I took a sabbatical from the church from May 14 to August 14, dates that seemed poignant after 14 years of full-time ordained ministry. Travel and illness canceled a few plans, but I did worship in six different churches of various denominations and sizes from sea to shining sea—Chapel Hill, North Carolina, to Marin City, California.
Of these visits, four churches were small and informal; two were big steeple congregations. I wore my Birkenstocks to all services, however, because I was on sabbatical from church shoes.
Three churches had coffee and donuts before the service and three after worship. I signed in as a visitor on a fellowship pad, an index card, and my iPhone through a QR code. Two churches promised to make a small donation to a local food pantry in my name since I was a first-time visitor.
I heard a professionally paid soloist belt out the Lord’s Prayer, and a tween drummer hit a snare drum. I worshiped with bands, projectors, organs and hymnals. I sang my favorite hymn, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”
I listened to sermons by four pastors and two guest preachers. My two buddies both preached, and they each knocked it out of the park. A former seminary classmate sang before her sermon and brought me to tears. At Pittsburgh Theological Seminary’s commencement service, I heard a sermon by one of my favorite journalists, Michele Martin of National Public Radio. One of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, greeted a congregation over the Zoom call (she was in the ER with a friend). I wish I had met each of them.
I shook lots of hands, drank a customary cup of coffee, and left the donuts to the kids. I took no selfies.
When I was local, I saw worshippers I knew — some from the neighborhood, a few who used to belong to the church that I serve as pastor. When I told one such person that I was happy she found a church home, she smiled. “You made me a Presbyterian!” I winked and apologized for that, and then we had a good laugh.
While I did not attend mass at the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona, Arizona, I did visit a sanctuary among the red rock formations, one of which is supposed to look like the Madonna and Child. Inside the sanctuary hangs a giant statue of Jesus crucified on the tree of life. According to the instructions, I waited in line and stood in the exact spot where the statue looked into my eyes. But I saw no look of tortured anguish or despair; rather, a hint of bemusement around the corners of his mouth, like What did you expect?
Everywhere I went, I tried not to have expectations. I did not want to compare the size of the children’s program to my church or the effectiveness of the sermon to my own style. I didn’t want to analyze or be critical of anything. I wanted only to give thanks. And, of course, wiggle my toes in my Birkenstocks.
I said both the traditional and ecumenical versions of the Apostles Creed. I asked forgiveness for my debts, my trespasses, and my sins, as well as my debtors, those who trespass against me, and those who have sinned against me.
I had Communion four times, all by intinction, and as I walked back to my seat, whether it was a folding chair or a pew, I prayed, “Thank you, God, for I have tasted and seen that you are good.”
