July-August 1997
PERSPECTIVE
The Church of My Choice
On finding my place in the body of Christ.
by Michael Warren
This week I plan to attend the church of my choice. It rents the Church of Christ building on the far side of town, a good 20-minute drive from my house.
We have ample parking, but no annual Christmas pageant. We have no youth ministry (since we have no youth) and no young singles ministry (since we have no young singles). We do have warm fellowship, good preaching and a nice potluck every now and again.
I say this is the church of my choice, but it is also the church in which I was raised. It became the church of my choice only in recent years, when at last I understood I was free to leave at any time.
The realization of freedom carries with it a certain challenge for me. If I declare this to be the church of my choice, I'm forced to ask an old question all over again: Why am I here? I must ask myself what it is I hope to gain (or to give) by this association. The answers have not come as quickly as perhaps they should.
What Are You Looking For?
If I want companionship based on a shared occupation, a common demographic or a mutual hobby, it appears I have come to the wrong place. If I have always dreamed of singing in a hundred-voice choir (I have had no such dreams), then I'd be better off elsewhere.
As a certified U.S. citizen with a fairly reliable automobile, I have access to an unparalleled Christian marketplace. I try to imagine church shopping in Jesus' day, when a "Sabbath day's journey" placed outlying synagogues off limits. It's a stretch of my imagination. I wonder what options I might have had if I didn't care for the preaching style of the young Timothy. Endure it or stay at home, I suppose.
No matter. Such is not my problem. The religion section of my local newspaper offers a complete banquet for the Christian connoisseur. Assuming a nonnegotiable doctrinal core, I may choose my church based on location, racial preference or economic status.
Making a Shopping List
If I find myself thirsting for a spirit-filled, full-gospel assembly, I can find a dozen churches that fit the bill. If I feel predestined to join a more stately Presbyterian congregation surrounded by stone and stained glass, I'm likewise covered. I've got the choice between modern, seeker-sensitive sanctuaries and old country churches.
Last week a man wrote a letter to the editor asking if any churches were left in town that sing classic hymns from an actual hymnal rather than contemporary choruses projected on an overhead screen. I'm sure he hasn't looked hard enough. With a little effort, he'll probably even be able to find a church that eschews the piano.
A friend who grew up in Ecuador came to the United States for college, and someone asked him what religion he was. He replied, "I'm a Christian."
"No. What religion are you?" the man persisted. "Methodist? Baptist? Lutheran?" As a child in Ecuador, such options didn't exist. I could almost wish such options didn't exist here in my town.
When it comes to shopping for the ideal church, my list of requirements is long. But I can hear the voice of Martin Luther scolding me right from the start: "Farewell to those who want an entirely pure and purified church. This is plainly wanting no church at all." (OK, but can I at least wish for a church with its own racquetball court?)
In spite of my mixed desires, I know that what I desire most is to meet Christ in my neighbor. And in my own feeble way, to dare to allow my neighbor to meet Christ in me. I trust that for me it's worth a 20-minute drive across town.