Sausage and I met at a liberal Catholic school when we were 10. It wasn’t very catholic, in fact, there was only me and three other girls who had done our confirmation.
As life has gone on, I drifted away from religion (see post here), whereas Sausage leaned into it. She is now part of the evangelical Christian community of Washington DC and was keen to show me a service.
I had many questions.
“If you don’t have readings, then how do you structure this thing?” I asked.
“We worship!”
“Worship?”
“Sing!”
Oh god. Gosh.
“Do I have to wear something smart?”
Sausage laughed. I didn’t know why.
“Are you sure we are allowed to take our Starbucks in with us?”
The answer was yes. We wandered into a place that resembled a WeWork with our coffees. There was a glass box fireplace, sofas, drop lights and even a gift shop with religious hoodies. At a Catholic church, you’re lucky that even the plumbing works.
She led me into this hall, where there was no central aisle but a layout that resembled a concert. The crowd was facing a blue-lit stage, with a glass-stained window projected on the wall behind. There was no sad organ playing. Instead, a band made up of a drummer, a keyboard player, and a guitarist were on the stage playing a soft beat.
We made our way to the back tier behind the lighting engineer who had a deck that was big enough to light Glastonbury with.
A man swagged onto the stage; he had a trucker hat, a mic, and a book in his hand, which I could only assume was the Bible. He spoke like an MTV presenter, raring up the crowd with the words of Jesus. The music was building behind him. I’m not going to lie. There was something exceptionally motivating about it. More motivating than a mumbling prayer- to say the least.
Once the man stopped speaking, the band began to play. A boy and two girls were in the centre. The boy strummed his acoustic guitar, and his warm voice filled the venue while the two girls harmonised behind him. I couldn’t help but notice that, like everyone else, they were dressed as if they had just had brunch with their friends. I can now see why Sausage laughed at my question.
The lyrics were projected onto the walls, and the crowd sang and danced along. There was a man nearby who added in lyrics like Timberland would. Sausage was in the zone too, and I bobbed my head awkwardly and pathetically mouthed the lyrics.
When the band had finished their first song, the trucker hat man appeared again. He instructed the crowd that if they wanted to light a candle and pray, they could go to the left corner, and if they wanted to write something down, go to the right. Otherwise, they could just sing along. Then he was off, and the band started to play their next tune.
The freedom made me feel nervous. When you’re in a Catholic mass, you don’t have to think too much. You are told when and where to sit, to stand, to kneel, to shake hands, to sing. Is it expected to go to the corners at some point? If I don’t light a candle – would people think I’m soulless? What does one write on a piece of paper?
The band was halfway into their next song when Sausage checked the time on her phone.
“Oh, we should go, or we’ll miss the dinner reservation,” she said and got up.
“Can we do that?” I said, panicked. We hadn’t even muttered a Hail Mary yet, let alone had communion and all that other stuff that seemed so sacred.
She laughed and walked off, and I quickly followed her out, fighting the urge to genuflect at the projected stained-glass window on the way.
And that was that – my first evangelical service.
Now I know the Catholics would roll their eyes at it. The Catholics are serious folks in their funny long hats, itchy gowns, and dreary hymns.
However, there was something quite warming about seeing this
community come together and be allowed to let go and be as emotional, as loud, and as huggy as they wanted. I’m too far gone in terms of being a rigid Brit – but I can certainly see the appeal.
THE QUACK 