![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"Some have wandered away from these and turned to meaningless talk." - 1 Tim 1:6
If you had happened to be on a certain road in Bolton this morning, around 10 AM, you might've seen a young black man go striding by. Head held high, carriage determined, jaw set, he clasps a sweater and a Bible in the crook of his arm as he proceeds to the church.
If so, I don't know who you would've been looking at. I would've been bawling like a baby.
It had started some time earlier, when I was putting the finishing touches on my ensemble. I had opted against a tie, preferring to leave the pinstriped blue shirt I was wearing with my grey suit unbuttoned at the top, to give a more casual appearance. This appearance was somewhat undercut by the fact that I burst into tears a few seconds later.
It wasn't like it was entirely unexpected. This was, after all, my first Sunday away from my folks. I missed the normal Sunday procedure; me sleeping in, Mum saying if I had wanted pancakes I should've come out earlier, that sort of thing. I was expecting some sort of qualm, but figured that my occasional bouts of depression had given me resistance to that sort of thing. Right up until I felt the familiar prickling.
Nonetheless, I stuffed what would prove to be a woefully inadequate number of tissues into my pocket, and went to the church I had seen nearby. I arrived with red eyes, tears running down my cheeks, tissues clutched in hand, and a runny nose. Look at the boy, I'm sure the ushers thought, crying before he even gets to the chapel.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm a little emotionally compromised," I responded.
"What?"
"Weepy."
Homesick.
I kept climbing the stairs.
That particular church was a franchise operation. They had an uncomfortable amount of emphasis on speaking in Tongues. If the Holy Spirit came upon you, the reasoning seemed to be, so did the Tongues. Seeing as, despite my fervent efforts, I had only managed to speak in one Tongue my entire life-unless they wanted me to take a tilt at it my high-school level French-I was left standing, distinctly uncomfortable, while people talked on around me. I was discomfited more by my dwindling supply of tissues. I eventually resorted to the tactic of reusing old tissues until they were too sodden to be of use to anyone, then surrendered the battle. My men could hold back the nasal front by occasional snorts, but the tear ducts were a lost cause.
They also asked, early on, who had invited people, and how many. I don't truck with that sort of thing. Not that people shouldn't ask other people to church-I'm ashamed to say I've never had the courage or conviction to try it myself-but using it as a sort of means of keeping score.
I this church was apparently one of several owned, or inspired, or something by a "Pastor C-". There was a large banner outside and in mentioning C-'s upcoming festival in South Africa, and we watched a segment of a recorded sermon, in addition to the in-house pastor's. According to C-'s devotional-now in its 10th year in print!-there seems to be a significant amount of merchandise, most of which seems to be recorded sermons. Also, it has branches in the US, Canada, and France.
In case you were wondering, I had stopped blubbering about an hour in, and had downgraded my emotional hurricane to "Sniffling", with a small craft advisory. I was even calm enough to get into the semi-discreet yawning stage people get into when they stayed up too late Saturday night despite knowing they had Church in the morning.
After the sermon-or whatever it was-came the offering. Each person filled an envelope with their donation, filled in the form on the front-for tax reasons-then put it on the altar. I dumped in 5 quid, then smarted under the gaze of the church on me and the rest of the people making donations. I don't like giving publicly. Jesus had a parable about it, and I still rankle from an incident a few months ago when a church member in the pew in front of me turned around and asked my why I didn't put anything in. Her intrusion in a private matter completely ruined the rest of the service for me, and I think she knew, from my responding cool stare, that she had put a foot amiss.
The sequence after the service resembled certain high-pressure sales environments. Those new to the church were sat in the front row, and were introduced to the departments-I'm sorry-cells of the church, then asked which one they wanted to join. This is shortly after we were told we wouldn't be put on the spot. I demurred-both times they asked the question-and when they asked for my number, said I didn't have it memorized. I had it on my phone, which was in my pocket, but it wasn't memorized. I filled out the little card they gave us with my name and dorm name-good luck locating me in two dozen flats with six rooms each-left the box that said "do you want to be a member of this church?" blank, declined the free soda, and wasted no time shaking the dust from my feet.
I'll have to talk to the school's chaplaincy tomorrow. Looks like I'm going church shopping.
If so, I don't know who you would've been looking at. I would've been bawling like a baby.
It had started some time earlier, when I was putting the finishing touches on my ensemble. I had opted against a tie, preferring to leave the pinstriped blue shirt I was wearing with my grey suit unbuttoned at the top, to give a more casual appearance. This appearance was somewhat undercut by the fact that I burst into tears a few seconds later.
It wasn't like it was entirely unexpected. This was, after all, my first Sunday away from my folks. I missed the normal Sunday procedure; me sleeping in, Mum saying if I had wanted pancakes I should've come out earlier, that sort of thing. I was expecting some sort of qualm, but figured that my occasional bouts of depression had given me resistance to that sort of thing. Right up until I felt the familiar prickling.
Nonetheless, I stuffed what would prove to be a woefully inadequate number of tissues into my pocket, and went to the church I had seen nearby. I arrived with red eyes, tears running down my cheeks, tissues clutched in hand, and a runny nose. Look at the boy, I'm sure the ushers thought, crying before he even gets to the chapel.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm a little emotionally compromised," I responded.
"What?"
"Weepy."
Homesick.
I kept climbing the stairs.
That particular church was a franchise operation. They had an uncomfortable amount of emphasis on speaking in Tongues. If the Holy Spirit came upon you, the reasoning seemed to be, so did the Tongues. Seeing as, despite my fervent efforts, I had only managed to speak in one Tongue my entire life-unless they wanted me to take a tilt at it my high-school level French-I was left standing, distinctly uncomfortable, while people talked on around me. I was discomfited more by my dwindling supply of tissues. I eventually resorted to the tactic of reusing old tissues until they were too sodden to be of use to anyone, then surrendered the battle. My men could hold back the nasal front by occasional snorts, but the tear ducts were a lost cause.
They also asked, early on, who had invited people, and how many. I don't truck with that sort of thing. Not that people shouldn't ask other people to church-I'm ashamed to say I've never had the courage or conviction to try it myself-but using it as a sort of means of keeping score.
I this church was apparently one of several owned, or inspired, or something by a "Pastor C-". There was a large banner outside and in mentioning C-'s upcoming festival in South Africa, and we watched a segment of a recorded sermon, in addition to the in-house pastor's. According to C-'s devotional-now in its 10th year in print!-there seems to be a significant amount of merchandise, most of which seems to be recorded sermons. Also, it has branches in the US, Canada, and France.
In case you were wondering, I had stopped blubbering about an hour in, and had downgraded my emotional hurricane to "Sniffling", with a small craft advisory. I was even calm enough to get into the semi-discreet yawning stage people get into when they stayed up too late Saturday night despite knowing they had Church in the morning.
After the sermon-or whatever it was-came the offering. Each person filled an envelope with their donation, filled in the form on the front-for tax reasons-then put it on the altar. I dumped in 5 quid, then smarted under the gaze of the church on me and the rest of the people making donations. I don't like giving publicly. Jesus had a parable about it, and I still rankle from an incident a few months ago when a church member in the pew in front of me turned around and asked my why I didn't put anything in. Her intrusion in a private matter completely ruined the rest of the service for me, and I think she knew, from my responding cool stare, that she had put a foot amiss.
The sequence after the service resembled certain high-pressure sales environments. Those new to the church were sat in the front row, and were introduced to the departments-I'm sorry-cells of the church, then asked which one they wanted to join. This is shortly after we were told we wouldn't be put on the spot. I demurred-both times they asked the question-and when they asked for my number, said I didn't have it memorized. I had it on my phone, which was in my pocket, but it wasn't memorized. I filled out the little card they gave us with my name and dorm name-good luck locating me in two dozen flats with six rooms each-left the box that said "do you want to be a member of this church?" blank, declined the free soda, and wasted no time shaking the dust from my feet.
I'll have to talk to the school's chaplaincy tomorrow. Looks like I'm going church shopping.
no subject
It's just like home! :)