Church Search

To be honest, the search for a tribe actually started before the loss of the tribe.  Kelly and I (with V pregnant and M in San Diego) decided we needed to expand the group a bit and make some new friends.  We spent hours discussing how we might meet the right people.  We talked about trying church, volunteering, joining meet up groups.  How hard could it be?  After all, we had already found each other. 

Church seemed like a good place to start.  We made a list of every church around, starting with (of course), the one walking distance from my house.  Its website “welcome page” gave a litany of sins the church wouldn’t stand for.  We qualified for at least six of them, so immediately decided we couldn’t be episcopal.    We met a guy in a bar (yep) who invited us to his church in South County, held in what I vaguely remember to be some sort of theatre.  It certainly didn’t feel like church, the rock band (sigh) was waaaaay too loud, and Bar Guy didn’t introduce us to anyone, although he greeted everyone.  We went, and we left, without meeting a single person, telling ourselves on the way back to Newport it was too far anyway, and who wants to wear earplugs to church?  

                                                         No rock bands in Notre Dame de Paris

Next up: the Presbyterian churches.  Presbyterians are pretty educated, so we had high hopes.  We really liked the first one.  It was the closest to my house, with lots of people milling about.  No one actually welcomed us, but we went several times anyway, figuring at some point someone would have to at least acknowledge our existence.  One Sunday K couldn’t go with me, so I actually went alone (five points for bravery).  I remember this Sunday distinctly.  It was 9/11 Remembrance Day.  Unfortunately something about the church that day brought me back to my old life, and uprooted some awful and awkward divorce emotions.  I couldn’t help myself—tears streamed down my face.  I guess since it was a 9/11 service it was acceptable; lots of people were tearful that day.  People looked at me, I was mortified by my enormous public display of tears, but no one said a word to me.  To cap it off, I looked across the room and saw my ex.  In my new church.  Staring at me and all of my tears.  So, that ended rather quickly.

After debating many others (crossing off the loud rock band churches, churches with rainbows and stars on their websites, and those we imagined to be full of botox, fake boobs, and tattooed former prisoners—no offense, but we are in search of a tribe here), we ended up at Presbyterian #2.  With a gorgeous architectural sanctuary, clean and streamlined, the feel was calming and open.  The people were warm (OK, this first visit was actually the only time strangers spoke to us, but they were the sweetest old couple ever), and the church is all about welcoming everyone.  “Open arms, open hearts, open minds,” they say (or something to that effect).  Beautiful.  Unfortunately, everyone our age was married with kids.  We went week after week, hoping to feel more spiritual or purposeful, but left each week knowing there wasn’t community for us.  And worse, the pastor announced his retirement, a temporary one was brought in, and the spiritual environment we had enjoyed became flat and thoughtless.  And so we left.

One Christmas my mom, visiting from up north, begged to be taken to Megachurch#1 for the Christmas Eve service.  What could I do?  There was no time to find a doctor and beg for valium, or feign pancreatitis or adult onset diabetes, so away we went.  She absolutely loved it.  She saw Christmas Spirit all around her.  I saw TV cameras swooping overhead, and yellow and fuchsia laser beams flashing through the clouds pouring out of fog machines, in what appeared to be the set of an Old Navy commercial.  When finally the end came and it was time to sing Silent Night by candlelight (who doesn’t love that?), I drew a breath (now safe, as the “fog” had mostly dissipated by now), and looked around the room at the beautiful glow of thousands of candles.  My eye was drawn to the large windows on the side of the sanctuary, just in time to see gobs of fake plastic snow being dropped down, as if in the middle of wherever we were in OC it was actually snowing.  And just as suddenly as the candlelight moment began, it was over, quickly replaced by a rambunctious rendition of Feliz Navidad, laser beams and all, and I found myself wondering if this is really what people want out of their spiritual journeys.

                                                               Oddly, no laser beams

 Never one to give up (confession: there is a HUGE gap between Megachurches 1 and 2, I am a total quitter, but somehow becoming desperate to find new friends at this point), I finally asked an acquaintance of mine to take me to her Megachurch.  (Incidentally, I previously met a woman I thought would be a good friend—she is smart, successful, independent, witty, and also happens to attend Megachurch #2.  At one point I asked if I could join her at church.  I was having a minor but scary medical procedure and thought I could use a little support.  The service she was attending coincided with my procedure, so I asked if there was another.  There were many, actually, but she told me she was sticking with her plan and I could find the other times on the website, along with directions, etc.  Um, thanks.)  So back to attempt #2 to attend Megachurch #2.  Before I left, as I was trying to delete all of the negative thoughts and expectations about how awful it would probably be, my friend Rebecca sent a text: “How are you today my friend?”  “Going to church.”  I expected a “gasp!” or a “oh dear, what did you do now?” reply, but ever so aptly, she responded, “Hope it’s a source of peace and grace and hope.  Hugs!”  Oh, so you’re saying I need an attitude check?  Noted.  When I arrived my friend texted, “At the café, next to the lake.”  (Lake?  Is it past the candy cane forest?)  I did find her, past what appeared to be a ski chalet (the chapel) and the lake, between the café and the hamburger stand (you can’t make this up).  Thankfully another friend was with her, baby in tow, so instead of going into the strangely dark (?) sanctuary filled with thousands of people, we sat in what appeared to be a quarantine room filled with squirmy toddlers, sleeping infants and everyone with ADD, watching the service on three large screen TVs.  I’ll admit, it wasn’t as bad as I expected.  There was a visiting Presbyterian pastor with a graduate theology degree and a PhD in psychology, so he was well-spoken and engaging.  I may go back.  But whether or not there is community may take time to determine.  I met no one.   There really should be a manual:  How to Visit a Megachurch and Find The People You Want to Find, Who Are Smart and Clever and Not At All Weird, While Avoiding All the Weirdos and Creepy Old Men Who Will Undoubtedly Try to Corner You by the Hamburger Stand.  Perhaps they should label the tiered stadium sections: Super Judgmental Bible Thumpers, Fresh From the Tattoo Parlor, People Who Don’t Want to Hug Strangers, Prison Release Section, Handsome Foreigners, Those Who Think Its OK to Wear Shorts to Church, etc.  That way I’d be sure to find my people.  Maybe I’ll send the pastor a letter.  In the meantime, the church search is To Be Continued….