I have beef stew simmering. I coated the beef lightly in flour, salt and pepper and then seared it in butter, about five tablespoon's worth.
It smells divine. It's got onions, green peppers, carrots and potatoes, sage, marjoram, black pepper and garlic in there, as well as a dash of barbecue sauce.
The last time I made it, Keith did not even add ketchup, that's how good it is.
I have a pumpkin spice candle lit and some cheesecake cooling in the fridge, and soon I will dig through the boxes and find my fall decorating stuff.
"We are church hoppers," Keith said sadly. He mentioned this earlier today, as we pulled out of our church parking lot. We both knew that would be the last time we attended that church.
I feel like such a heretic. It turns out that church is Pentecostal, which isn't something they advertised clearly. Or maybe they did, and I didn't pick up on it. The problem is that, in a Pentecostal church, if you do not, from time to time, lift your arms and/or sway to the music, it appears as though you are blocking the work of the Holy Spirit.
So then you seem to have three choices. The first is simply to pretend. That's easy enough, but I can't sustain it. It just feels so awful, like such a huge step backward.
The second is decide that some sin in your life is holding you back from experiencing the Presence of God, as evidenced by said raising of hands, and to then examine, repent, rinse and repeat each Sunday.
Thus begins a vicious cycle of shame, since there will always be something you are not doing right, enough or in the right way, and there will always be someone who appears to be experiencing more of the Presence of God than you are. The worship team, for example.
Of course, the third is to just stand there rigid, wishing that your ears were not being blasted by the music, and wondering what the phrase "God, give us an open heaven," really means, while trying to manage your unreasonable panic by repeating the Lord's Prayer to yourself over and over again, slowly.
Clearly, I chose option three, when I can.
To be fair, I have had several good experiences at that church. Sunday before last, they unexpectedly played the hymn, Jesus Paid It All. Where I heard it, and saw the words, my heart was poured out.
The pastor's sermon on Christ washing the feet of the disciplines was wonderful, even if the love and humility of Christ demonstrated in that story always makes me squirm.
However, you know you're in the wrong church when you find yourself praying, "Please don't let my distaste affect whatever work You're doing here- Your will be done," frequently.
Oh my goodness. I just wanted to run away. Today, the pastor starting shouting, and went on shouting, as though he were trying to whip the congregation up to some kind of fever pitch. Eventually, a few would clap, or thrust their fist into the air, or shout something.
"If you have your Bible, lift it in the air. I want to see who brought their Bible," he said.
"If you want more of Christ, come to the front of the church."
And when not enough went, he stopped the entire thing, including the music, and declared that there was a feeling of pridefulness in the church and we had to search our hearts for the pride and sin that was holding us back from an acceptable response. After that, more people went up, but I felt vaguely ill.
"If you want more of Christ, lift your arms to open your heart."
"If you need your heart restored from pride or sin or unforgivemess, just lift your arms."
"This is a new beginning. Some of you will feel the power of God poured out on your life."
And some of you won't. Some of you are Bible-less, hard hearted, unforgiving, back slidden, prideful pew fillers like the couple from Indiana over there in the back row.
Actually, I had my Bible, so... But still.
And they play those songs over and over and over and over and over again. I can't sustain my original, organic emotional response for ten minutes of endless repeat.
Then I get to feeling like I must be just the most carnal, shallow person for just standing there, feeling my hips ache and wondering when will they let us out of the dark room already and would they please, please stop singing.
Before the sermon was officially over, Keith leaned down to me and asked if I was ready to go. He'd been restless the entire time, leaning forward with his head down, or playing with the offering envelopes. He took my hand and walked grimly outside with a long stride, looking straight ahead.
I was ready; we escaped together. I'm sure we looked like jerks for leaving before the twentieth repetition of whatever chant it was.
Outside, through the wall mounted speakers, we could still hear the quavering, sobbing utterances of the pastor as he paced the stage before the worship group, invoking the presence of God, of heaven, and power.
Keith fished his chew out of the pocket of his cargo pants and slapped it against the palm of his other hand. Once he had a chew in, he got his car keys out. It was a bright sunny day. I was relieved to remember that Christ lives in me, and I in Him.
It's a very simple and completely miraculous arrangement, and it's unchanging. It doesn't need electric guitars, projection screens, arm raising, curtained windows or shouting to be made more real.
Though, of course, there's nothing wrong with those things, that I know of.
