Belonging

Belonging

12.27.11

Every year, our church does a Christmas candlelight service that is mostly music with a short sermon. They do one service on the 23rd and two on the 24th, and for a lot of people, it’s the only time they will go to church. It’s kind of an open house to the community, and it’s a really lovely time.

Last year’s service was really our first exposure to the church, and is what I think started me on this journey to faith. The music was great, the message was thought-provoking, and it left me wanting more. In fact, I remember saying to The Accountant that I wished we could have stayed for a second service, and I couldn’t wait for next year.

Fast forward about eleven months, and there I was, a new Christian, loving the worship team (the group at church responsible for the music), and meeting with the worship director to talk about joining the team. I had mentioned to my coworker (remember, she is the pastor’s wife – such a funny connection in all of this) that I’d love to be involved in the Christmas Eve services in some way (any way), and the worship director asked if I’d like to read the scripture.

It felt like a huge job. Very important, too important for someone so new and who had never read scripture aloud in her life. Oh, and there would be a spotlight on me as I read, would I mind?

But I really wanted to be involved. So I said yes.

I practiced the readings, I prepared my little binder of notes, I attended rehearsal and got used to the wireless mic and the insanely bright spotlight. I prayed and prayed and prayed that I would be able to speak eloquently, not be too nervous, not completely mess up and say the wrong thing.

It was incredible.

The first service was a little nervewracking. I may have said the word “agreed” instead of “decreed” and I MAY have called the city “Jelusarem” instead of “Jerusalem” but was far more relaxed on Christmas Eve and really enjoyed myself. By the time we were done the second service, I was wishing we had three or four more, because I had really found my groove and was having fun. The last service that night passed by far too quickly.

Our pastor’s message was a poignant one. The theme was pretty simple: finishing up a month-long series called “Crucial Questions,” the theme of the night was, “will you make room for Jesus?” He spoke about the innkeeper who had no room for Mary and Joseph and what a business bonanza he missed out on (he could have put up a Vegas-esque sign that said “Son of God born here,” charged $129.99 a night for the Jesus suite, and thrown in some fruitcake). He talked about the reasons we DON’T make room for Jesus – the busy mind syndrome, the crowded heart syndrome, the satisfied life syndrome – and a major reason why we should (He will bring you peace). And then he said that making room for Jesus is easy, and all you have to know is three words: INVITE HIM IN. It was powerful, to say the least.

Here’s the funny thing. We invited some people to the services: my mom and grandmother, and our next door neighbours, who had invited us to THEIR Christmas church concert, which we attended the week before.

My mom and grandmother came to the early service on Christmas Eve. My mom loves music, so I thought she would enjoy at least that part of it, but the rest was a toss up. She thinks we attend church solely because we like the music, and she knew I was involved somehow in the service but didn’t know until she arrived that I was reading scripture. I think she was a little put off by it. I obviously didn’t see her reaction to any of it because I was up at the front and she was in the very back row closest to the door, but I caught up with her in the lobby after the show and asked what she thought of it.

“You were the best part,” she said. I laughed and told her she didn’t have to say that (thinking it was just a mom thing). She said, “no. Really.”

I asked if she enjoyed the music, and she shrugged and said, “it was too high.” And then they left. I laughed about it with The Accountant, and my coworker pointed out that my mom just can’t be gracious at all, about anything, ever, which is so true. She just has no grace within her. In any case, it didn’t take away from MY enjoyment of the evening.

Our neighbours came to the last service, which surprised and pleased us, since we had only told them about it a day or so before. Strong Christians themselves, they attend a church that is quite different from ours – their congregation is huge, about 1,300 members who “fight” for space in the 850-seat auditorium, whereas our church is smaller and the sanctuary only holds about 300 people. We didn’t know quite what they would think of the service (their Christmas concert was VERY glittery and glitzy) but when we spoke to them before it started they commented on how pretty the church was.

When we caught up with them after the service, I asked what they had thought.

“I feel like I’ve been coming here my entire life,” he said. “What an incredible, powerful service.”

“Oh I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” I said.

“Oh, it was wonderful. I was definitely meant to be here tonight,” he told me, putting his hand over his heart. “I feel so edified. That is one good pastor you have – he really speaks the word of the Lord.”

Todd, our pastor, asked me later what my mom had thought, and I told him she had made a quick exit but of course there’s no telling what would happen inside her heart now. I also told him what our neighbours had said, and joked that I was “batting .500 for the night.”

As we left the church that night, I laughed to The Accountant about my mom and her reaction to the whole thing. She can’t wrap her mind around faith at all, which is totally okay. I just do wish that she could be a little bit more respectful of people who can.

Our neighbours’ reaction, however, left me feeling warm inside, because they echoed exactly how I felt last Christmas. At the rehearsal a couple days ago, we prayed together and then Todd commented on how almost exactly a year ago I had attended my first service and now look where I was. Someone else said, “and now you’re stuck with us! You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family, so you’re stuck with us.”

A year ago, I felt that I was meant to be there, and that maybe this was a place I could belong. A year later… I think I do.