Confessions of a Spirtual Snob

There’s a story I’ve been trying to tell you for quite some time now. It took place back in October and ever since then, virtually every day, I sit down at the computer and attempt to put it all together. It just never seems to come out the right way.

 It’s not so much a case of writer’s block in fact it is just the opposite. What I want to share with you was such a powerful experience that I know- if told correctly- it should be the best thing I’ve ever written. And yet, no matter how much I struggle, whatever comes out on paper just seems to be lacking the true essences of the moment. The worse thing about trying to write isn’t so much figuring out what you want to say; instead it’s always in finishing what you failed to get off to a perfect start.

That Sunday morning back in October really did seem like the perfect beginning. Not just to the day, but perhaps even to a new career and maybe even a new me.

For the first time ever I was asked be a guest speaker. A church in Leland, North Carolina invited me to address its congregation.  They were actually using my appearance, along with that of a traveling Southern Gospel singer, to drum up new members. The pastor had published thousands of flyers and paid to have them inserted in the local newspaper. This may have been a small country church, but oh, how it seemed like something so big. It was only a matter of time before I’d be playing in bigger venues.

My plan was to talk about community. After all, when you think about it, the hundreds of people who’d show up were actually shoppers.  They were really just folks searching around for the perfect spiritual home. I’d tell them that they can worship God anywhere, that they didn’t need to belong to a church to do that, and yet that there is something undeniable that you cannot get when you go it alone. How important it is to surround yourself with other believers- only then do you understand what it’s like to be held accountable.

 The speech would include a long section on my first impressions, misconceptions really, of what it meant to belong to a church. As a child it always seemed like appearance mattered most.  To us the cliché “Put on your Sunday Best” didn’t just refer to your clothes, it went far beyond that, it really had more to do with the entire image you projected. Back then being a churchgoer meant playing the role of a problem free individual who magically had it all figured out.  If there was something wrong, some type of crisis, something traumatic, you simply failed to reveal it. Instead you masked it under the smiling faces of the All American Family.

This type of church meant mom and dad never fought, that the kids always obeyed and honored their parents, that there was never a worry about how that month’s mortgage payment would be made, or how to afford braces for your daughter or Little League for your sons.  The problem-free lifestyle only lasted for that one hour.  As soon as we got in the car, and started fighting about where to go to lunch, the reality sunk in- even to a young child- we were  not exactly the Brady Bunch and no where near whom we just pretended to be.

The feeling of fakeness probably keeps a lot of people away. If you’re lucky though you get to come back. Because as an adult you discover that being part of a church, being part of a community, has nothing to do with covering up the pain but everything to do with sharing it.

Pacing outside the church in Leland my mind was rehearsing the talk. I knew what scripture I’d quote and even the humorous anecdotes I’d share. That’s when I first saw him. Just a few yards away from me was a man in his fifties doing the same thing- aimlessly walking back and forth. It was clear that he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I watched as he sat down on the bumper of his mini-van. Just a few feet above him, on the rear windshield, was a pink cancer ribbon and the words “in loving memory of my wife.”

“I am sorry about your loss.” Even as the words were coming out of my mouth they seemed so trite.

“Thank you,” he told me. “We just buried her on Wednesday.”

The two of us didn’t talk that long. Our conversation was interrupted when we were waved inside. Things were apparently getting underway. There was only one problem, a big problem; no one- I mean no one- showed up! If you took the Pastor and his family out of the mix, if you didn’t count the traveling Gospel singer and his wife, all you had left was six people. Probably the same six who showed up week after week.

“Hey, someone is coming!”

The shriek came from a man sitting near the window. I looked out to see a gray SUV pulling into the parking lot. I recognized the vehicle right away. It belongs to my boss. He was coming out to support me. It was a nice gesture but as I watched him get out of the car I wished he had stayed home.  I felt bad for being embarrassed, but I was embarrassed all the same.

Part of it was the people around me were so excited that someone had actually showed up that I was ashamed that it was someone I invited and not someone who responded to their massive advertising campaign. But it was more than that, much more. I was also embarrassed that my boss would associate me with this turnout. After all I belonged to one of these massive, modern day, mega churches. Some of our small groups had more members than this entire congregation.

The traveling gospel singer went on before me. His wife pressed a button on a lap top computer and suddenly music started to play. The vocalist belted away holding on to a microphone that I am not even sure was plugged in.  This was nothing like the 8 piece band that performs every week at my church.

 My speech was nothing like it was supposed to be either. It didn’t make sense to talk about community. What community? We didn’t even have enough people to fill a booth at a restaurant. I tried my best to sound profound, but basically just him-hawed around and got off the stage as quickly as possible.

After my performance the pastor introduced the same man who I had talked to outside.  It was a bit of a surprise because he wasn’t on the official agenda. The man had no intention of giving a speech; he just wanted to give thanks. Holding back the tears he told everyone how much he appreciated what they had done for him in the past few days. He talked about the long illness that took his wife and the courage that she showed. He said if it wasn’t for this church, this little country church that he would never have been able to get through this. And then he said; “We may be small in number but we’re big in heart.”

As he talked I started to sink further and further into my chair.  His words were convicting me. Some time along the way I had turned into a spiritual snob. How did that happen? Where and when did I start putting so much emphasis on numbers and size? It never occurred to me before, but bigger isn’t necessarily better. Certainly there are people, even in my own church, who get lost in the shuffle and never feel a connection? Something like that couldn’t happen in this country church. Here it is impossible to mask your feelings or to hide your pain.  It is simply too small for you to get away with that.

I left the church, on that autumn Sunday, with very mixed emotions.  There were feelings of failure, my speech fell far short of the mark and yet I had gained so much. In the ironies of ironies I had come with the hopes of talking about community, only to end up seeing it in action.