I’ve been to quite a few churches in my life, especially in the past year. I’ve experienced pretty much every form of worship I can think of in about every language I can think of as well. No matter where I go, however, I can’t seem to forget the way I grew up- Baptist.
There have been times in the past where I’ve seen this as a bad thing. I resented the, or at least what I considered to be, overly conservative outlook and the strictly honored traditions. As I grew with the Lord I felt lead to branch out and try new things and I absolutely love the depth I found because of it. I love the freedom and excitement I found and I love the different ways I've learned to hear the Lord’s voice. Somewhere along the way though, I began to see these things as more than just a new and different kind of relationship with God, I started to see it as the RIGHT kind of relationship.
Last Sunday we were told we’d be going to a “foreign church”. We’d just arrived in Vietnam and were staying in the capital city of Ho Chi Minh. Because of the number of Westerners in the city, a church for foreigners had been started to cater to English speakers visiting the city.
As we walked through the doors it was almost immediately apparent to me that this church was anything but foreign to me. Even before I looked up to see the familiar floral arrangements decorating the stage and the well lit cross on the wall, my nose was filled with the scent of wooden pews and my skin tingled at the perfectly temperatured air conditioning. I watched as the collared shirts and modest sun dresses filed into the sanctuary and listened to the band warm up their instruments. I couldn’t help but laugh as the first song began- Chris Tomlin, a little bit off tune and a little bit too fast paced. I joined the sporadic and off beat clapping and scanned the crowd at the chorus to catch the charismatic rebels who dared to raise their hands. When communion came I placed my empty cup in the hole drilled into the pew for specifically that purpose and waited in eager anticipation for the message to start- crossing my fingers that the pastor would suggest that we all get excited about Jesus the way we do about sporting events- I was not disappointed.
As I ran through the list of things in my head that failed to surprise me about this church, I came upon something that did surprise me- how much I genuinely adored it. The amount of joy that overwhelmed my spirit that Sunday morning was completely and utterly unexpected. I’m not sure that I’ve felt more at hime in the past 10 months than I did in that church, in that pew. It was as if all the things that I had considered boring, out dated and wrong were becoming right again in my mind. Instead of choosing to see it as mindless and routine I allowed the Lord to open my eyes to see what He saw- passionate dedication.
Lately as I have finally allowed myself to day dream about going home, I’ve often wondered what church I would decide to call home. As I pictured communities and sanctuaries and sermons, I often overlooked the option standing just 20 paces from my front door, the church that raised me. This past week, however, I’ve thought of almost nothing else. I've thought about the things I want and the things that will influence my faith best.
I want to be around people who are consistent. People who spiritually AND practically revolve their lives around Jesus. Whether it be through VBS and Fall Fest, womens bible studies and church work days or once a month cookie Sundays. Not because they feel obligated and not because they don’t know anything better but because they love Jesus and they love to worship Him in exactly that way. People who are steadfast. People like my daddy.
My childhood church was beautifully intertwined with the forming of my faith and I can no longer remember why that once bothered me. I guess you can take the girl out of the Baptist church but you can’t take the Baptist out of the girl.
