There are over 45,000 church denominations worldwide.*
Here in America, we have 33,000.*
Within the denomination of my childhood,
there are 44 different branches.
I have no idea why we got chopped up into
so
many
pieces.

When I was a kid, I went to a little Methodist church in a small midwestern town. It wasn’t a mega-church, or a seeker-friendly church, or a church with a cool name. The pastor wasn’t exactly dynamic. We sang hymns and prayed The Lord’s Prayer together. Nobody was concerned with cultural trends or the latest technology or staying relevant. We were as common as they come.

All I knew was that I loved going to Sunday school, where I put a sticker on the attendance chart every week. I enjoyed singing while Mrs. B exuberantly pounded out “The B-I-B-L-E” on the old upright piano. I adored Blondie, my teacher, who always gave out Juicy Fruit gum. I liked sitting with my parents on the red padded pews in the sanctuary. I drew pictures on the bulletin, played with the veins in mom’s hands, and elbowed dad when he started to nod off. Somehow, despite the ordinariness of that quotidian congregation, I learned to love Jesus and my Bible.

While PB and I were driving through North Carolina last month, something caught my eye. It made me laugh out loud and I told PB to turn around. Then I felt a little longing rise up inside.

Sometimes I just want an old, regular church that leads me to Canaan’s Shore. Yep, give me an old, regular church with humble worship and good ol’ gospel preaching.

Oh, and services streaming on Facebook.

(*According to Wikipedia)