The worst part of any move is the finding.
Finding the library.
Finding the grocery store you prefer.
Finding the gas stations.
Finding a new pediatrician.
We’ve been here in East Tennessee since mid-July now, and we’ve done all that. (O.k., the pediatrician part is still up in the air.) What we haven’t found yet is a church home.
We’ve visited some very nice churches, and it feels sometimes like we’ve surely sampled just about every flavor of “Bible-based Christian” the area has to offer— even though I know that’s far from true. We’ve been warmly welcomed in some churches, totally ignored in others, and greeted as a first-time guest in another after attending four Sundays in a row. We’ve had our first-ever “closed communion” experience, visited one church that seems to eschew the practice altogether, and fumbled our way through the various nuances of communion in many, many others. We’ve sung 200 year-old hymns a capella, listened to choirs perform with full orchestras, and been part of worship with a couple of guitars and the words to a Chris Tomlin song flashing on a projector screen.
It’s been tiring. I’m just going to throw that out there. Not having a consistent rhythm to our fellowship has left my heart unsettled and my spirit anxious; come Friday morning’s family Bible Study time, I feel a creep beginning under my skin and a slow building of dread. What will church be like this week? Are we going back to a place we’ve visited before? Should we try a new church? Will I be able to relax and actually worship in a corporate way? Will it be awkward? Are we ever going to find a church to join?
None of this would probably weigh quite as heavily on me if we hadn’t just been a part of a fellowship of deep faith and friendship during our time in North Carolina. You know what they say about raising the bar to the point where nothing else will do? Well… that happened. And now here we are, praying that God has a similarly incredible community of believers into which we can fold.
Last Sunday, we visited a church that is promising. The preaching had depth and dug into some theology that begged for practical application conversation later, around our lunch table at home. Talking with fellow worshippers was natural, and found common ground. There were teenagers, and babies, and all ages in between. No one asked us from the pulpit to refrain from taking communion. We were among the last people to leave after service.
So now we enter into the specific prayer again, the asking “Is this our place?” Christopher is hoping to meet with the leadership to gain a firm footing on who they are, and to let them know who we are. Once upon a time, it didn’t seem quite so imperative to find a local body that met our needs, or one in which we could serve a role that wasn’t yet being met. Nowadays, we see church participation as something of a marriage: a coming together, a partnership, a working within the whole of the earth for the glory of God. A community. Not just in name, but in practice, day in and day out.