Meant to Be Together: A Reflection on Reopening Our Church
By Glenna Marshall
Our last service together under one roof was on March 15th—twelve weeks ago. As the global pandemic spread to our city limits, we knew it would likely be our last time worshiping in our church sanctuary for a while, but we had no idea what the next three months would be like. Quarantine, virtual schooling, grocery shortages, masks, church services livestreamed from our living rooms, Sunday school classes via Zoom with small pixelated squares representing each part of the body of Christ. It’s been a strange, stressful three months for the church. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that we were not meant to be apart.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that we were not meant to be apart.
Three weeks ago, our church began meeting in the parking lot—first in our cars and then in lawn chairs. That first week in the parking lot, I heard the distinct voices of my church family as we sang “The Doxology” at the end of the service, and tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t sing around the knot in my throat. On March 15th, a reprieve from church felt a little like a vacation following some ministry burnout. But, standing in the shade of the big trees in front of our church building so many weeks later, I listened to the voices nearest me, and I realized why even an outdoor service felt like a gift all these weeks later: we were meant to be together.
I realized why even an outdoor service felt like a gift all these weeks later:we were meant to be together.
My pastors have worked hard to follow state and federal guidelines for reopening our church. My husband is one of my pastors, and I’ve watched him think through caring for both members who are eager to meet without restrictions and members who are fearful of gathering while our city still sees regular diagnoses of COVID-19. I’ve prayed for my pastors as they’ve made difficult decisions on how to meet the needs of church members all across the spectrum of opinions on reopening the church. This week, we met for the first time inside the sanctuary, and our pastors worked hard to make this as easy a transition as possible.
I didn’t quite know what to expect when I arrived at church for music practice Sunday morning. It felt good to be seated back at the piano again, but the taped off pews and assigned seating were a strange sight. Attendance was by reservation only, with a few spots marked off for visitors or those who decided to attend last-minute. Masks and hand sanitizer were available upon entrance, but there were no bulletins being handed out. One pastor walked around in a mask with a seating chart, pointing people to their assigned seats. (I know for a fact that he used a tape measure to ensure that each family unit was six feet from anyone else.) Another pastor led music without a mask. I think the differences in our leadership helped to make our congregation comfortable with whatever decision they made about wearing a mask (note: masks are not required in Missouri where I live).
We didn’t pass an offering plate but made one available in the back of the sanctuary. Communion elements were individually prepackaged and placed ahead of time in the cupholders of the pews. Signs were posted on all of the doors encouraging members to refrain from physical contact and restroom usage, if possible. The service was livestreamed as usual for those who weren’t comfortable attending. About 50% of our membership were present, and we were dismissed row by row after the service. Some people stood outside the building to carry on conversations; some people made a beeline for their vehicles.
I will confess, it didn’t exactly feel like church. But neither did the months of services streamed from my living room when my husband preached to a camera and I kept my kids quiet with snacks and tablets. I still missed the faces of those who are at higher risk of contracting the virus, and I missed hugging those who were comfortable attending. It definitely isn’t the same. Normalcy feels like something we may not recover.
I worry that my church’s particular normal is years away. Our weekly potluck meal seems like a thing of the past—before gatherings became enemy number one of the corona virus. After sanitizing my groceries and avoiding restaurants for three months, I can’t imagine standing in a line with a hundred other people handling serving utensils and sharing food. What was once rote and completely normal now seems dangerous and strange. There are no small group Sunday school classes or discipleship groups. No coffee service in the lobby, no childcare.
And yet, I feel a stirring of hope because this week’s strange service was a step toward normalcy. There were people in the pews, albeit six feet part in every direction. The was preaching of the Word, pastoral prayer, singing of songs, heart examination in corporate communion. There were voices I could hear, faces I could see, encouragements called out across the sanctuary. And I remembered again—we were meant to be together. Even with restrictions, we were meant to be together. Even in stages, we were meant to be together. These months apart, these strange new kinds of gathering, these endless six feet of social distancing—they speak loud and clear to the body of Christ. We were meant to be together.
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence: Why God is Always Enough (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness: The Beauty of Ordinary Perseverance in a Demanding World (Crossway, June, 2, 2020).