Once upon a time, not long ago, I was invited to attend a church service. I know, that should not be unusual. Because of my reverendly status, I am invited to attend or participate in many church services-revival services, special services, renewal services, anniversary services, ordination services, and Internet services. I try to make as many of these as I can, but don't always succeed. I have tried a few times to attend an Internet service, but have yet to find one-something about not getting the right address, or being outside the domain. Whatever.
But this particular service was advertised as a PRAISE SERVICE. I was intrigued. "How does one serve praise?" I wondered. I cannot deny that I have a certain mental frustration with some of this modern phraseology-not to mention theology. I was determined to make an appearance and discover just what kind of service this might be. After all, the intent cannot be ill conceived. It is a good thing to offer praise to our God, and we probably do not do it often enough. If fact, I had always thought that part of participating in a church service was to offer praise. Now I find that it takes a special service. Perhaps I could learn something. So off I went, arriving at a religiously-socially acceptable time-two minutes before service time. That way the pastor doesn't have time to chat, and the official greeters are already searching for their official seats, so I can sit where I choose.
The first thing I noticed was that the whole thing resembled a picnic. It had that kind of come-as-you-are atmosphere perhaps more appropriately reserved for Arbor Day. People were wearing, or not wearing, almost anything. Just about the time I was fixing to excuse myself for interrupting the family reunion, the noise began. Reminded me of tree-planting music-gets you to thinking about how long it will be before leaving time (Just a little pulpit humor, for those searching for mental stimulation.) When the music began folks began to find a seat-not to sit in, just to stand in front of. No one sat down, because if you sat down, you couldn't see, since no one else was sitting down. I began wondering when the praise was going to start.
Next thing I know, the guy standing in the next seat reaches over and takes me by the hand-not to shake it , but just to hold it. This prompted chills to begin creeping up my spine. Maybe it was the praise, I surmised. Something told me this was not normal, but it was probably just my Puritanical upbringing. I had been warned about that. I hadn't held hands with anyone but my wife in about twenty-seven years, and I was wishing it was still that way. I was told later that this is an inherited behavior that comes from meeting in large stadiums and keeping a promise to a man that
we wouldn't make to a woman. Someone founded an entire organization on that premise, or, er, promise. Whatever.
While contemplating these discouraging events, and attempting to find a nice way to retrieve my hand, the entire row of participants to which I was now firmly attached began to move. I thought we would make some progress, but we would move just a little one way, and then we would move just a little the other way. "This is a lot of effort to not get anywhere." I thought to myself. One thing I was beginning to discover it was OK to express myself because no one else could hear what I was saying (if I were to say it), and wouldn't care if he did.
Suddenly, my hand was free, as was everyone else's. Now everyone was waving. I could not tell whom they were waving at, but they were looking up in the air. No one was yet in the pulpit so I assumed they weren't welcoming the preacher. This was consuming a lot of energy. The elderly gentleman behind me was waving, swaying, and jumping so intently that his Social Security disability check took leave of his shirt pocket and sailed into my seat. Good thing no one was using the seats.
This activity continued, in one fashion or another, for about forty-eight minutes. Every once in a while, I could see through the forest of wavers, and noticed that there was a group of about six folks up on the preaching platform engaged in some sort of synchronized activity. I was told later that it was the "worship team." I never did figure out if there were tryouts for the worship team, or if you had to be appointed. They all clapped together, swayed together, and rolled their eyes together. This could become an Olympic sport in a short amount of time. I also noticed that there was a large screen hanging in the front of the building, and that the words to the songs seemed to be displayed on the screen. I have yet to figure out what good it does to display words on a screen, if the accompanying music is not provided. You could sing the words to the tune of "On Top of Old Smokey" or "Blessed Be the Tie that Binds." How is one to know? They didn't even have the little bouncing ball that would indicate how long each note would be held (I guess that dates me, for sure.)
By this time, everyone was exhausted. When the music stopped for a short intermission, we all collapsed into our seats, I knew they would come in handy sooner or later. Finally, I thought, the PRAISE SERVICE would begin. Soon, a heavily painted angel-lady presented herself on the platform and thanked everyone for coming to praise the Lord. "Good," I thought. "Now we're going to praise the Lord." After all, that's why I came. I know how to make noise, hold hands, pat someone on the back, hold my extremities in the air, and make like a helicopter with my hanky. After all, I went to military school. All of that is good, and should not be denied, providing it is done decently and in order. But I supposed that now was the time that I would learn what the praise service was all about. The lady told us that the spirit (small s is at the author's discretion) had certainly met with us tonight, and that we had conquered the world. While I was left to wonder just what portion of the world could be conquered in an hour by a group of noisy, undisciplined folks- people began to leave. Some were going to the video arcade, some were looking for dates, and some were still holding hands. Some had succumbed to sleep from all the activity. Two souls had fainted at the "altar." "So this is really what a praise service is all about? " I asked a passer-by. "Oh, yes, isn't it great?"
Once again in my unorthodox, reverendly way, I began to wonder. You know, there was a lady in Scripture who wanted to stop and have a praise service once. She raised her voice, and spoke to the Lord in the midst of the whole crowd; "Blessed is the womb that bare thee, and the paps which thou has sucked." I always kind of figured she was saying they should stop for a little while and just have a praise service. The Lord's reply was rather to the point. "Yea, rather, blessed are they that hear the Word of God, and keep it."
Kind of makes me wonder if the best kind of praise, and perhaps the kind God would like the best, is if we would stop making noise long enough to find out what God says, and then just do it. Now there's a praise service for you. Think it will ever catch on?
                                                                 DOC TRIN