Growing up in the 60s and 70s in a Methodist church was an entirely different experience than what I witnessed a few weeks ago. The church I attended when I was young was a gothic-looking building with a spire. Older ladies wore hats and gloves to the services. I was on my best behavior as I sat in the pews, wearing a nice dress and sporting my black patent leather Mary Janes. We had music in the church. Hymn numbers were posted on the wooden boards at the front of the church and the congregation dutifully tried to follow the organ and choir. The choir wore black robes. Street clothing was hidden. The pastor spoke from a lectern.
A few weeks ago, I played violin for a service at a church which had no spire, no cross, no choir robes and no lectern. Instead the pastor paced back and forth across the stage. Sweat dripped from his shiny forehead. Spotlights switched on and off. The praise band got a groove going and the choir swung side-to-side, sometimes with hands open heavenward. I have never seen so many spangles and sequins in captivity. I could feel the choir move.
The audience swayed, too, with hands aloft. The choir shouted: “Praise Him.” “Amen!” was the hearty response from the crowd.
Amen, indeed. I have been churched.
I’m Rosie Klepper and that’s my perspective.