I just read a post on my college roommate’s blog that sparked the following thoughts. Thanks, Sarah, for reminding me to speak up for silence, strange as that sounds.
In our church we do all sorts of things to try to connect with each other and with God. There’s a time of sharing, when many wage private wars within themselves (“shall I speak? what if someone announces a death in the family right after I offer thanks for the lovely weather?”) and the person up front attempts to figure out how long he should wait before moving on with the service. I’m not meaning to sound flippant, but I didn’t grow up with that element in church, and I’m having a hard time seeing how it is supposed to work. Sometimes it does, and we can celebrate and mourn with those who share events in their lives, but with a church as full of visitors as ours is (academic towns are full of migrants these days), I think we lack the sense of community that makes those times as meaningful as they should be. And yes, as a regular member of that church, on days when there aren’t a lot of speakers and the regulars are absent, I feel the need to stand up simply to fill in the vacant spot, to show the new people how it is supposed to work. Something tells me that’s not quite what is supposed to happen. You do that in theatre productions, not in church services.
But I think the part I find both most and least comprehensible in church is the time of confession. Before we read a communal confession of sin aloud, there is a time of silence for personal prayer and reflection. Yes, time for devotion, for the “quieting of hearts” that is so frequently stressed, and, in my opinion, one of the more spiritual times of the service. Overall, I think this a very good thing–but:
Once, when he was apparently focusing on things other than those intended, Sydney kept track of how long that time of silence lasted: 50 seconds. And that was a longer stretch than many. In 50 seconds I have barely warmed to my theme. I’m still working through the small stuff, and you all probably know by now that I’m not particularly bashful; I talk fast, think fast, and generally frustrate Sydney by not slowing down. I can cover a lot of ground in 50 seconds, but I’m always feeling as if I’ve really just gotten through the introduction. It’s just about the time that I feel a twinge of “yeah, umhmm, I’m there with you” that I’m jolted out of prayer, thought, and mind by the voice of the guy up front, resuming the service. So often I feel dragged along, not ready to move forward, wondering where the time is for spiritual stuff.
And yet, as a person whose brain is usually leapfrogging through the days of the week, sketching in my schedule, I’m admittedly far too aware of the time myself. Sunday, as my students know all too well, is a time of stress at a college. Having relaxed on Saturday, Sunday is often the hardest-working day of the week. If I’m racing to get home, to get lunch down us and into our textbooks, who can really settle into the time of silence in the way that is intended?
The tug of the clock even during church is what got me to ask Sydney if we could institute some kind of Sabbath time on Sundays. Time to garden, to reach out to friends, to have talks and care for each other, to read literature on Christianity that I have had on the shelf for a long time without actually opening it. That means bucking the academic calendar, and it will probably need tweaking, but it has really taken the pressure off time at church. Now, if we could only get the rest of the church to follow suit, I could really get into the time of silence and actually begin to think I’m getting somewhere.
Erin
Alan Schmierer