Where We Fail

Last week I attended a church service "in the hood." Since some of you may debate the actual presence of a hood in this small town, I'll provide you with the full name of the church: All God's Children. The Church in the Hood.

Also, you should know that my home town, which I often refer to on this site as a small town, is actually a city of approximately 50,000 people located in a once prosperous industrial region and positioned at an intersection of two major highways. I have read that we are the third largest drug trafficking city in Ohio. I have seen the empty, haunting warehouses downtown. And I have heard stories of shootings, drug wars and gangs.

These are the stories that folks in my church -- primarily white, middle class and suburban -- would, for the most part, prefer to forget. Perhaps that explains our behavior at the service last week. Perhaps it does not. Either way, it's no excuse for snubbing the communion of others.

I know I'm being hard on myself, but I think I should be. I think the story I'm about to tell is a metaphor for a problem we face throughout this country. While many of us try hard to be faithful and giving, our compassion has definite bounds -- both emotional and financial -- that do not extend past our own well-padded comfort zones.

The church -- All God's Children -- is located in an old, nondescript building downtown. A white, single-story, brick structure, it has the feel of a long, narrow classroom with one full wall of windows. The remaining three walls are decorated with photos of baptisms and celebrations, and art work made by the children.

When we arrive at the church, we are greeted by a handful of teens and pre-teens who we put to work carrying food, water coolers and large casserole cookers. We work together awkwardly. The kids hover briefly before someone asks for their help. Once asked, they are eager to chip in, but no one provides introductions or offers a hand to shake.

Inside, we busy ourselves cutting bread, arranging plates, and checking the temperature of our casseroles. We confine ourselves to one end of the church -- the end without windows -- as the congregation begins to grow at the other end of the room.

Alone, I break away to wander the room and admire the photos covering the walls, noting in particular a newspaper article that describes the day Mary Wilson of the Supremes came to sing and talk with the members of this church. I return, unsatisfied, to the dark end of the room without any further interaction.

Letha, one of the directors of the church, ventures down to our end of the room and thanks us for providing the supper. She invites us to participate in the service, which is about to begin. The six of us crowd around a table intended to seat four and settle in for music and prayer.

The pastor says a few words then hands the service over temporarily to CJ, the keyboardist and band leader, who injects life into the room with his lyrics of conviction, his demeanor of peace and his bright, multi-colored attire.

We clap and nod shyly with the music. We sing softly, and we open our bibles as the pastor requests. When he talks about the shots fired on his block last weekend, we cringe. When he notes that any of those stray bullets could hit his wife or son, our eyes widen in fear. His wife listens. Perhaps she tightens her grip on her son who smiles on her lap.

The pastor moves on to belittle the power of weapons in comparison to the power of faith, and we nod approvingly. The message is aimed primarily at the teens, who are threatened repeatedly with a canceled trip to Cedar Point when they don't pay attention. It's a threat they take seriously, and again we nod our approval.

After the service, we retreat behind the buffet table and serve apple sauce, marzetti, bread and brownies. We offer multiple helpings, countless options and large portions to go.

But we do not offer ourselves.

Our conversation is confined to food, our eye contact is limited, and we never provide our names.

I leave feeling thirsty, hungry and alone. 

Comments

[Susan]

I know how you feel. It is difficult to step out of our comfort zone, especially at church. I grew up in a congregation where everyone knew everyone else because their families had been going there for years. If there were visitors they were probably relatives of a member.
When I moved to Bellefontaine I felt that I needed to find a church to attend regularly. I was fortunate to attend First Lutheran where the pastor was kind and welcoming. It was and still is difficult for me to find the courage to walk into a church where I know no one. Everyone seems to have their own "niche" and you may not fit into the "niche".
Since Beau and I have moved to Columbus we have attended church sporadically. When we have attended, 20% of the time people make a point to welcome us and extend conversation past the "hello" and "good morning" pleasantries. Even the pastors don't seem to do that! I admit, I am not good at stepping out of my comfort zone either, but isn't the point of church to gather with other people who share your beliefs? Shouldn't we feel as though we can have a conversation with the people who get up Sunday morning with the same purpose as ourselves?
Alison, you have motivated me to step outside of my comfort zone the next time I attend church. Now, if it wasn't so dang hard!