When the church is the victim of an overbooked lifestyle

Is eavesdropping a sin, perhaps comparable to gossiping or lying? Does it make it worse if the person you are listening to is a priest? In any case, it was a good-natured conversation I overheard at the farmers market on Saturday. A man in my flower stall was discussing his sermon for Sunday, and I perked up because priests are interesting. When he said he was joining St. John’s Episcopal, I fully supported the aforementioned possible sin.

St. John’s Episcopal is my church. Before you get the wrong impression, I can’t claim much religion. My relationship with faith is ambiguous; I taught at a Catholic school where my best friend as a teacher was Jewish and my paraprofessional partner was Hindu; it all seemed equally plausible, and equally difficult to hang my hat on. But I do love the church as I know it.

I love the language of the scriptures and hymns. I suspect that my early understanding of the complexities of history, and my quite developed childhood vocabulary, came in large part from my weekly Sunday exposure to those words and lessons.

I love the tradition and the ritual, the ability to show up on any given Sunday and have an idea, based on the liturgical calendar, of what’s on the menu that morning. The repetition of the service allows me to go anywhere in the world and know what is happening in the crowd.

I love the splendor – how the priest swings incense on high holy days, and the candles play on the gold plate, and the choir walks down the aisle with their voices raised in great spirit beside the holy silence.

I love the building: the high ceilings and wood with a wall of windows, the plaques on the back of the pews, the organ in the choir loft, the embroidered kneelers at the altar.

I love the community. I can’t think of another place where someone can belong without a single qualifying factor. No money? No problem. Casual or chic, come on in. All identities in each iteration are respected. A person doesn’t even have to believe to be welcome.

I love it, but I hardly go there anymore. I can’t seem to figure out how to teach full time, exercise the kids, keep the house clean, tend the garden, feed the family (get the article written!) and also go to school on Sundays. church to go.

I have friends who make it possible, but not many. Surveys show church attendance is declining, no surprise to those of us who no longer go to church. It may be less about the loss of religious faith than that the church has become a victim of our overbooked lifestyle.

That’s a shame, because churches like St. John’s have long interwoven people of different origins through worship under the same roof. The loss of that common thread is more devastating to the mundane elements of our experience than to the sacred. God will figure it out, but the frayed fabric of our community needs some mending.

On Saturday I confessed at the market that I had overheard by introducing myself to the wandering priest, bought my bouquet and set off with full arms. As I approached the street, an unfortunate soul on a bicycle, clearly not living her best life, spun around me. When she hit the curb in front of me, she fell over and was left sprawled in the street, bicycles and belongings scattered about her. Did I remember that I had just spoken to a man of God? Have I set aside my belongings to help the poor and downtrodden, as Jesus instructed? No, I did not. Instead, I took the Lord’s name in vain, turned my back and walked away—a Pharisee through and through.

The next day I went to church, where the market priest preached that it is not people who are good, but God who is good, and that is what we should trust. Considering my recent unloving behavior, it made me feel better. . And although I am too busy as a sinner to attend since then, I will come again. My faith may be somewhat questionable, but I have no doubt that my church is good for me.

You can contact Sarah Peterson Young, a 2021 North State Voice, by emailing [email protected]