How Patient Attention Nurtures the Life of the Church

Having spent over three decades as faithful church attendees, my husband and I were under the assumption one was never asked to visit a pastor in his office for anything other than disciplinary or counseling purposes. Therefore, you can imagine our trepidation when the priest of our new Anglican parish asked us to stop by after we’d been attending services for several weeks. So there we were on a mid-morning summer Thursday, trooping into a yellow-aged fellowship hall with our four kids trailing behind, where we found Father M. in the little kitchen fiddling with the coffee pot.

I wondered if the genial, rather self-deprecating, priest was the same on any given weekday as he was during the few hours we saw him on Sunday mornings. He ushered us into a conference room on the other side of the church and by all appearances, seemed at his leisure sipping coffee while we talked. He listened attentively to our doubts about faith and church, gently answering our questions as if he had all the time in the world. Meanwhile, our children (ages 7 to 12 at the time) were conspicuously quiet throughout this exchange–a feat of obvious self-control. However, much to their chagrin, they did not go unnoticed. It soon became apparent Father M. was thinking of them as our conversation progressed. In fact, I distinctly recall a twinkle sparkle merrily in his eye and an eyebrow twitched as if an idea had suddenly popped into his head. Unable to contain himself any longer, he turned to the children and spoke: 

“Do you all want to know what we have in the closet by the back entrance?”

My reticent children responded with a mix of shrugs and nods.

“I think we ought to go check, don’t you think?”

More nods but this time, a few smiles as well. 

He led us through the hall like a mother duck with six dutiful ducklings following closely behind until we arrived in front of a large closet door. 

“Open it!”

Pushing and nudging (because no one wanted to go first) the children managed to inch their way to the door and opened it. 

“What’s inside?”

“Um, just a few things hanging up and a couple wheelchairs?”

“Perfect! Wheel them out here,” he said, gesturing to the hall.

In a few minutes, two wheelchairs were unfolded side by side in the hallway. 

“You must race them. One sitting, the other pushing- two teams! No one is in the church, so, banning the sanctuary, the hallway is all yours. Just watch the corners! And…GO!”

Levity commenced and we adults left to wrap up our conversation. Though the relative quiet was now delightfully sprinkled with squeals and laughter from down the hall. 

Later, I realized this may have been the first time a pastor had ever paid genuine attention to our children. Their pastoral interactions up to this point had been mainly of the “be good to your momma” Southern Baptist variety with a hand-shake at the door or, even more oblique, a fashionable face on a screen during our brief foray into mainstream evangelicalism. 

This interaction with Father M. and his fun-loving nature revealed more than a tendency for this particular man to understand and appreciate children. What we were given was not a singular moment, but a form of love we continued to see played out in many ways during our time at the church. People were recognized as individual souls, down to the smallest child, with their unique qualities noticed and cherished. What we had found at this church was a place without pretense or expectation. It felt the way a family ought to love: grace for the imperfect and forgiveness for the repentant. And where this love dwells, joy has freedom to bubble forth.

A church which foremost follows God’s command to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind…and you shall love your neighbor as yourself” is likely to be a church attractive to those who are lonely and weary of the emptiness of self-love, especially in a society that seeps with individualism.

When I was growing up, childhood felt like forever. A year was an eternity. One of the most difficult waiting periods of time was the 4-6 weeks for an order to arrive by mail. It felt like ages. Today, I am always surprised when my children tell me how quickly the days fly by, that they can hardly believe a birthday or particular holiday is nearly upon them. For myself, it amazes me that if I procrastinate, I can order one of their school literature books on a weekend and have it come for them by class on Monday. (This only serves to encourage my procrastination rather than dissuade it.) It saddens me sometimes how fast life seems (or is that just me getting older?). Life feels more transient than ever despite my apparently failing attempts at living a simple life. It is hard not to notice that families split more than they reconcile, relocation has become akin to progress, and busyness means productivity. Stability is just a pie in the sky. One of the most frequent sayings I have heard within school and family circles is the hope that “things settle down in a few years.” 

My family and I have moved 6 times in almost 15 years, including an international stint, and every move is more wearying than the last. The temptation towards callousness is powerful. And yet, despite the miles and years and varying communities, there was a sturdy, anchoring thread that remained with us and was never lost: the Church. Of course, what is even more incredible is that this thread is not unique to one era or generation, but can be followed back over many centuries and continents and peoples. The Church has been woven in deep and strong.

One of the greatest and most fantastic ironies of the Church is that its strength and numbers have grown exponentially under times of severe persecution. In an early letter (the Epistle to Diognetus), the unknown author writes: “…[Have you not seen Christians?] flung to the wild beasts to make them deny their Lord, and yet remain undefeated? Do you not see how the more of them suffer such punishments, the larger grows the number of the rest? These things do not look like the work of man; they are the power of God, and the evident token of His presence.”

Ignatius of Antioch wrote in a letter to the Church of Smyrna, “…To what end have I given myself up to perish by fire or sword or savage beasts? Simply because when I am close to the sword, I am close to God. When I am surrounded by lions, I am surrounded by God.”

There seems to be a longing among mankind to be rooted in that which is enduring. I think of military veterans who still feel a part of the units in which they served decades before, proud of having been part of something bigger than themselves. Many of us feel a strong loyalty to the colleges or universities we attended. There is an uptick of interest in ancestry and DNA searches, revealing a desire to know where we have come from and who we are.

Roger Scruton once wrote that, “Our deepest social need is for the first-person plural of belonging, and to belong is to belong in a place.” We feel a sense of belonging when we are made to feel as if it were a part of us and, in a way, created for us. More than likely, we have all used the phrase “it feels like home” when positively describing a city, church, or community. 

For someone searching for that place but unsure of where to look, modern christianity is eager to fill this void. Churches will go to great lengths adapting into a society that emphasizes utility and function, where creature comforts become the model for attracting more members. The modern church becomes a mere a tool for the purpose of bringing in new people to consume what is offered. Those who come, come to take, not receive. I have often wondered how many of those multitudes would show up to worship at any given time if the coffee shops, merchandise, children’s programs, comfortable chairs, or even the buildings themselves were stripped away. Are these churches attracting the heaven-curious or the consumer? From my experience, I can understand there may be a mix of both. Our time in seeker-friendly churches was not without merit or learning. But think of the cathedrals of old, made with such detail and beauty in their very architecture that our gaze is meant to be drawn upward, toward God. Is utility and comfort doing little else but drawing the eyes toward self?

In an article titled “How To Pick a Church When You Go Off to College,” Joshua Gibbs candidly writes:

Such churches do not command respect or obedience and pride themselves on being just like the world, which means they can be skipped without much notice. These churches ‘build bridges’ with the world, but these bridges are more commonly used to get Christians out than to get non-Christians in.

This raises a question: If church is so easily skipped, does a person truly feel like they belong there?

When people grow tired of the rapidly shifting nature of modern culture, weary of not finding happiness in self-satisfaction, they will find the core of their longing fulfilled in the steadfast, though paradoxical, love of Christ. After all, those who want to find their life must lose it. 

A church filled with this love will brim with joy despite leaky roofs of old buildings, yellowed linoleum, loud children, or long distances traveled. In fact, you are likely to see a sparkle in someone’s eye, participate in shared meals during times of sorrow and celebration, find a place of belonging, and ultimately experience the Presence of Christ. Within the Church, imperfections and foibles are still aplenty. Yet how good it is to find a haven of peace, to hang up the mask of self-preservation used to blend seamlessly into the world. And you never know, you may be encouraged to throw off the gauntlet of caution and, with a wink, take the wheelchair for a spin down the hall.