On Being Kidnapped by Methodists

That I don't have a home congregation yet in Durham, or a job in that congregation, or a standing invitation to take over services with liturgical dramas, might surprise anyone who knows the ending to the story that starts with a group of CC freshman looking at each other after Scott's 10:10 seminar and saying, "So...were the rest of you thinking about going to Morning Prayer, too?" (I remember Miriam and Dan; probably Karl had wandered over from Creech's seminar... We were small once.)

Since moving to Durham I've been to three Lutheran churches, the Duke Chapel, a United Methodist church, an Episcopal church, and a synagogue. They are good at welcoming students here. My first Lutheran church, I got a mug and a magnet and my name remembered at the communion rail. I thought that was so cool -- even cool enough to overshadow the fact that just a moment before, I'd realized almost too late that the way communion was going, that usher was going to call upon me to lead my pew up to the head of the sanctuary. (Questions of, "Oh my god, left or right? Kneel? Get up right away? Wait for a blessing?" took on vital existential importance; I rocked, though, in the face of such pressure.) Sam Wells himself said hello to me outside the Duke Chapel; but only because he didn't know who I was. At the synagogue, one of the rabbis recognized me from a guest lecture he'd delivered in our Old Testament class, and I recognized the other rabbi when he stopped into my restaurant the following Monday for a margarita. (I handed it to him in awe and haven't felt such vicarious cool since I communed Martin E. Marty and his bowtie.)

I don't know why I haven't settled. But I can at least report that this morning I checked "Attend Regularly" in the roster at (sorry, you're sitting down for this, right?) the UMC sanctuary I keep wandering into downtown.

It often defies explanation how certain places start to feel like home. I like the stained glass and the bell tower, and the visibility of the children. The only place I've seen a wider variety of willing musicians and instruments is Holden under Jonathan Ruening-Scherer's village musicianship. I've only heard one of the pastors preach, and I could listen to him all day. And maybe best of all, the ushers wear purple "usher" badges, which remind me of the red "usher alert!" flags we stole from the pews in a church we visited one day and brought back to the Fellowship House.

On the other hand, they don't commune often enough, and the young people tried to evangelize me once. A woman announced meaningfully that they met for a Bible Study about once a month after the service at a Mexican restaurant nearby. Caught off guard, I replied that I had a boxer named Floyd. Since we seemed to be sharing personal information...?

There are a few other Divinity students that attend, and one rockstar professor; my closest friends are actually an older couple, Linda and Tom. We sit in the back and quietly perpetuate the rumor that I'm one of their grandchildren. How we met was this: it was my second time at Duke Memorial UMC, and I stood outside, stamping my foot like a child because the service had already started, and suddenly there emerged two people from the building adjacent to the sanctuary. "Hi," I announced, "I'm late; can you tell me which door to go in so not everybody notices?"

They said, "Oh, follow us, we're late all the time." And that was that.

Today they invited me to lunch after church. We went to the old American Tobacco warehouses (they're restaurants and shops and live music venues now), and caught up on siblings and classes and how this winter compares so far with others, and I found out about the guy who performs Mark Twain in Hillsborough, in case I ever have spare time again. They drove me back to the church and a parking lot that was deserted except for my bike chained to the fence, and I realized abruptly that I should have used the bathroom at the restaurant to change from my skirt back into my shorts. Linda and Tom insisted on waiting while I tried every door to every building on the church campus; they were all locked and they all had signs urging me to ring the bell, only I realized that if I rang the bell and anyone actually answered it, I would have to explain that I was just trying to get into the building to change into shorts in a bathroom so I could ride my bike home.

In the quiet of their car in the deserted parking lot, Linda and Tom were having a conversation about how all the doors were probably locked, but I could maybe change out of sight behind the columbarium? Which is exactly what I did, and why (I think) they were laughing when I returned, in shorts, to say good-bye and collect my bike.

I'm not saying I'm Methodist or anything. Yet.