At Home

The nice thing about leaving home and moving far away is to go back now and again.
We’ve done that often over the years, mostly because we left so many dear family people behind.
On Sundays we would usually attend the family’s church. But one year we chose to go back the church of my youth.

The occasion was an especially festive one.

No, not because a “son of the church” had returned; in fact, many didn’t know me anymore.
The festivity centered on the organist: the congregation was celebrating her 50 years of service to the Lord and the church through music.
For this special occasion, the congregation had invited the organist’s son as guest minister.
This son, along with two other sons, also provided the special music through stirring vocal harmony.
And the mother?
She was the organist, of course, accompanying the special music and the congregational singing as I remembered her doing nearly every Sunday when I was in my teens.

 But there were changes too.

The organ had been moved from the left to the right of the pulpit.
I pondered the symbolic significance of that for a while but became distracted by the ceiling fans.
They must’ve been newly installed for I noticed many eyes raised heavenward watching the blades lazily swinging against the warm summer air.
More conspicuous, though, was the absence of the consistorial parade, in which the minister would enter first, with the elders immediately behind.
Before ascending the pulpit, the minister would stop, turn to the nearest elder (the vice-president, no doubt), and shake hands, after which the throng of elders, followed by the deacons would parade to the best seats in the house – center section, four rows from the front.
It had always been a solemn ritual, no doubt symbolic too, and I think I missed it just a little.

 So many memories come back when you’ve been away.

And we’d been away for a long time.
That Sunday morning it was good to think back on many things:
on all those ushering Sundays long ago –
and good to note that some of my “old customers” were still ushered to the same seats;
on many a young people’s meeting in the church basement –
and good to recognize around me some friends from those early faith-forming years;
on that Sunday morning several decades ago when the Spirit compelled one young adult to profess his faith in God’s Son –
and good to express that faith in worship now among many of the same people who had witnessed that public profession then.

People change and therefore churches change.

That is as it should be.
In this church of my youth, once tagged as the most conservative in town, there were now family hymnals next to the Psalter in the pew racks.
And the guest minister for the evening was to be none other than the son of a local sister church who was now counted among the more liberal voices of the denomination.

But some things should not and did not change.

The benches were filled with young and old.
The singing was wholehearted and spirited.
The attention seemed sincere.
The atmosphere was friendly.
And the worship was genuine.
That’s how I remembered it, and it felt good to be back again.
After more than thirty years I could still feel at home.

 When years hence, my children revisit the church where they grew up, my hope and prayer is that they too will still be able to “feel at home.”