The Reluctant Worshiper

Something today at church clicked. Perhaps it was the man sitting in front of me playing solitaire on his cell phone (ironic, the game that shares a synonym for "being alone"), or perhaps it was my son throwing a tantrum in Sunday school class. Maybe it was the youth director asking me if anything was going on at home (regarding Cruz), or the snow falling lazily outside. Maybe it was the talk I had with Rob about another friend who will be spending his first Christmas without his wife who recently passed. Or maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it hasn't clicked yet, and that's the problem.

The advent season, along with a strong message from the church to spend less (money) and give more (time, love), it goes without saying that the time of season brings out people to church who normally don't attend during the year. It's been a complete transformation to see how I expect to go to church on a regular basis, rather than the former, when i only attended for weddings, baptisms or on religious holidays like Easter and Christmas. You can tell there's a new crowd at church. Sometimes your favorite seat is filled with the butt of another person whom you've never seen. You might sit a row closer, a row back, you see the back of heads you never knew before. Sometimes you have a new-member ceremony or a baptism, like this morning.

Two babies were introduced to our church family. Beautiful kids. One of them rested on a relative's shoulder in front of us and suckled on her hands. The young man sitting next to her kept his head down for much of the service (even during the morning "welcomes" he made a point not to shake anyone's hand), and at one time I stood to sing, I realized he had been playing solitaire on his phone. Another gentleman, about a row up, fidgeted with his phone and had the look of frustration about him. He sat with his back halfway turned as if to leave at any moment. A man on a fire drill routine.

I saw myself in both of them. The reluctant worshiper, like myself over the past few weeks, with eyes on something else. Your phone, the church pamphlet, a pretty woman. Mind elsewhere. Lunch, what failure God is making you see right now (or the failure you're choosing to focus on at the moment. God has to see us in a loving light, or he'd be done with us for sure), an attractive woman's neckline.

I wondered of my emotions were on my face, exposed for everyone to see like these two men. Was I upset that my church family did not show their true love of Christ to these two men enough for them to look up from their phones, enough to smile, enough to shake someone's hand? Was I upset that I was not worshiping to my fullest, haven't been in my personal life?

Leaving church and walking up to class, I stopped by to see a friend. I've been chosen again to be part of the next Emmaus Men's Walk in March and told him I'd be ready. Will I? Will it be the kick in the pants I need? Will it give me the energy to pick myself up off the mat?

Then once in class, I see the look on my son's face. Downcast, surly. Like the two men in church, both my son and I resemble now. Two faces not ready for church today. Two faces that need some focus and adjustment. Two faces that need some discipline. But love too. Lots of love.

I sat for the remainder of the hour, my wife teaching class among the chatter and laughter of our beautiful fourth graders. I spent most of my time trying to reassemble an eraser that fits together in a 6-piece puzzle. One of the girls had broken it apart last week, and I was struggling to find the proper way to fix it. One of the kids (his name is Clay, another bit of irony in this fantastic, puzzling day) asked to try. We both couldn't make sense of it until almost the end of class. Until we noticed the pattern. We even broke it apart again to see if we could recreate the magic. Unbroken. Broken. Magic. Faith. Seems like a pattern, doesn't it?