Watering Can

Perhaps it's a little bit ridiculous that I waited until now to create a blog. Maybe I feel some guilt that I did not begin one during the four months of travel and study abroad that I just concluded. Now I'm home, feeling like a filled-up watering can without a garden... so full that it slops water over its edges before it finds the right plant to bring new life to. 

This blog was birthed out of frustration. But as Mrs. Incredible once said, "We need to find a more...constructive outlet." 

I was in church. We'd arrived late, as per normal, but managed to catch the last worship song before the sermon. The sanctuary was full, the congregation garbed in their brightly-hued summery wardrobes. We were singing "I am a friend of God." 

We sang that phrase about 37 times. Or rather, some people sang that phrase 37 times. I was staring up at the ceiling, thinking that it was perhaps convenient that we usually missed most of this part of the service.

God forgive me, it was not the first (nor most likely the last) Sunday morning that I was wrestling with my irritation at American Protestant church music. There are several reasons for this, not all of which I will divulge here...but this morning in particular, I was struck first by this worship song's complete lack of theological depth and second by the fact that its lyrics have more to do with "me" than with actually praising God. 

My mind flickered back to our time in Turkey. Back to standing beneath the dome of the Hagia Sophia, surrounded by frescoed angels and the remaining glory of the breathtaking Byzantine basilica. Back to running my fingers along the stoney ruins of temples and synagogues and churches of the ancient world of Asia Minor. Back to the glittering mosaics of Chora Church in Istanbul and the way that the tiny tiles depicted the wrinkles of Christ's forehead as he frowned gently or Mary's tragic expression as she cradled her baby and Savior. Back to our conversation with an Armenian priest struggling for the survival of his beloved church. Back to the aroma of incense and prayers in a Syrian Orthodox service. Back to the cave churches of Cappadocia and the paintings there depicting the severe persecution of Christians under the Holy Roman Empire. 

I thought back to all we had read and heard about 'dying' Eastern Christianity. I thought about our long lectures on the Ecumenical Councils, the intrigue and intervention and sacrifice and debate that has gotten us to this point in our theology and Christian doctrine. I thought about the services we had attended, the familiar and foreign liturgies dripping with credence, how worship whether chanted or sung concentrated on exalting God and never focused on the self-important language of "me." I thought about how difficult life is for Christians in the Middle East. And I remembered amassing the gradual but penetrating sense while abroad of being overwhelmed by how much I didn't know. 

This awareness took several different forms. One was a renewed thirst for learning, for questioning, for seeking, for reading. One was a deeper appreciation for biblical study and the necessity of being able to articulate exactly what we believe, why we believe it, and why that's life-shattering. And one was frustration with church back home.

Sunday school theology helped me grow and led me along a steady path up to a point...and then there was an aching abyss. I hadn't even fully realized it until I needed something more, and it wasn't there. And I was frustrated about it. Frustrated that nineteen years of church had not theologically equipped me with more than Sunday school answers. Frustrated that I hadn't earlier started drinking from mature spiritual milk. I realize that commitment to seeking out God carries with it a substantial personal responsibility. My point is that the modern American Protestant Church as I knew it could not help me in any way, shape, or form in working through my new doubts, questions, fears, and confusion. It had not even taught me a creed. It had shied away from even teaching me beautiful traditional hymns for fear of not "reaching the younger generation." It was too busy singing "I am a friend of God." 

As someone who is part of "the younger generation," I'm saying: we need more than mediocre understanding of what the resurrection means, of what history means, of what Christian unity and community means. And we need good music on a Sunday morning. 

Maybe that was a slop of water out the side of the watering can. My only hope is that maybe it splashed by happenstance on a plant that needed some reinvigoration.  

But that's what a blog is for, right?