Church #6 of 10: Halle Halle Helpless

There is a point when you have been in a situation long enough—a job, a school, a family, a dorm, a church—when the people and qualities of the place begin to enter your dreams. I have always been a very vivid dreamer. From nightmares to fantasies, from realistic to magical, I remember nearly every dream I have, and they haunt me throughout the day. Most of the time, I wish I did not remember. The good dreams make me yearn for things I can’t reach and the bad ones frighten me or make me sad.

On November 1^st, I visited an amazing church. It has taken me a long time to write about it because another church has continued to infringe on my spiritual space. I dream of my kids, my family, my friends back in Oberlin, but day or night, my former church keeps entering into my thoughts, preventing me from moving forward. Because my subconscious, unconscious, and consciousness are so wrapped up in the poison that is/was Country Club Congregational, every time I sit down to write about Broadway Church, I get caught-up in memories and grudges of my former life.

I played and sung a wedding of a dear friend at Country Club Congregational a couple weeks ago. The surreal experience brought me to tears more than once. There I was in a place where I knew every keyhole, alarm code, nook, cranny and secret room. I could work the sound system, turn on the lights, and direct people in the right direction. Yet, a place that I knew so well, gave me such a terrible feeling in my stomach. I immediately felt lost and afraid. I felt like I was living a scene from “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I was entering a space that was once my home, seeing people that were once my family, but facing the reality that I never existed there. The home and family that brought me back to Kansas City was nothing more than a nightmare that felt so real, but no one else wanted to admit happened.

When I first walked into Broadway, the extravagant welcome was genuine and careful. I knew that this was a church that had dealt with those hurt by the church, a church that had been hurt by the greater Church itself. I told my mom as we sat down, “The thing I worry about, coming here, is that it will be too much like Country Club.” I don’t even want to be reminded of the good times I had there. I want to be separate, disconnected, and let-go.

But the church that Broadway reminded me of was not the exclusive, hurtful place that I had just left, but the spiritual community in which I felt most comfortable, Peace Community Church in Oberlin. Formerly Southern Baptist, Broadway Church had a long history of challenging the system. The pastor, who had been there for 40+ years, told me of their three strikes with the SBC (Southern Baptist Conference). Strike 1: He refused to preach about hell, damnation and sin. Strike 2: The church hired a woman to be their children’s minister and eventually their co-minister. And Strike 3: The church began to perform holy unions for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered couples. So removed from the family it once had, Broadway begin to function as a non-denominational welcoming community, “Where souls wake up,” as their bulletin said.

I have always been against the big projection screen, but the church used its white wall behind the altar to project song lyrics, in order to save paper (can’t really argue with that). The songs were mix of contemporary praise music with drums, flute/clarinet, piano and a couple lead singers, and a couple good ole’ Southern favorites, on which the preacher played the organ. There were two women spinning and dancing in scarves and skirts, one was playing the tambourine. I felt comfortable and happy. I’ve kind of been searching for something I could see myself being a part of, when really, I should be looking for something that already has a place set-out for me at the table.

The pastor used a Powerpoint carefully and conservatively to illustrate the limitations of the biblical temple. He educated as well as he inspired and my mother said, “These are the things I feel I should have learned all those years growing up in Sunday School, but I’m just learning them now.” After the sermon, one more song, and the fast 75 minutes was over.

I don’t know when I will stop dreaming about my former church…or at least, stop remembering the dreams. I am constantly reliving the abuse and the anguish and I believe it is preventing me from experiencing these other churches to the fullest. Sometimes I think if members of Country Club Congregational acknowledged the hurt they caused so many, including my entire family, I could move past it all. Apologies are unlikely, and even less likely is admission of responsibility. This is a barrier in my mind that I will have to tear down on my own, just like Jesus tore down the walls and curtains of the temple. Only then will I be able to reenter my relationship with God.

Apocalyptic Love Song Stop-Motion Animation

Lisa made a killer (ha ha) stop-motion animation of the love song that Corrigan and I wrote.

Church #5 of 10: Amazing Grace, How Come the Routine

“So your dad must be pretty conservative,” I replied to Rachael, who was sitting on the floor of her bedroom working on music theory homework.

“Conservative?” Rachael inquired, “Why? He’s Methodist Minister.”

“Right…” I didn’t look up from my book.

When I felt Rachael’s eyes on me, I glanced up and put down my highlighter. “I mean, Methodists are pretty conservative, right? So it must be hard since you’re so liberal.”

“Methodists aren’t conservative,” she seemed utterly perplexed.

“Sure they are. My dad grew up Methodist, they told him he was going to hell because he wasn’t saved. And, in my city, there is this giant Methodist Mega-church that totally gets off on ignorance and whatnot. It’s called ‘Church of the Resurrection,’ but I call it ‘Church of the Mega-Erection.’”

“Are you sure they’re Methodists?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m sure. It’s one of those say-a-lot, do-nothing denominations,” I said, without considering that this might offend her.

Rachael’s heart was so genuine and pure that she seemed more concerned than offended. “In the Bay Area, they aren’t like that at all.”

“You mean, you’ve never met a conservative Methodist?” I raised my eyebrows.

“And you’ve never met a liberal one?”

Since that conversation, I have met plenty of liberal Methodists. In addition to Rachael, and her boyfriend, David, I encountered them all over the country, at protests and marches. I realized that in my own city, The Reverend, Mayor, now-Congressman Emanuel Cleaver is a progressive Methodist pastor and politician. But I have not sought them out. I was so proud of my ex-denomination’s national stance on the “tough” issues that I ignorantly pushed aside what I called the “say-a-lot, do-nothing” denominations—Methodists, Presbyterians, and Lutherans.

When visiting Broadway Methodist Church, I expected a congregation much like my ex-church. Elderly, progressive in thought, but unwilling to take much serious action. I also thought I might experience a protestant, slow service, like the Lutheran frenzy. I have worshipped in Methodist churches before and have never been very moved or impressed. What most people find comfortingly traditional, I find annoyingly conventional. The Methodists are a large, well-known denomination, and therefore, easy to criticize. Generalizations fit them.

Broadway Methodist fit-in, but stood-out, much like my beloved friend, Rachael Weasley. I know it may seem odd that I shun tradition and also bask in its glory, but it really depends on how it is presented. I love an homage to the past, a recognition of the spirits and places before us, but I always need movement toward the future. Broadway Methodist kept its beautiful stone structure but built a coffee shop into their fellowship hall. Their piano and organ were old and decrepit, but the music was upbeat and contemporary.

The service was out of the ordinary for this church. A guest preacher/pianist spent the first 40 minutes of the service preaching about “Dancing on the Edge of Mystery.” He told a story, made a point, and brought it home with a song...several times. It was a routine that I could stand to endure every week: using music to give the message, using a message to play the music. Such a powerful and moving interaction gave way to the last 20 minutes, which lived up to the slow, boring Protestantism of which I’m starting to tire.

Broadway Methodist required me to admit that it isn’t routine that I dislike…it is under-stimulation. In fact, I love routine and function well in environments with rules, structures and procedures. But I pace when I teach, sing-along with the radio, and doodle during staff meetings. I think when I’m driving, dream when I’m awake, and type blog entries when I’m sitting in graduate class. In order to be really moved, motivated and involved, I need to be visually, aurally and physically inspired. Most of all, I have to be intellectually enthused. And I’m not claiming to be a highly intelligent academic. Sometimes it takes very little to stimulate my mind. For the first 40 minutes, it worked, for the last 20, it really didn’t.

So I wonder if this is true of Methodists. Are they 2/3 like my friend Rachael, interesting, progressive and welcoming, with significant stimulation? And does the remaining 1/3 just happen to live in the Midwest? Which third was it that knocked on my door within two hours of the service with a coffee mug, homemade bread and a pen? And is that enough to make me go back?

dispatches from the bad-ass side of the family

My sister started a blog. Lately, she's been talking about her trip to Greece for climbing. If you want to see pictures of her halfway up a cliff looking totally badass, and/or read a story about cute kittens, see below:

http://katemcginnis.blogspot.com/

Church #4 of 10: Here I Am, Lord, Really Bored, Lord

Walking into Wilder, it was like an obstacle course to avoid all the smokers. Ducking, shifting, sliding and running, I leapt toward the door while also trying to hold my breath. I was rarely successful, as a disheveled, bearded man on a park bench so often called my name, leisurely, “Meeeegan.” His voice dropped with each word. “Come. Sit.” I concentrated on a smile and turned to face the bench. Cigar smoke in my face mixed with the smell of coffee, I stepped back. “Fred,” I tried not to sigh, or breath for that matter. He had a book open on his lap, cigar in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. It was at this point I could make an excuse and slip away or admit defeat and join him for what would likely be a twenty-minute lecture on the Epistles. Perhaps if I had known that this highly intellectual Lutheran Chaplain would not live much longer, I would have joined my then boss on the park bench any time he beckoned. I was not aware of his fragility, though, so most often, I would politely excuse myself and head into the building.

Have you ever been at a concert, service or event and been so distracted by one thing that the rest of the experience seemed unimportant (and rather dull)? Sunday’s visit to First Lutheran Church proved to be both hilarious and boring. I expect this isn’t due to the denomination or even the congregation, but to the general lack of energy and religious mojo. Therefore, the most exciting aspect of the service was not the adorable toddler who listened attentively during the drab children’s sermon, but rather, his father, on whose lap the boy sat, who was rocking the most awesome mullet I have ever seen.

“Mullet alert,” my mom used the small pew-pencil to scribble on her bulletin.

“Business in the front, partay in the back,” I replied quickly on my paper.

That’s about the time we lost it. In the small congregation, scattered throughout the pews, I don’t doubt that people noticed. Our heads down and lips closed, we tried to get the image out of our heads. The beautifully straight back and the adamantly short front, complete with poofy bangs and an “I can totally pull this off” attitude.

My mom felt guilty, and she swirled dark circles over her writing. But she kept glancing at my bulletin and turning away, shaking with laughter.

This is the first church we visited that had a published statement, on their website, bulletin board and order-of-worship, of openness to all sexual orientations. When my mom asked me what I expected from the service, I realized that I could only think of Garrison Keilor and the late Fred Lassen. I thought of the extreme Reverend Lassen, who seemed a parody of himself; and the satiric comedy of “A Prairie Home Companion,” which presented Lutherans as fierce, but stubborn liberals who had unique, comic identities.

So didn’t this mullet-rocking individual fit in with my ignorant assumptions? Someone confident, welcoming and distinctive presenting themselves quietly, without shame. Was it wrong for me to find humor in this representation? In fact, the mullet was the only passionate, animated part of my experience there. The mullet-man made me sit back and smile before I wrote this, and think twice before being too critical.

The hymns were beautiful selections, but slow and meaningless in presentation. The sermon was the head-down, read-from-a-paper approach with little to no inflection. The place was welcoming, in deed and in statement, but the worship felt so very…protestant. I felt like I was part of a routine, much like brushing my teeth before bed and then turning out the light. How much thought does that require? When I’m getting ready for bed, I’m not thinking about process…my mind is wandering elsewhere, to music, food, or academics. This is likely why I spent most of the service thinking of only two things: Oh my gosh, that mullet; and, what am I going to write about this church?

My dad could figure the probability regarding the likelihood that out of 10 churches, there would be at least one that I do not like or enjoy. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and being swept off my feet two churches in a row was pure luck. I have trouble letting the worship experience dictate my viewpoint of Lutherans, though. I would rather think of Reverend Fred Lassen, and that guy with the amazing mullet.

Church #3 of 10: Holy, Holy, Holy High

Andy Barnett was best described by my best friend, Leah, as “child-like, but not childish.” He was (and likely still is) brilliantly talented, hilariously funny and eternally playful. When he walked, he smiled in way that made passersby believe he must be enjoying every step. He loved spending time alone in the outdoors, and was the type of person to comment gleefully on the sunrise. At mealtimes, he assessed his food with a ravishing grin and lived every bite like a 5-year-old eating a once-a-year bowl of ice cream for dinner. He was not greedy, but grateful, not selfish, but selfless, and most of all, he had a genuineness about him that made you feel lucky to be his friend. As studious as he was creative, Andy fit into the Oberlin mold while still thinking outside of the box. And though he struck me as contemporary, changing and “cool,” he introduced me to a church that was often accused of being the opposite. Episcopalians are sometimes described as anciently traditional, ceremonious and frankly, somewhat Catholic. If I hadn’t known Andy and his church as two adjoining entities from the beginning of our relationship, I would never have guessed this as his denomination.


It was this introduction that challenged me to visit an Episcopalian church as part of my journey. If someone like Andy found a place there, it seemed likely that I would as well. There must be something about that church, I thought, that makes people want to endure the drab rituals, put aside the political creed, and decipher the shape-note hymnal.

St. Mary’s Episcopal Church is, in my opinion, very “high church,” even for Episcopalians. When we walked in, my mom said, “I haven’t been in a church like this since…Europe.” The floor creaks while the statues shine, the congregational seating is simple and musty while the area behind the metallic screen, with the altar and the choir and the clergy, is ornate and bright.

Goose bumps trickled up my arm and down my back. My stomach buzzed with an intriguing awe. Overwhelmed with the beauty like I saw in the churches in Spain and the spirits like those I felt when entering a historical graveyard, I was instantly hooked.

I have always been a sucker for history. I love hearing about the past, believing in legends and imagining “the olden days.” I’ve always felt like churches are where the spiritual and earthly paranormal interact. Everyday ghosts meet up with worshipped saints and whatnot. St. Mary’s is no exception. The building is almost 120 years old and the church, 150. I could see each year in the woodwork, every heart and soul poured into this place.

The congregation for the 10:00 a.m. Eucharist (they don’t call it a “service”) was small, maybe 20 people at most. Though I had attended an Episcopal service before, this seemed extra-structured. The choir, clergy and bible processed in to a slow-moving hymn, complete with bells and incense. When it came time to read the Gospel, the bible was taken from the altar to the middle of the congregation, splashed with incense, and held open by one clergy while the other read. It was a beautiful symbol of tearing down the curtain and allowing the lay-folk to experience Jesus first-hand.

Interestingly, the things I thought I wouldn’t like about the service, I ended up enjoying the most. The tradition was comforting and consistent, the creed was uniting and I even found myself intrigued by the classically efficient music (which seemed to kill time better than it praised God). This church, these rituals, the denomination, has worked for so many people for so long and now, I can really understand why. There is a physical representation of faith, stored up in the history and structure, the stained glass and the ornate statues, and just like an old, but loved book or stuffed animal, it brings a sense of peace to the soul.

So far, this has been my most challenging church experience, because without making any elaborate gestures or fancy statements, the church still made me feel welcome. I was part of a larger entity, a greater Christian community, one to which I will likely return…at least once more.

Church #2 of 10: How Great the Comparison

The walk to Peace was, as you would expect, peaceful. At 9:00 on a Sunday morning, the campus was virtually empty, and as on most winter days, the sun did not shine. I detoured through the Conservatory to grab my violin and then set-off across Tappan Square to church. It was a journey I often took alone, and I unzipped my coat to feel the cold, winter air against my chest. Obnoxiously, I walked in the snowy grass, making fresh footprints with my boots. If I had memorized the words to “Morning Has Broken,” I might have sung them then, but instead I let my mind wander to whatever song was in my dream the night before. When I entered Peace Community Church, I could smell, see and hear the warmth, pumping through the air from the old heaters. And taking off my coat and boots as if I were in my home, I walked in my socks to the front of the sanctuary. It was there, after all of our walks, that my Oberlin church family, met to worship, Baptist style...


As much as I would like to present an unbiased representation of every church I visit, that is impossible. I have experienced too many church communities to enter these congregations without a denominational expectation in the back of my mind. The Disciples of Christ were the exception—I had never visited a Disciples church before this summer. But I have experienced the American Baptists, in the most profound and greatest way. In a way, I was excited to visit an American Baptist Church, but prepared for disappointment. Peace Community Church was perfect for me because of so many elements, pieces of the puzzle that are now scattered around the world. My friends that are now clergy or working abroad, the cold winters that I miss so much, the pastors, the congregation, the selfless dedication to peace, acceptance and social justice…and that was Oberlin. This is Kansas City.

Prairie Baptist reminded me of something I had forgotten in my long list of expected disappointments. Though the American Baptist Church is a recognized, legitimate denomination, in the end, when push comes to shove (and excuse my language), American Baptists do pretty much whatever the hell they want. Not that I haven’t seen denominational politics at work within the church, but the congregations seem to stand on their own, supporting the interests and ideals of the congregants. Some would say the lack of a hierarchy is what makes organizations fall apart. I am grateful that this lack of hierarchy allows congregations like Peace and Prairie to exist.

So, a comparison is unreasonable and unnecessary. What is important is the relevance of the church in the community in which it exists. Prairie had an impressive relevance, as the pastor addressed issues of science and religion, two entities that are always at odds in Kansas. She spoke of moving forward and encouraging change, scientific and otherwise. The music had elements of the old and treasured (“How Great Thou Art”) as well as the contemporary and challenging (there were drums involved). And though the baby-blue paint on the walls made me ponder my own comfort with churches that exist outside of white or wood, I felt welcomed and warm. There were times when I even felt uncomfortable in the good way that church is supposed to make you uncomfortable.

My cold, lonely walk became a car ride with my mother. The warmth in the air became the sun shining through the windows. My friends from Oberlin became two acquaintances from an old job, who displayed great welcome in their invitation to join them.

Just like I’ve been told that I will never have friends that are like my friends from college. I will never feel as alive or as motivated as I did during those five years. I can never relive that experience. I also know that I will never find a church like Peace or a community like the Christian community in Oberlin. But Prairie gives me a degree of hope that there are relevant, welcoming churches out there that may be able to put someone like me to work for God.