealed. Daddy threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and stomped down the aisle toward the parking lot. As I was whisked away to certain judgment, I flailed my arms and pleaded with the ushers, “Pray for me!” They didn’t. I couldn’t sit down for a week.
The “special music” followed the reading and allowed Melva and her cohorts a shining moment in the spotlight without the other choir members “bringing her down” (in her own words). “God gave me this song,” she chirped. The rest of the congregation was thinking, “Please dear God, make her give it back.’ Some hymn lyrics she belted made no sense at all. Melva warbled “…here I raise my Ebeneezer.” Who was he and how could she lift him? “That saved a wretch…” Wretching, really? I thought that meant throwing up. I’m glad God saved me from that! I was also mystified by all the “…ation” words: justification, sanctification, propitiation, fornication, playstation…oops. That last one wasn’t in the bunch. At the conclusion of every song, Melva decided to take the melody up an octave in a range that only dogs could hear. We stumbled out of church deaf and disturbed by her performance.
’Passing the plate’ was an essential part of the service the pastor never forgot. We knew he’d
command us to ‘bring all the tithes into the storehouse.’ He slipped up one Sunday when he was groggy on cough medicine and cried, “Bring ye all the tithes into the whorehouse.” It was the biggest offering we had all year! Pilfering from the velvet-covered offering plate was a
temptation for my buddy Donnie Scott. He imagined all the Double Bubble and GI Joe’s those
crisp dollar bills would buy. I, however, loved the offering time. Daddy taught me that everything belongs to God, so giving Him money was the least I could do. Offertory songs were cool because it was the only time one could hear the piano or organ unhindered by vibrato-laden choir singers. I was allowed to play the offertory song when I reached the age of ten. Mrs. Bates was my piano teacher and had great faith in me. I practiced for weeks. Sweaty-handed, I plunked my way through I Surrender All and played it without a hitch. God was merciful. It was a marker day in my young life.
On holidays, the youth pastor preached a children’s sermon. He summoned all the little people under the age of ten to sit Indian style on the carpeted stairs and listen to a Jesus puppet encouraging us to share our toys. I had trouble sharing my spot on the carpet, much less my worldly belongings. But I did feel mildly convicted about chopping off my little sister Kathy’s ponytail while she slept through the sermon last Sunday. So, I repented in dust and ashes and apologized.
Pastor Gaddy’s sermons had a hypnotic effect. He could make any Bible passage sound boring. I called this phenomenon preaching with his ‘elevator voice.’ Laney, his young assistant, was flashy and compelling. He started with a joke to loosen up the crowd and then proceeded to dramatize an exciting Bible story like Elijah calling fire down from heaven. I sat on the edge of my seat, mesmerized. Pastor Gaddy soon changed professions and became a psychologist. Then only one person at a time had to be bored.
Pastor John Schwensen followed Pastor Gaddy. He had a big booming voice like James Earl
Jones. I closed my eyes and imagined God Himself was speaking with that powerful baritone
timbre. Preschool bulletin-coloring turned into note-writing with my friends, which evolved into handholding with my boyfriends. Despite my persistent efforts to avoid theology, many times the preacher stopped speaking and the Holy Spirit talked just to me. I looked around to see if anyone else heard the still, small voice I did. Then I knew, in my heart of hearts, God longed to have a relationship with me, His little child.
I have since heard that still, small voice comforting me and guiding my steps day by day.
His is the call, the heart-song, the voice I love to hear above all others—my Shepherd, my Savior, my Friend.
I recall a Bible story about a young boy named Samuel who heard a whisper when he was quietly sleeping. Samuel assumed that the voice he heard was his mentor, Eli the elderly priest. The wizened old teacher advised his little altar boy to say “Speak Lord, your servant is listening,” when he heard the voice again. Samuel heard God speak and his life was forever transformed.
“One night Eli, whose eyes were becoming so weak that he could barely see, was lying
down in his usual place. 3 The lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel was lying
down in the temple of the LORD, where the ark of God was. 4 Then the LORD called
Samuel. Samuel answered, "Here I am." 5 And he ran to Eli and said, "Here I am; you
called me." But Eli said, "I did not call; go back and lie down." So he went and lay down. 6
Again the LORD called, "Samuel!" And Samuel got up and went to Eli and said, "Here I
am; you called me." "My son," Eli said, "I did not call; go back and lie down." 7 Now
Samuel did not yet know the LORD: The word of the LORD had not yet been revealed to
him. 8 The LORD called Samuel a third time, and Samuel got up and went to Eli and said,
"Here I am; you called me." Then Eli realized that the LORD was calling the boy. 9 So Eli
told Samuel, "Go and lie down, and if he calls you, say, 'Speak, LORD, for your servant is
listening.'" So Samuel went and lay down in his place. 10 The LORD came and stood there,
calling as at the other times, "Samuel! Samuel!" Then Samuel said, "Speak, for your
servant is listening." 1 Sam 3:2-10 NIV
Can you imagine a Heavenly Father who longs to spend time communing with you, His precious child? He wants to share His divine secrets with you. He longs to speak words of love to your heart. He eagerly waits for those moments you share when you come into His house to worship.
Is going to church drudgery for you, or do you wait with eager anticipation to meet with God?
List times in your life when the Holy Spirit touched your heart as you worshipped God. What
happened? What did He say to you? How did He speak? Through God’s Word, through the
pastor, through a quiet impression in your mind as you sought Him?
Pray for His voice to guide you. Quiet your heart today and enjoy His presence.
