Published in the Baptist Times 16 September 2011
I recently attended a bizarre event, at the invitation of a friend who was staying in the place and had asked a few others to join him. He didn't know what exactly it would be like so we were expecting the unexpected, but not the inexplicable.
We were welcomed by an elderly man and, once inside the venue, by a woman seated at a keyboard. But the lid was closed and her role seemed to be not to play the instrument, but operate a CD player perched on top of it.
At a nod from the man, she pressed Play and hearty choral singing filled the air. The gathered handful of people - some in outdoor wear, some in day clothes, others in pyjamas - and any absent ones receiving the event as a broadcast, were exhorted to sing along.
Printed lyrics were provided, in books entitled something like 'Hymns Ancient and Very Very Ancient' and were entirely unknown. The language was foreign. Even lifelong national speakers might not have recognised it as their own.
Oddly, one of the songs was about people in peril on the sea. Given the range of urgent anxieties that assail in-patients and their families, it was hard to see why this concern had been given priority at a hospital chapel Sunday service.
Prayers were recited and a talk was given by the man - all in a strangely declamatory sing-song tone. It was not the same voice the chaplain had used when he welcomed us in. Was he knowingly putting it on, for some purpose? Was the declaimer aware that he had switched personalities? It was all very baffling.
The choice of hymns was explained: they had been selected because they were 'familiar to everyone.' This would have made sense, had everybody present - and those listening from their wards on hospital radio - been over a certain age and raised in a High Church Anglican tradition. To anyone else the culture was not simply unfamiliar but unrelated to any norm.
The following Sunday, I was at prison church. After a scripture reading by one of the prisoners, a new inmate clapped and called out, 'Well said!' The friend he had come in with, more conversant with church procedure, sniggered and nudged him. But the chaplain swiftly endorsed his response: 'Yes, very well read. Let's give him a round of applause, shall we?'
The next reader stammered and stumbled over the words. 'Go for it, Mike!' a member of the congregation encouraged, and he persevered. When he sat down, he too received a show of appreciation. After each hymn we clapped as well. 'Well sung!' the chaplain approved.
It wasn't normal practice, but to people unused to church culture, it made sense and was only polite. In what other context would a speaker go up to a microphone in front of a crowd and then have to make their way back to their seat in silence? In a theatre or club, it would mean the listeners couldn't be bothered to spare a poor performer public humiliation.
Reading or singing as part of communal worship is not a performance. But not understanding this yet is not a social gaffe, or blasphemy.
Being invited to somebody's home for the first time is easier when host and guest share a language and culture. If they don't, it helps to provide some points of recognition and ensure the hosts' idiosyncrasies are not perceived by the guest as offensive rejection.
Anyone inviting a new person into their family would prioritise making that person feel at home, allaying awkwardness, making allowances, and considering their expectations. Being open, informal and flexible would be essential to offering a genuine welcome. Few would talk among themselves in a private family code, or engage in arcane rituals that would make the newcomer feel isolated.
But too many first-timers at church still encounter a culture that seems exclusive and foreign, with the natives unwilling or unable to accommodate outsiders' concerns.
