Confession of a Church Snob

By Susy Flory, author of numerous books, including Sanctuary.

Not long ago I was talking about switching churches with a wise writer friend named Michelle Van Loon. Michelle has Jewish heritage and became a Christ follower during the Jesus movement, but since then she’s become something of a church nomad, like a home missionary who serves a church for a season and then moves on. I knew she’d have some wisdom for me. On this occasion she listened to my story of church hurt and commiserated with this Phyllis Tickle quote: “every 500 years the church needs to go through a rummage sale.” Rooting out rummage implies change, and in her upcoming book Downsizing, Michelle says downsizing is in progress, and that we’re “actively sorting through the last couple of generations of Evangelicalism in the West.”

Photo by Ingmar Nolte on Unsplash

As I sorted through my own experience of hurt, I decided to go small and left my SBC-style nondenom megachurch for a small, rural liturgical church, the closest church to my house. It was quite the change, from a Broadway-style auditorium with theater seats and full orchestra to a small sanctuary with green tinted windows, wooden pews, and a soft-spoken pianist with sweet curled bangs. From hi-res screens looming above the stage to a small paper handout and an altar made from a big local chunk of rock topped with a thick slice of wood from a hundred year-old Ponderosa Pine. From theatrical 45-minute sermons by an animated male pastor channeling Andy Stanley to 10-minute sermons from a slight white-haired, white-robed woman who is very used to being urgently interrupted with the latest news on Fred, who’d been taken to the hospital in an ambulance the night before.

My decision to try this little church, the kind I’d passed by without a thought as I was on my way to my—I’ll be honest—what I viewed as my superior big church, was directly influenced by FF Bruce who wrote in his memoir that even though he didn’t agree with all of the practices and beliefs of the Plymouth Brethren, no matter where he was in the world he looked up the closest little Plymouth Brethren outpost and quietly showed up to serve, whether it was giving, teaching, or putting away folding chairs. I decided to try this and after a few visits, I settled in at Faith Lutheran Church of Pioneer. After a while I saw some things that needed to be done, so I updated the website, volunteered as church librarian, and, surprise of all surprises, began preaching once every other month to let the pastor have a break and use up her vacation days to get some things done for herself or her disabled husband.

I did not come in with any ambition to do any of those things, as I just wanted a safe place to worship, so I was especially shocked when I was asked to preach. The first Sunday I stepped into the pulpit (which was my first Sunday officially preaching at any church) I distinctly felt the weight of bringing the Word to a faithful, well-cared for flock; I also was not a little nervous because I had to set up the sanctuary and led the entire service (not just preached), even down to lighting the eternal candle and making sure the electric lights, soundboard, and AC were on, as well. 

Every assumption I had about small churches like this was wrong about Faith Lutheran. I’m finding my new church to be rich (though not in dollars), with the members fully engaged, bonded to each other, and focused. It’s a place where I feel safe, heard, seen, and connected. I have also found the Sunday service ministering to me on a very deep level. This was another surprise, as I had always imagined this kind of liturgical proceeding as surely rote, dry, and uninspired. Wrong again, and now I love the idea of sharing the same Scriptures with churches all over the world. Every service we read and hear several passages from the Bible together—our hearts and spirits leaning into listen—a significant change from what I was used to.

The pastor is a 70-year-old woman is someone you might not even notice if you passed her on the street, but she earned an MDiv and has been pastoring for decades, a true shepherd of the flock entrusted to her. Last year at our annual meeting she refused a raise in salary because, “I don’t need it.”

I don’t want to overly glorify small liturgical churches—I’ve been around too long to believe there’s a perfect church out there somewhere. We’re all broken, and so are churches. This is more about an unexpected shift to a different way of worshiping and finding an unassuming and unlikely place to serve, where you are needed, and which you might have looked down on once upon a time when you thought the goal was being bigger and better, and more correct, for Jesus.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere about substance, and how a small body of believers can have a huge impact on a community. I’ve seen a steady stream of folks come to this little church by car, bike, or on foot to get clothes, food, prayer, twelve-step help, a blessing on the dog, and all sorts of other needs. Better might mean smaller; bigger might mean lesser. Appearances can be deceiving in this upside-down kingdom Jesus created, right?

Friends and I talk about our megachurch experiences, with many of them feeling as disillusioned as I was. But when I tell them about my new church and what it’s like, they often go quiet at the thought of trying something that’s so different from what they’re used to, and maybe even feels like a comedown. (Ask me how I know.)

The truth is, once up on a time I was a church snob, proud to be part of the best game in town. But like Pastor Janna, I’ve realized I don’t need it. Give me the folding chairs, the green windows, the rock altar, and the quiet pastor. Give me a place to feel safe, to grow, to love and be loved, and to serve the flock and my community. Give me a new family. Give me hope for the future of the Church.