Why I Go to Church, Part 1

My mother at the temperamental organ in my childhood church, Malaysia. The little girl is not me.

All my life I've been going to church. I'm old enough now that my early memories of church have blurred, mixed in with what I think I remember as I look at photos of me at church in my childhood.

I do clearly remember, though, the church of my elementary school years. We sat on benches of polished slats of wood that "gave" a bit when you sat on them, so that they felt softer than planks. I remember the whirring ceiling fans above us in the tropical heat. I remember watching my teacher, who was a heroine in my childish mind, sitting on the right side of the church, gazing out through the louvred glass windows as the preacher preached. I remember singing in the choir at an early age, my mother always at the piano. I remember the active youth group that comprised the energetic heart of the church, busy leading out and participating. I remember the children filing up front four times a year and reciting their twelve memory verses for the appreciative adults. I remember someone announcing the offering, but how there wasn't much pleading or guilting for money. After all, there wasn't much money to be had for most of us. I remember kneeling for what seemed a long time on the cement floor, enduring the "pastoral prayer," which always came in the middle of the service. I don't remember much of the sermons, but the sermons were the backbone of the worship service. Everything else was either considered preparation for the sermon, or reflection and wrap-up after it was done.

Through the years since then, the elements of church services have been similar. Culturally, there are constants in the doing of "church": singing, being asked for money, listening to the preacher, standing, sitting, kneeling, praying. When you grow up with it, when skipping church is unthinkable in your family, you don't question it. It just is that way.

(to be continued)