By Steven Norris
It felt like something out of a bad joke. My college girlfriend (now wife) and I were one of the only twenty-somethings who bothered to show up for the Sunday evening service at our local Baptist church. It was about five minutes before the service was set to start and we were sitting on the third row near the aisle. There was no one else within a three-pew radius.
I felt a presence hovering on my left my side and I turned to see a middle-aged woman standing there looking in our direction. She was short and stocky, hair dyed an unnatural reddish-orange color, and wore an expression of irritation mixed with confusion. I grew up in the church. I had heard of guests who were run off from a church because they sat in someone’s “unofficial” seat during a service, though I had never experienced that firsthand.
I smiled at the lady and she forced a half-smile back in my direction. She did not move, however, but shifted her weight from one foot to the other, seemingly trying to find the right words to say. My impatience got the better of me. “Are we…sitting in your seat?” I asked.
“Well…um…yes…” was the hesitant reply.
In that moment, I had a decision to make. Up to this point, Temple Baptist Church had been a very hospitable congregation. This, however, was anything but an hospitable welcome. It would have been easy to get angry and write that church off as rude and unwelcoming.
In that moment, however, we chose a different path. Maybe it was the Spirit whispering in my ear or just my stubborn refusal to let this lady get the best of me, but I asked, “Would you like for us to scoot over and make room?” She reluctantly agreed.
After everyone was re-situated, I turned to my new pew-mate and said, holding out my hand, “I’m Steven. What’s your name?”
Over the next few minutes, we learned that Jane was single and suffered from debilitating anxiety. It was difficult for her to attend church at times and she really needed the stability of routine (like sitting in the same pew) in order to function. By the end of the service, Jane turned to us and said, “Can I have you over for dinner? I know that you are college students and I’m just an old cat lady, but I’d love to cook for you.”
Over dinner later that week, we learned that Jane was a writer. In fact, she had been the ghost writer for a book by a pretty well-known Atlanta pastor. She had worked hard to overcome addiction and had a powerful testimony of God’s faithfulness and deliverance. Over the next couple of years, she chose to make us part of her family and we shared a few additional meals together. We gave each other a hug at church and became part of her expanded “comfort zone.”
I wonder how different our world and our churches might be if we all decided to tamp down the knee-jerk reactions toward outrage and chose to lead with grace instead.