Every couple of miles along the highways one sees signs pointing up into the hills (the hollers as they call them there) indicating the presence of one small church or another. Many of them are Holiness Churches. Others are independent, non-denominational congregations. And most of them have Baptist in their name: Roadside Baptist, First Baptist, Turkey Creek Baptist . . . you get the drift. And all of them are very evangelical in their theological understandings.
It's not an easy place to be a mainline congregation. But they do exist. United Methodists and Presbyterians and Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) for the most part. Often they are small, struggling congregations. Doing their best to offer some theological alternatives in a place dominated by biblical literalism.
Mom is part of just such a church. It's a little Disciples of Christ congregation that considers it a really good Sunday when thirty folks are in attendance. Their part-time pastor is a seminary student who divides his time between working for the church and working on his degree. He is a good and imaginative man. And the congregation knows it. They consider themselves fortunate to have him.
I've been to Mom's church many times before, and so was warmly greeted by several parishioners when I walked in the door. I came a bit later than Mom. She is the regular lector, and had gone to church a bit early to set up her reading. But I wasn't the only one greeted in such a fashion. I don't think anybody, not even the young high school student who was coming for the first time, walked through the door who wasn't greeted by at least three or four others.
As the service proceeded we sang several old chestnuts: "Blessed Assurance," "I Am Thine O Lord" among them. We used the denominational hymnal, Chalice, a very fine hymnal. There was a sound system--but no overhead projections.
I realized as the service went on that a third of the congregation, there were twenty-five of us on Sunday, was involved in leading the service. The only two children in attendance lit the candles, others read, served communion, said prayers at the altar, led singing . . . . it was very participatory!
There wasn't a lot of glitz or glamor. But at prayer time, folks were invited to share their joys and concerns, and they did. We offered up prayers for a couple just passing through town with an "anonymous concern" as well as for long time members who were ill.
As the service ended and folks started to leave--well, they didn't. Everybody stood around the sanctuary chatting with each other. The young man with a bandanna and beard who sits in the balcony by himself every Sunday. The young college student from the nearby liberal arts college. The elderly widows and grandparents. Everybody seemed to know everybody else. And clearly they enjoyed being with one another. They were almost loath to go!
I think it was church guru Lyle Schallert who once labeled a congregation the size of Mom's a family church. And that is so apt. Like any family, they have their squabbles, I'm sure. But like a good family, they stick by one another. Coming to church for worship on Sunday is like a reunion. A family reunion.
All the years my Dad was disabled the women's Bible study--they call themselves the Friends of Jesus Bible Study--met at my mom's, to make it a bit easier for her to participate. When Dad died, they just continued to meet at Mom's--that is until another of the group's members had to care for her home bound husband. Then they moved to her house. That's the sort of thing family's do, isn't it.
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