Looking in on the Church

“Just go to church,” the assignment editor said. “Pretend you’re from Mars. Tell us what you find.” Perfect. I am not even a Christian. Or if I am, I’m a funny kind of one. Which, said the editor, made me exquisitely qualified for this job. I am among 80 percent of Canadians who don’t attend church—except for mandated weddings and funerals.

The prospect of sneaking unannounced into a church one Sunday morning actually appealed to me. I knew I wouldn’t have to go again. Still, I was curious: Had things changed at all in the 35 years since I was last forced to attend a church service?

I’d been given a list of possible Mennonite churches in my city and had been assured that no one would be forewarned of my presence. So I arrived, pulling into the parking lot in an unfamiliar neighborhood.

Finding the right place
I am 15 minutes early. Too early? I climb from the car and lock it. I hold the entrance door open for a group of older women carrying massive prayer books. The ladies march past me, all wishing me a good morning.

Inside I am greeted by an excruciatingly clean-cut man in a dark suit and tie, and a younger acolyte in a similar state of attire. Both beam brightly and wish me a good morning. The pair are trying to disguise their uncertainty. Should they know me? I brush past them with a knowing kind of swagger and I think things are going pretty well so far.

Emboldened, I peek into the sparsely populated sanctuary. An organ is coughing out a gloomy dirge, which reminds me of why I hate church. I glance at the bulletin board and see a reference to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Why would a Mennonite church have an announcement about the Mormons? Then it dawns on me. Yikes! I’ve gone to the wrong church!

It turns out the correct address is just up the street. The Mormon preacher looks confounded as I nod to him quickly on my way out. “Leaving so soon?” he asks. I apologize, saying I am in the wrong church. “Well, which church is the right one?” he asks. “Good question,” I smile, and peel away.

Two minutes later, and seven minutes to spare before the Mennonite church service is to begin, I am met again with smiles and good mornings from everyone. This place appears much less formal than the joint down the street. The sanctuary is a big room with chairs lined in rows. There are lots of big windows to let in the light. The small stage at the front is not adorned with one of those annoying crosses—just a brightly colored banner with a stylized dove screeching down from the sky, ready to pounce, I suppose, on some unsuspecting innocent.

Someone named Don introduces himself and says he doesn’t think he knows me. We have a little small talk, with Don asking what I “do.” Then someone named Ken comes by. No one asks why I am here, but I sense a few of the folk are curious about this stranger. Most are busy visiting each other.

Wishing for anonymity
Ken asks if it’s okay to introduce me during the service and I say that’s fine, although I secretly wish for anonymity. Ken explains that he helped build this church 30 years ago. The congregation is diverse, with retired doctors and lawyers and laborers like himself. I notice a few African-looking folks huddled together, who must be students at the nearby university. There are also a couple of Spanish speakers.

From behind the podium, a fellow in jeans and a T-shirt lifts a silver chalice-like thing. It appears like the kind of vessel Catholics would pour wine from, but then he starts beating on it and I realize it is one of those African drums of animal skin or elephant-ear membranes. And so the show is on.

The music guy is pretty good on the drum. Although I’m not really here with an expectation to be entertained, the song doesn’t do much for me, to be honest. It’s just a bit too earnest and wholesome for my taste. But that’s just me and my own prejudice. I look around at the 70 folks who are here. Dress is informal. About a third of the 70 are grey-hairs. About a fourth are little kids. There’s a good core of about 20 or so adults who really like to sing, and the rest mumble along or don’t bother singing at all.

I notice there is no sermon. It is explained that sometimes there are no sermons at this church, that the congregation is invited to meditate upon different weekly themes. As it turns out, today’s theme is “Glorifying God with music.” There is almost continuous music as the hour goes by, even though I for one would prefer a moment of silence here and there.

Some songs are old, some are new. I don’t recognize any of them. None of them are especially appealing. But there are some good singers in this group, and since I am a sympathetic sort, there are one or two moments that are quite spine-tingling.

We are asked which songs we like. Members of the congregation offer the names of songs I haven’t heard. I want to put my hand up and say: “Stairway to Heaven”! Some of the music is led by guitar, and some by piano. One song is in Spanish. Another was reputedly sung by Mennonites escaping by train from Russia. Some songs are old, some are new. I don’t recognize any of them. None of them are especially appealing. They aren’t especially melodic. But there are some good singers in this group, and since I am a sympathetic sort, there are one or two moments that are quite spine-tingling. I could get a bit weepy with some of the songs.

A nice touch is when the children are called to the front for a story, although the story, “Henry’s Song” (on the music theme) seems a bit of a stretch. The kids sing “Jesus Loves Me,” which I always thought a bit simplistic and of another era. But the kids seem happy enough. And they are very well behaved.

Near the end of the service, the congregation is asked if there are any visitors or guests from out of town. Ken rises and tells everyone I am here. He doesn’t tell them who I am, of course, because he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know why I am here. (It must be a bit unusual for a total stranger to just wander in to a church on a Sunday.) I wave and smile from the back.

Sharing time
Then folks are invited to come to the podium to share. One woman looking for a job asks the group to pray for her. Another announces she has just lost her second cousin twice removed to a necrotizing infection, and a few people weep. A third woman shares that her tumor is shrinking and she is feeling okay. She doesn’t ’t know what the future holds, but wants to thank everyone for their prayers.

I think it’s all a bit over the top and the kind of thing you might talk about after church, as opposed to during. But maybe I would feel differently about it if I knew these folks. Certainly there is a strong sense of community here. People know and like each other. They seem genuinely important to each other. And pervading today’s musical theme is the notion of gratefulness—a reminder that our cup is always half full and not half empty. Which is good to remember all the time, not just on Sunday.

I think it’s all a bit over the top and the kind of thing you might talk about after church, as opposed to during. But maybe I would feel differently about it if I knew these folks. Certainly there is a strong sense of community here.

When it’s all over Ken comes to me in the foyer and repeats that there are retired lawyers and doctors in the congregation. “And those folks over there are from Africa,” he says. “They are refugees or something, we sponsor them.”

As I leave I am feeling pretty good. It was a long drive, 40 minutes across town, to get to this church. But the experience was mildly uplifting. Of course it was just a snippet of just one church on just one Sunday. It must be tough trying to be all things to all people these days, I think to myself. How do churches stay relevant and attractive to non-churchgoers who are, statistically, the majority of the population? How does a church become modern while keeping the good stuff it was built on? How does it be cosmopolitan? Or why does it think it needs to be any of these things?

Anyway, not my problem. I don’t think God (if he exists) would be angry with these folks. They are a force for good, and their journey is one of progress, not perfection.

David Roberts is Executive Producer of the weekly program, Global Sunday, on the Global Television Network, and author of a novel, The Alchemist’s Song. He lives in a major Canadian city.