The Imperfect Search for a Church

Since moving to Virginia in August, we visited a new church almost every week in search of a place we could settle into as a family. Autumn’s leaves welcomed us into this months long journey and Washington D.C.’s famous cherry blossoms ushered us out. In that time my tiny newborn grew into a wiggly, almost walking infant ready to sing and shout. Thankfully, our wandering feet have landed in a beautiful parish. It’s quirky and friendly and feels like a good fit for this season of life. 

It’s common for the church search to be awkward, even stressful. Ours was no different. Without a previous acquaintance or friend to guide the way, entering a new sanctuary each Sunday was equal parts interesting and intimidating. Am I in the right place? Where are the bathrooms? Should we sit here or somewhere else? What will happen when someone notices we’re new? Oh God, please don’t let the priest point to us or make us stand up. 

The mention of church nowadays stirs up such a range of public opinions and testimonies. In general, Christian churches (or Christians) have failed in many ways to be a refuge of healing and justice. This is painful to watch and experience in our own lives. Even if no religious trauma is passed on to congregants, there’s no guarantee you’ll find a healthy, thriving community. Because of this I wasn’t eager to jump back into the “dating pool” per se. It feels defeating to get dressed, find parking and a pew, get through the service and realize you’d never be back, for one reason or another. It’s clarifying, certainly, but also terribly exhausting week after week. 

It was important for us to remember there was no perfect church waiting for our family. We were not attempting to find the one and certainly could not begin to compare any new community with our sponsoring parish, whom we adore. We only needed to find the church that the Spirit was leading us to. 

Now allow me to say, church hopping is not for the faint of heart, especially as new parents. Our idyllic hopes were often (temporarily) clouded by very pragmatic needs. Aaron and I had a desire to find a community that would support us spiritually and offer space for each of us to grow. But I also needed to nurse my baby or change her diaper or let her squeal. Most nurseries were closed and even if they were open, we felt more comfortable keeping her close. This came with some trade-offs. Instead of contemplating the sermon, Aaron and I have learned how to become a human assembly line of snacks, toys, offering envelopes or anything else in the front pocket that could be licked, smelled, or crumpled. Instead of enjoying the passing of peace, we are carefully calculating the time left until Eucharist and hoping everyone (read: Emelia) stays in good spirits.

The Memorable Stuff

Here are few memories from these past few months: 

… Our darling child decided to cover (not an exaggeration, bless her heart) both Aaron and I with spit up during a worship service. Down the back, all over the leg and the front. She’s the only one who managed to stay dry. 

… We tag teamed a diaper change on the floor of what seemed to be an old chapel turned kindergarten Sunday school classroom, completed with toys strewn across the floor. A sacred space made even more holy it would seem. 

… The lead vocalist stopped a hymn mid verse to inform the congregation she’d lost her place and needed to start over from the beginning. Confused, but loyal, everyone followed her lead and started from the top. 

… After what seemed like 100s of loops around the church, we finally found street parking. Only to be ushered into a pew positioned behind a large pillar. We left shortly after. 

… We slid into a pew right in the middle of the sanctuary. As soon as the service started, we realized we forgot our binoculars. The priest was almost hidden behind the altar and the flowers, not to mention the sheer distance from the first pew to the lip of the stage. 

… Running late, as usual, we stepped into what we thought was the back of the room. Our eager eyes scanned the hushed sanctuary to find we were to sit in historic booths. We couldn’t quite get the small door to open as we fumbled with the latch. A small, woman with white hair came over with a big smile and swung it open with ease.

… We watched as a middle aged acolyte wore what appeared to be a child’s choir robe through the service. (Usually acolytes wear a garment that has long sleeves and a long hemline down to the ankles.) 

… We stepped off the busy street into the sanctuary only to find our family was a third of the congregation. No one, not even the presiding clergy, looked interested in being there. We left that service early, too. 

A Warm Welcome (or Not)

It was interesting to watch how each community welcomed newcomers like us. Most Sundays, folks were happy to see us and would comment on the baby. And yet there were mornings when we’d enter and leave a church with barely a word spoken. It was funny to note big banners hung outside or passages in the bulletin that welcomed visitors only to find the congregation was too shy or sleepy to offer a hello. In some scenarios it felt like we were eagerly welcomed only in hopes of adding to the church numbers. It felt tacky, especially around the holidays.

I noticed the generous acts of hospitality we received were not extravagant. In fact, the most meaningful ones were the simplest. For example, I needed to step out to nurse and change Emelia. I pulled the diaper bag over my shoulders, cradled her in my arms, and went looking for a quiet corner. I soon found an average, straight backed chair in the hall and sat down. (Already it was better than some of the basements I found myself in.) Just as I was getting settled, a cheerful new face came over to ask if I preferred to sit in the rocking chairs closer to the sanctuary. She helped me with my bag, offered a water bottle, and came back to check on me after the service. In all my new mama glory, someone noticed me and made sure I was comfortable. This simple gesture of hospitality made such an impression on me. 

We encountered this generous hospitality several more times in different churches. Ushers, clergy, and lay persons alike, were attentive, welcoming, and helpful in ways I couldn’t name until I saw them in action. A warm welcome didn’t stop once we took our seats, it was also a ‘heads up’ for the traffic pattern during Eucharist, an invitation to lunch, a note to parents in the pew, or simply remembering our names. It wasn’t big welcome signs or donuts or a Twitter feed.

I’m relieved we no longer have to church hop, especially with Easter around the corner. We can begin to settle in, make friends, and welcome those who scoot in behind us. This experience reminded me just how meaningful small acts of relational hospitality can be. After all, relationships are really all we have, right?

Have you searched for a new faith community before? What makes you feel most welcome in a new group of people?