Church of my dreams

It’s been a few months since I went to church, but last night the clouds opened and the drought finally broke.

My break with Point Community Church finally came this summer when the church elders made it clear that they had no use for me, my experience or my enthusiasms. Paul tells Timothy that anyone who desires to be a leader in church desires a good thing, but I guess some things are too good to share. Over the past 15 years I’ve been turned away from leading Bible studies, starting outreach ministries, launching a drama ministry, revamping the VBS program and getting involved in other ways. When the answer wasn’t a direct no, it was a silence that persisted until I gave up, went away, and slowly lost interest in participating in the service at all.

I’ve commented ironically once or twice that I could have a PhD at cleaning the floor and they’d still ask me just to wipe down the water fountain.

The final break came when the church’s lead and founding pastor departed. I offered the board of elders my knowledge and experience with finding organization leaders and I was told no, with no explanation. Not “Thank you, but after careful consideration we think being on the school board and leading a successful search for a new school director involves a different skillset from a pastoral search,” not “After talking it over with you, we’ve decided to go in a different direection at this time,” and not even “We think having two uvulae makes you ceremonially unclean and ill-suited for a spiritual purpose like this.” Just no. They’d appointed themselves to the task by their own authority and didn’t want anyone else getting involved.

The only comment I got was “We’re sorry you’re bothered by bothersome behavior.” When I left, the message wasn’t “We see we’ve caused harm, how can we restore the relationship?” but “Better luck next place!”

Sundays since have been spent at home, not even wanting to think about church.

Until last night.

Last night, I hitched a ride with my close, personal friend Phil and I set out to visit a church I’d never been to. It was an adventure getting there in his truck. We went over hills and through tunnels, and once we arrived it reminded me of church in Haiti. For a moment I was worried I wasn’t dressed right, until I saw the man next to me was in bare feet.

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” I asked. (That’s a question I ask in a lot of my dreams.)

“Does it matter?” he asked back. “Just worship.”

So we did. We sang. Fervently. Enthusiastically. Maybe it was a shared dream, a shelter for weary believers burned out by abusive, indifferent or ill-suited churches to meet, some place rooted in a common subconscious, so they could worship while they slept. Maybe it was just me, on my own, reaching out from my brokenness to connect with something transcendental.

But you know something?

Either way, mission accomplished.