Let me apologize to the entire Greater Portland Metropolitan
Area’s inhabitants up front: I’m an outsider. An envious outsider at that.
There are aspects of Portland, Oregon
that remind me of the fondest of my memories of being an adolescent (with no
apologies to Mark Driscoll for using that term—maybe we could talk sometime?)
in San Francisco
during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Yet there has been a significant passage
of time since I last dwelt in an urban area, or even a moderate-density
population area (i.e., suburb). Truth be told: the other day I was thrilled
with myself that I still remembered how to successfully parallel park.
With that said, I think I may have advantages in
anthropological and sociological distance, but severe liabilities when it comes
to my few samples of “Life in Portland” over the past few years. Still, I
believe my observations have some value, if not actual merit, and they have
proven instructive to me for a specific purpose in my life and ministry.
Perhaps you’ll be able to plow through the potentially offensive mistaken
impressions I’ve gleaned, and recognize that there is some validity to the
conclusion I’ve drawn, despite the faulty lenses through which my limited data
is viewed. If you find the length too daunting, though, you can skip down to
the paragraph that begins: “So, in short….”
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It shows up in a variety of
places here: “Keep Portland Weird.” I’m in town studying issues related to
diversity, and it’s a perfect place to do so. There appears to be little to
which the adjectives common, normal, average, or (especially) ordinary would
apply. There’s even concern expressed over another concept, “Portland Cool,” as
though that would become a standardizing commodification (branding, packaging,
and promoting a static paradigm) of some aspects of Portland Weird. In fact,
even if all aspects of Portland Weird as it exists today were included in
Portland Cool, it would fail to account for new and stranger developments yet
to come, perhaps as early as tomorrow, or even later tonight.
Here’s how I came to be at
the intersection of Portland Weird and Portland Cool today.
First, as I drove to the
church in which I chose to worship today, I determined not to arrive in the
full array of clergy vestments current to my tradition. And so, my shirt had
long sleeves, and it was tucked into my pants. I even wore a tie, as I do every
Sunday. While this successfully differentiated me from all participants on the
worship team, it was also unique among the several hundred who attended that
worship hour. This, coupled with my age (I’m significantly outside the 18-34
year old demographic.), may have created a kind of anthropological distance in
others, turning them toward either observation or avoidance mode. (Xenophobia
is discussed in a previous post.)
Second, however mistaken my
perception may be (that I managed to dress outside the range of what is
acceptable under “Portland Weird”), I did experience “Portland Cool.”
Thankfully, there was ample room within this church’s meeting place. I admit to
taking up all of the one seat in which I sit (though the weight loss continues
to go well). But the buffer zone of several seats in either direction,
extending as it did into the rows before and behind me, might also play a part
in seeking to ensure that similar visitors never return. There simply wouldn’t
be room to allow the same size boundaries to be drawn around more than a
handful of visitors in any given service.
As you read this, I would
agree with your reasonable conclusion that I am a nitpicking whiner. My
inadequate justification (that, on those very few Sundays when I have respite
from my responsibilities, I want the excellent experience offered on the
websites of the churches I carefully research) is exactly that: inadequate. The
grace I hope God extends me through visitors to the congregation I serve is
sometimes in short supply through me
when I am the visitor. When my needs to simply participate among a congregation
in which I hold no leadership responsibilities—when these are condensed into only
three or four Sundays a year, I can tend to expect a great deal more than is
possible in any one service. And this service held a great deal of blessing,
and some truly extraordinary elements of great importance to me. It should have
been a simple matter to overlook the perceptible distancing and the sideways
glances. And I believe it would have been, if only…
If only the first words
spoken directly to me by another human being were not, “Excuse me,” as they
moved past during the communion service. And if only the last words, “Good
morning” as I was leaving, hadn’t been followed by an immediate turn to say the
same to another. And if only there had been any other words spoken to me at all
by anyone, except those spoken to the congregation of which I was, most
definitely, not a part. (And, frankly, my perceptions would have been kinder if
only I hadn’t been left to research and mapquest a congregation for myself. If only
there had been any invitation to any church by any one of the dozens of
Christians with whom I had interacted during the prior week…I might have been
feeling more gracious.)
So, in short, there appears
to be a limit to the range available in Portland Weird, at least within one
congregation that is seeking to identify with a more indigenous (and/or
younger, and/or untucked) population. And yet there seemed to be a perfectly
fulfilled breadth to Portland Cool, at least where it applies to the attitudes
of Christians toward…well, not the weird, of course. Maybe just toward me.
And it’s that conclusion that
I believe is absolutely untenable.
I was greatly blessed by my
experience at this church, despite the issues I raise above. But I say all this
as a reminder to myself, for repentance beginning next Sunday, when I return to
where it is that I am, still—after ten years—in many ways, weird. (We mostly
tuck our shirts in. But there are only two of us who regularly wear ties.) In
the other blessings of this morning’s worship service, for the tangible
presence of Christ in that body, for the demonstration during the announcements
of what some consider the third ordinance (church planting) in addition to the
celebration of the Lord’s table, and numerous baptisms…I came away feeling like
I had been touched by the very grace of Christ, spoken to by His Spirit, and
reminded, and even deepened, in my experience of the Father’s love. But I also
came away feeling like my brothers and sisters in Christ were at least
indifferent to me, and perhaps even averse to whatever my age and attire
represented to them.
But here’s what bothers me
most: I know that there are those who have left services in which they have
worshiped with the congregation I love like life itself…facing similar
experiences, and carrying the same concerns about us.
May God help me, it won’t
happen again.
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