The chapter titled, "You mean, we get to sing together?"

I like to liken my life to a story. In our age of literacy, stories are often found in books, and formatted for such. Thus I find chapters a useful metaphor for identifying sections of my story-life.

I've been living in a weird chapter.

Before I elaborate, come with me back to the beginning. What beginning? The beginning of me.

I was born in church.

That isn't technically true. I was born in a hospital. On a Friday. My memory of that time is fuzzy, but I can say with almost strict certainty that my mother didn't drag her tired self and my wee frame to participate in services two days later. But a week and two days later? Yeah, I'm pretty sure we were there. And every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night after. We lived (and still do) in the land of A Church on Every Other Corner, after all.

When my family moved to a new town in a new state six years later, we found a new church to go to, and I remember feeling like those people (and us after we became a part of the group) were the most progressive I'd ever met. Why? They didn't meet on Sunday nights. Or Wednesday nights. Just Sunday mornings. (I remember one time, since we didn't have church in the evening, my family went to Opryland one Sunday afternoon. Only radical people went to theme parks on Sundays.) You mean, it's not required to "go to church" three times a week?

But you know what? We got together for parties pretty regularly. And Bible studies. (Yeah, that's right. I said parties before Bible studies. We celebrated a lot.) And small groups. And meetings. So while our gatherings looked different than the ones to which I was accustomed, I still was just as churched as I had ever been. Probably more.

Then I grew, and rather than just hanging around watching my parents participate, I became a participant, even at some times when my parents weren't. Church was a bigger part of my life than ever.

Here now we return to the current chapter. Several months ago, I began traveling more, almost exclusively on weekends. This translated into frequently missed church services, and my greatest experience of disconnection from the structure of the modern-day American church. It was odd. But not as odd as what was coming.

In October, my church ceased having meetings on Sunday mornings entirely, and we started just meeting for a Bible study every week. I won't go into the details of why that decision was made, but I will say I was kind of excited about the future of our little niche in the body of Christ. As for myself, however, I thought, "This is going to be interesting. What am I going to do? I've never not 'gone to church' before."

I didn't have long to think about it, though, as I was barely home on the weekends in November. Sundays became travel days, and I would worship the Lord in the car by singing all by me onesies, reflecting, praying, listening to WNYC's Radiolab, and staying on the road. I haven't "been to church" in weeks.

Last night, a dear friend of my family and the ministry he works for had one of their "Worship in the Boro" nights, and I was glad to attend. But as soon as the music began, I thought, "This is strange. I'm not sure I know what to do with myself." Everything felt familiar and foreign simultaneously. "So, I'm supposed to sing now, right? We're all going to sing together. That's pretty cool."

"Oh, now we're all supposed to stand up. So I guess I'm going to stand and sing. And what am I supposed to sing? The melody? I think I'll harmonize. I can harmonize, right?"

"Wait a minute, now everyone's clapping. So now I'm clapping. Sort of. This feels so weird. People actually do this in church every time they meet. Really? Really."

This monologue may seem unnecessarily dramatic and exaggerated, but this is truly an accurate representation of how surreal the whole experience was. I was born in church, remember? Not only that, I'm a musician. Singing has summed up the majority of my church participation. Yet there I was feeling out of place in a service full of singing.

What just happened?

I sat there marveling at how something that was once such a routine part of my life had turned into an almost new experience for me. My contemplation of the situation accompanied me home. My first inclinations said, "This is not as it should be. Church shouldn't be something you don't know intimately. Singing shouldn't make your eyes open wide in wonder."

Then I thought, "Why shouldn't it?" Music is one of the most marvelous gifts we on this earth have been given, and the human ability to make it spring forth without the aid of any outside thing is the most wonderful musical reality I know. Being wide-eyed is a natural reaction to that.

My thoughts continued in that direction, and I began to realize that "going to church" isn't something I should take for granted either. There is no mandate for how we as followers of Jesus should congregate, where we should congregate, when, or how often. If we aren't sensitive to the purpose and necessity of our intersections with one another, then "going to church" can become a dead ritual. We'll do things mindlessly, never once considering their intent, or stopping to receive all the goodness they can afford us if we don't rob them of their vitality. No wonder I've seen so many dead people in church.

So weird as this chapter may be, maybe it's also just as good. Many of my expectations obviously have been diminished, so perhaps I'm in a place to receive something new. Something new and sincere in all of its fullness. I'm actually kind of excited about it.