Through Dry Gulches

We at the Whipple house (still unnamed, as I have commitment issues with titles), are having a hard time readjusting to the institutional church. After spending so much time fighting to be a part of a house church, which, as of now, is still in existence, we've gone for a couple Sundays to a traditional church in addition to meeting with our brothers and sisters at a friend's house over a glorious potluck supper.

I say traditional, but perhaps I better clarify. That evocative word conjures up images in some people's minds of a dear sweet fluffy old lady sitting at an aging upright piano, hammering out a ragtime or bluegrass beat with the left hand and insisting on playing at a breakneck clip. People in overalls clutch their 1611 King James Bibles (not printed in 1611, of course) and belt out hymnody in strong, farm-raised voices. Another fun picture is one of the creepy, emaciated organist sitting in the paltry light of a tallow candle, holding out minor chords as if his patience alone is the root of the perseverance of the saints. Neither of these is what I mean by "traditional."

In short, our little group has been meeting together to study the Bible, pray, and get to know each other in an intimate setting. Going from having no liturgy and all intimacy to having a great deal of liturgy and less intimacy is very difficult. We're feeling a little like wandering sheep, seeking the watering hole where the rest of the herd lies in repose. I suppose that being picky doesn't help.