Last Sunday I visited my oldest daughter and her family near Nashville. I drove up to take part in my newest grandbaby’s…er…grandSON’s dedication service at their church. They have always gone to a progressive, somewhat charismatic church, so I was not surprised when her email giving directions also included a disclaimer that earplugs were available at the information counter in the lobby (they were not needed, by the way).
You couldn’t have planned a better juxtaposition if you tried. When we turned onto the road for the church, to our right sat a very formal chuch-looking Methodist church with its stained glass and tall, skyward steeple. Grace Center sat opposite in an old school building. Both churches seemed to have rather full parking lots, so it was obvious one wasn’t really in competition with the other.
We walked into Brittany’s church and found a very warm, friendly atmosphere. People were genuinely wanting to help us find our way around. Rooms were decorated beautifully, and the Christian Education closet was stocked plentifully. There was a small reception planned for all the families who were taking part in the dedication. Again, everyone smiled and talked and generally seemed pleased to be there.
I immediately knew I liked the place.
It wasn’t until I walked into the sanctuary that I really knew the place had something for everyone. There were old and young mingling together. Blacks and whites and Hispanics and more were seated together. Teens gathered around the front stage in their torn jeans and hip-hop hats. Starbucks cups were everywhere. The band looked like they might have been playing down on Broadway the night before (how could you do anything in Nashville and NOT have great music?). People walked around in high heels, cowboy boots, sneakers, bare feet, sandals, and more.
The pastor began the service by asking people to NOT gather around the stage in a great mosh-pit of worship (OK, my words, not his) in order to leave room for the families who’s babies were being dedicated. After that part of the service concluded, young and old alike came down in front of the stage to dance and sing as the band played melodious worship songs that built layer upon layer as the sounds of instruments and voices built to a great crescendo of worship and then backed away again to leave people room to meditate on the experience of it all.
A man got up to make announcements and spoke with a beautiful Irish brogue and maneuvered through the slides of announcements on his iPhone. The pastor was in jeans with his shirt untucked sipping water from a plastic water bottle until time to speak. His message was clean, clear, concise, and entirely personal. And his call to action at the end resulted in people simply not wanting to leave the place as they searched for ways to fill a hunger for God he had so eloquently placed before them.
This, to me, was church. Ecclessia, the called out ones. The community of faith that springs from all walks of life. There were no socio-economic boundaries. No racial divides. No mutterings about not getting to sing a particular style of song (yes, we even sang a hymn somewhere in there). I had never been before, but I immediately felt at home. It was that same feeling of acceptance I have felt at every church Brittany and Dave have chosen to attend.
I came away wondering how to translate that acceptance and tolerance to my classroom. How could I get kids to just accept one another without all the drama that comes with middle school years? How could I plan my lessons so that I truly have something for everyone? And, most important, how could I get that band to play in my classroom everyday?