Please — No Food or Drink in the Auditorium!

I went to an all-day youth rally at Florissant Church of Christ, way out in the suburban counties, yesterday and it was, for me, an experience that anyone who’s ever been to a youth rally and subsequently grown up can relate to, on one level or another. On another level — a bit further out than that last one — for me, it was an experience that anyone who’s struggled with their faith in God and in the Church ever since its inception can, perhaps, relate to.

I have disliked the rigid structure and dogma of the American Church for a very long time but I do not really value my own opinions on the matter to begin with (since – whore or not — the Church is still Christ’s bride), so I will not waste my time unpacking them here. I will, however, tell you that I was struck by something at Florissant Church of Christ, way out in the counties, yesterday. You see, posted above all of the doors leading into the sanctuary, there is a sign that reads: “Please — No Food or Drink in the Auditorium!”

To all of us, I am sure that this is normal enough fare. We all grew up in homes (or were at least familiar with homes) that had one room that was off-limits to the children and their messes: for some it was a dining room rarely dined in, for others a living room, but for all of us it was well-understood that — whichever room it was — it was for grown ups and was meant to be kept neat and clean. My parents both frequent this page and, I believe, would be very offended if they thought I was insinuating the existence of such a room in our home — so let me be clear: the Yencich’s have lower standards and I ate in, played in, and systematically made a mess of every single room in our house. I had friends, though, who weren’t quite so lucky.

When I saw that “No Food or Drinks” sign posted above the sanctuary door, I drew a mental picture of a middle-finger and imagined myself giving it to whoever thought I shouldn’t be able to bring a can of Diet Coke into this train-wreck of a youth event but, being by nature quiet and mostly [outwardly] peaceable, I went in without causing the slightest hint of a scene. There are other hills upon which I might one day wish to die, anyway.

Once inside, I sat down just in time to enjoy the latter half of a long set of worship songs. One thing that must be made clear for the uninitiated is the reiteration of the fact that this was a Church of Christ youth rally and, in the Southern Midwest (and all points further south), ‘Church of Christ’ translates, roughly, to “NO WOMEN, NO INSTRUMENTS.” So there we were, about a thousand or so of us, being led through these songs by one guy on a large stage with a headset-microphone and a flashy Powerpoint. Color me uninspired.

What really got me, though, was when the worship leader starting praying. His language was soaked in cliches meant to manipulate the people of God, “drawing them in to worship”, and spoken in a tone reserved only, in my mind, for the worst of all the bad actors. If you’ve ever been to a large Church and felt like you were being duped, you will know what I’m talking about. But all of that I can easily ignore because, as I looked out at the crowd, I saw people enjoying it, reacting to it, and in many cases, being blessed by it. I don’t dig it, but whatever: I go home to Blacksoil in two weeks and life will be good.

What really, really got me, though, was when the worship leader — still praying! — invited God to come into the Church. I mean it, man: the dude was really, truly asking God to be physically present there. To many, maybe this is normal; maybe this is just what we do, what we say at Church and, if this is you, you will have to excuse me. The idea is absurd — mockery, a burlesque, and affront to what it means to worship: the thought of inviting YHWH into the presence of those who, out of fear and reverence for their carpet, post signs to keep out renegade food and drink. We won’t use instruments in our worship, we won’t let women lead, but O’ God, the One who created both women and drum-sets, we want You here, so please, won’t you make Your presence known? We want the God whose radiance is stronger than ten billion suns, the God who is more powerful than any nation, who is Master, King, and Lord of all things ever we could conceive of — that God — to show up? If that is the case, please excuse me while I make my frantic escape, for I have much greater things at stake than the sanctity of the carpet: my sins are hidden beneath the floorboards.

If God ever shows up, I am utterly convinced that we — and our carpets — are screwed.

Perhaps, though, if God never does decide to literally make an appearance in our Churches, our clean carpets will live on long after our dirty hearts as a final testament to our [ir]reverence, [in]fidelity, and [un]faithfulness to the God who Is.

Wipe Your Shoes and Abandon Faith, All Ye Who Enter Here,
Danny