An old woman plays “Take it to the Lord in Prayer” on a piano that was once in tune.
Friends welcome friends around me.
I’m invited to join the choir. I’ve never been here before. In fact I’m here only five minutes before the service starts, but someone invites me to join the choir.
After a beat, I politely decline. I'm not sure what to make of the hospitality, laced with desperation.
Three boys find their pew and sit in front of their mother. They each wear an oversized, decorative belt buckle that screams, “these boys are Texans!” Their sister looks aloof, unexcited. Two very old woman saints walk in together, both wearing similar green outfits. The pastor jokes about not getting the memo.
It smells just like my childhood church.
Eventually the pastor makes it over to me. His smile strangely fades when I tell him I’m also a United Methodist Pastor. “Oh, what conference” he asks.
“North Texas.” I say.
His smile is gone.
We have a reputation .
He makes a hasty exit that catches me off guard.
I’m visiting a United Methodist Church on vacation because my AirBnB host invited me and the church is two doors down from where I slept. Jesus guilt set in. There will be no sabbath from sabbath today.
What I don’t yet know is that in a few days this church will leave the denomination I serve to join a more conservative, splinter denomination.
My AirBnB host leads the music as a pseudo-cantor. He’s a retired musician and the sole liberal in town. His lawn boasts a big Beto sign which has been taken down twice by unknown neighbors in the night. His overly enthusiastic song leadership punctuates the beginning of every note with gusto the congregation doesn’t come close to matching. Still, I cannot deny the fact he elevates the energy. He even throws in “ONE MORE!” before the last verse of Great is Thy Faithfulness and “HERE WE GO!” before every chorus refrain of One Bread, One Body.
Sharing Joys and Concerns is a town hall meeting. People share aches and pains, but also discuss family visiting, cemetery committee reports, the need for rain on crops, zoning changes. I learn that the corner store isn’t doing so well even though the food is so good. It’s the only restaurant for 10 miles. Concerns about the church split are raised. My AirBnB host makes me stand up and introduces me to the congregation as “a Methodist pastor with a man bun from Dallas! I just think that’s amazing!” We celebrate how clean the Fellowship Hall is and name everyone who helped. They announced a 12:30 Pot Luck meal “after church” which made me nervous because church began at 9:30. Just before praying, the Pastor mentions that “the business about incorporating and becoming our own church will be done this week so that should be all finished.” He shoots a quick glance at me and dives into prayer.
I feel instant grief. This congregation is leaving the denomination I love.
The sermon is good. Pastoral. Theologically robust. He acknowledged real life nuances and pains held by congregants. He called the congregation to do good for good’s sake–not seeking reward or avoidance of hell. “Living the gospel is its own reward.” I agreed with everything he said.
The Communion liturgy begins and one of the belt-buckle boys puts an entire container of Orange tick tacks in his mouth. Communion is served kindly. Generously.
They run out of grape juice as I make it to the front of the line. Two other people run off to get more.
I stand four feet away from the soon-to-disaffiliate pastor and we just smile awkwardly.
We are forced to face each other at the Communion rail.
“Good problem to have!” I say
“The best kind” He smiles.
We both know the scripted jokes. I find a strange comfort in this awkward ritual.
We resume waiting until the volunteers rush back with ice cold grape juice, fresh from the fridge.
This blood of Christ is particularly chilly.
I receive the elements, kneel at the altar rail, and pray for what I need most.
At the close of service, the thirty of us in attendance stand in the aisle, hold hands and sing from memory
Blessed be the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love
The fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.
Linguistic irony lingers after the notes fade.
My AirBnB host eagerly chats with me after the service, “we’re off to another church. No offense, but there are plenty of preachers around this county–zero musicians. My wife and I are in short supply!” He pauses. I’ve been a pastor long enough to know that it’s best to be quiet in these pauses because that’s when people decide to say what they really want to say.
“You know they voted to stop being United Methodist. I don’t care much about it all. I’ve been worshiping here for over forty years.” He speaks slowly for the first time in two days. “I’ve seen most of these people most days of those forty years. I’ve served on committees with ‘em, worked alongside ‘em, fought with just about every one of ‘em at some point–even to the point that we just couldn’t talk to each other for a while. But we are so intertwined that we find a way to get over ourselves and move past it. I know them. And they know me. Forty years.” He fades into his own thoughts.
“Well we’re off,” he says with sudden enthusiasm. “Not a lot of piano players around here. Hope you’ll come back for the pot luck!”
Blessed be the ties that bind, indeed.