When I was growing up in California in the 1970s and 80s, church was quiet. 

At 9:55 am on Sundays, I parted ways from my parents and headed to the Christian Science Sunday School where students of all ages gathered to sing a hymn. Immediately afterward, our teacher gathered us up like chicks, pulled two heavy accordion doors shut, and sealed our class of five or so into a cramped room. There we sat around a pine table in our hard cane-backed chairs, earnestly discussing the meaning of God and Love. 

Other times, when I joined my mom at Wednesday night testimony meetings at the same church, we sat thigh-to-thigh together in the half-full edifice, listening to people (most over the age of forty) as they stood and shared their accounts of spiritual healing. An organist accompanied the congregation’s soft, hushed singing voices, and my mother often shushed me as I fidgeted in the pew and shifted my restless legs. 

Back then, church meant learning about God and healing, and being with my family. Sometimes, when my grandparents or extended relatives visited, we took up an entire pew (I was allowed to skip Sunday School on those days), and then piled into separate cars to drive down Hwy. 12 to the Chuck Wagon cafeteria where I had permission to eat as many marsh-mellow dotted Jello’s as I could fit on my tray. 

Fast forward to today, where I live in the small (but growing) city of Bloomington, Indiana in the Midwest of the United States. And for the moment, let’s put aside the decades of spiritual wandering, questioning, doubting, seeking, and finding that have passed since my early church experiences. Those details are for another post (or book – wink wink). 

Over the past year or so my friend Hether (who grew up in the same church I did) and I have been practicing what we call “church hopping.” About once a month (not every Sunday thanks to baseball, soccer, and…life) we pay a visit to a different congregation. Sometimes we have a connection to the church, other times we don’t know a soul. 

We’ve only scratched the surface of the large number of churches that dot our town, let alone state (visiting fewer than ten different faiths so far), but the exercise has been thought-provoking and eye-opening. Among other things, what’s become clear to me is the vast range of religious and spiritual experiences we humans require and yearn for — so many people need regular gathering/support/community, inspiration, and yes, even entertainment. 

Individual pastors have a whole lot to do with setting the tone for a church, I’ve noticed. In my church of origin, Christian Science, (not to be confused with Scientology), the “pastor” is comprised of two elected “Readers” who recite aloud to the congregation passages focused on a weekly theme. The readings come from two books: the King James version of the Bible and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy. While services are often thought-provoking and inspiring, you can pretty much anticipate what you’re going to get each time. There are very few material surprises in the Christian Science church. 

But now, after experiencing a variety of different pastors preaching to their congregations, I’ve seen that each pastor brings their interpretation of scripture, God, or the world of spirit to the podium. In many cases, a pastor’s outlook becomes the lens through which their congregation views the world.

And the music! To go from generally solemn, sedate organ or piano music to an entire band rocking, soaring, and singing ear-splittingly loud “worship” music accompanied by a light show and multiple massive screens has been, to say the least, disconcerting. The first time Hether and I attended one of these “contemporary Christian” churches I was, honestly, sitting in wide-eyed shock for most of the service. 

Something else has occurred to me through these visits: It’s possible that I feel more comfortable, inspired, and accepted meditating in a temple, shrine, or ashram with the scent of incense threading through the air than I do inside a church building. Or, maybe instead of getting caught in comparisons I can acknowledge that each location of inspiration offers its own unique value.

This Sunday, Hether wasn’t available, but my ten-year-old daughter was. “Let’s visit the big church, Mom” she suggested. The “big church” is the one closest to our house, a sprawling mega-church with six entrances that holds three services each Sunday and hires a cop to direct traffic in and out of the parking lot. I think my daughter was just as curious as I was about what goes on inside the building whose grounds we have walked and played on for years. 

After parking in one of at least twenty specially designated “First Time Visitor” spaces, we were enthusiastically greeted and directed to a computer to enter our contact information, then handed a welcome bag (containing pen/notepad/church logo plastic cup/stickers) and directed to the children’s wing. My daughter, however, did not want to join the youth classes and instead opted to sit with me in the main sanctuary for the service. 

While helping ourselves to a quick coffee and hot cocoa from the well-stocked café space we spotted a (lovely) familiar face, our friend and former neighbor who invited us to sit with her and her husband during the service. “I can’t wait to see his face when he sees you, he’s going to be so surprised and happy,” she said about her husband. My daughter, who adores this couple and once spent Christmas Eve with them due to an emergency in our family, happily sat down in the pew next to them and basked in their love and attention. This is the first time she’s sat in church with her elders I thought to myself. 

“Wow, this isn’t what I expected, it’s not very church-like,” my daughter whispered to me as the lights dimmed, the band with four vocalists stepped out on stage and the loud music began filling our ears. Given her (admittedly limited) church experiences in the ten years she has been on the planet I didn’t blame her for being taken aback. 

We sat together through the service, my arm tight around her shoulders, absorbing the resounding music and listening to the sermon. The pastor’s message, centering on divine reminders to rest, and step away or remove obstacles and stressors from our lives rather than pile on more, resonated with me. In the end, I think my daughter was mostly impressed with seeing our friends, and the chance to sip on hot cocoa before noon. 

Later that same day, after yet another church visit (this time for a beautiful and inspired blended poetry and song performance by the poet Ross Gay and our local Voces Nova choir), Hether and I sat outside in the soft spring evening air. Our discussion returned to our spiritual paths (as it so often does). 

“I’m not totally sure what I’m looking for as far as church,” I told her plaintively. “I mean if I could design my own what would it look like?”

It’s actually an interesting exercise, designing one’s one church. If you’d really like to know, my ideal church would be one that accepts all colors and creeds, features time for silent prayer, an inspirational healing message, some guided meditation, rotating musicians, and a little stretching/yoga/Pilates during the service. All in an old-growth forest cathedral.

If anyone knows a church like that, let me know. 

In the meantime, we’ll keep searching, listening, and hopping.