Sunday school

To say church has lately become a bit disjointed for our family is a gross understatement of the situation. I bristle at the task of even trying to explain our Sundays here in this post, but I think I will because I'm learning some things from our Sabbath-day dealings that are worth sharing. Here is how our religion has become a messy patchwork of spiritual connection and new life lessons for us as of late:

Upon moving to our new neighborhood last fall, we found a church right away--a good church. It feels natural to be there each week, like this is where God wants us spending our Sundays. The people are regular and they gather to talk about God and pray for each other. Our Pastor, also a regular guy who seems wholly overwhelmed by the richness of the holy spirit, offers inspired, perspective-altering, soul-challenging messages that really make a difference in your week. But there's a problem of options. The church offers three services on Sundays. The first two are traditional, filled with hymns and liturgy--catering to the over-60 set. We could easily leave these services aside in exchange for spending our worship time at the evening service--a contemporary, sincere, laid-back atmosphere that caters to young people and even encourages children to be a part of the service--all except for the scheduling of the children's Sunday school class, which happens at 9 a.m. during the geezer service. L needs rich children's programming and that is not available during our preferred service in the evening. Are you following?

For a while N and I gladly sacrificed our own desires for more contemporary worship so we could go to church in the morning and allow L to enjoy Sunday school. Then C started having trouble with the nursery. By trouble I mean he clings to my hip as we near the building and on the numerous occasions I've left him to duke it out, I've been able to enjoy no more than 3 minutes of the geezer service before being paged to retrieve my hysterical baby, whose desperate pleas I (and the rest of the congregation) can hear echoing across the courtyard between the nursery and the sanctuary.

So this week, we're attending two church services. I took L to her Sunday school class this morning while N stayed home with C and we plan to return at 5 p.m. to attend evening worship together as a family. Neither N nor I were thrilled with this divided situation this morning as L and I scooted out the door and N tried to get little C enthused about a morning without the girls. It isn't perfect, but we thought we'd give it a try.

Now, I know this story flies in the face of traditional church-going, and believe me, I have thought of many ways to cast judgment on our current decision about church, but today it felt right.

After I delivered L to her Sunday school group, I found a bench in the courtyard outside her class and I did some reading, while the rest of the grown-ups sang hymns and recited the doxology across the way in the sanctuary. I could faintly hear the pre-schoolers singing along to "Jesus, lamb of God" and I was pleased to think about L and the other three little girls, each in various shades of pink frocks, learning the words to the same songs I learned when I was in Sunday school, the choruses of which still remind me of the love and generosity my own Sunday school teachers heaped upon me as I formed my early relationship with Christ.

I continued my reading and found myself in the midst of the story of the last supper. The focus of this particular reading was about how Christ knew these were his last hours with the ones he loved most and he didn't carry on with speeches of parting wisdom. He turned to service. He washed their feet. I thought about N and I, ignoring our own hunger for a weekly spiritual experience of our own to take care of our little children in their unique needs of the moment because that's what we're supposed to do as parents. I thought of our particular sacrifice as a somewhat shallow echo of "washing their feet." I think that's what made me feel better about our new approach to church. I want it to be a tiny, Christlike offering of ourselves to the ones we love, but I know it's not quite as selfless and grandiose as all that. Giving L and C what they need on Sundays is the same type of service they require every day of the week. We chose to have children and now we are required to serve them because that's what God designed for us to do as parents.

It's hard. At moments I feel guilty about not following the "rules" of church. I am weary of the long explanation I have to rattle off when church friends ask: "So which service do you attend?" And it's hard to disappoint the well-intentioned caregivers in C's nursery when I choose to keep C in my arms instead of leaving him in the nursery to work through his separation anxiety. These are all choices N and I are making because it's what feels right to us.

Maybe someday things will change. Maybe our church will start to mold its children's programming to fit the needs of a wider range of its families. Maybe C will find a way to enjoy the nursery. Or maybe the circumstances will stay the same and I will learn how to be content with our current church situation however unorthodox it seems. Maybe I'll find peace with letting Jesus meet us wherever we are and I'll stop worrying about what church is supposed to look like. God knows it's hard on me, and he's not letting up. He must have something in mind.