After years of faithfully (or maybe not so faithfully) staying away from organized religion, we decided to brave our return the Sunday before the Trump inauguration. Picture this: a medium-sized Southern Baptist church, the air thick with anticipation and reservations. Or maybe it was just the scent of coffee and donuts in the sanctuary, a sight and smell my old body hadn’t accepted in modern church services.
We had reservations since we half expected a full-blown Trump rally disguised as a worship service, complete with fervent prayers for the “chosen one.” That kind of service was one of the reasons we had left the church for some time.
To our immense relief, it wasn’t.
To be honest, my apprehension about going to the service had almost derailed the morning even before it started. I started to let my wife “oversleep”, a tactic I have used to avoid trekking back into a church. But surprisingly, my wife, Robin, got up with the birds, eager to make it to the 9 am service. That was especially surprising since it was cold, a little windy and a light snow had begun to fall. Thus God had provided her with a trifecta of excuses to remain in our toasty bed, rollover, and sleep until noon.
As for me, I am always up before the chickens, a military habit I have yet to break even after being retired for longer than my twenty years of service. But her being ready to go for a 9 am service thrilled me. First, I was finally ready to storm past my apprehensions. Second and probably more importantly to this old man, an early service meant we could be first in line for the best brunch spot in town – the real perk of attending church early on a cold winter morning.
The music was surprisingly good – not the earsplitting, praise-hands-in-the-air stuff, but more like a mellow coffeehouse vibe. The sermon, thankfully, focused on John the Baptist and his role as a messenger, a far cry from any political endorsements. There wasn’t anything even remotely political, which was odd for a modern Southern Baptist church. Overall, I was pleasantly surprised and greatly relieved.
Yet toward the end of the service, Robin leaned over and whispered, “You know, maybe this isn’t for us.”
My jaw dropped. I had that thought too, but not because of the service. It was for a host of other reasons I still need to process. “What? Why not?”
“Too old,” she sighed. “I mean, look around. We’re practically the youngest people here.”
We both almost burst out laughing. Ironically, the church, filled with folks our age, felt surprisingly… old.
As we left, more friendly people greeted us. Yet still, it was a strange experience for reasons I can’t describe. Maybe it was the residual of my apprehension. Or Maybe it was the expectation that after the inauguration, the political celebration would happen. Or I have had a few major changes in my beliefs over these last few years. The truth probably is I have gotten comfortable in my new churchless world.
I’m not so sure what will happen next. I’m unsure if I will return to that church, seek out another one, or just spend my sabbaths away from it all. After all, I still think that one day, I might regret returning to “the fold.” But for now, I know I am still a bit adrift spiritually. Yet at least for this one day, I got to dip my toes back into a sanctuary. And we survived inauguration eve without witnessing any impromptu worship of America’s new god.
Choose Joy.