Christian Living

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Smiling broadly as he sat at the head of the large, rustic table, my daughter-in-law's father, Felice, was obviously enjoying himself. Laughing at his side was my youngest son, Neal, fourteen and buoyant with his first European adventure. Perched excitedly on Neal's right was Angela Maria, a dainty blond three-year-old who was bright, pretty, and bilingual—my first grandchild. Sitting between my older son and his wife, I was so happy to be with them all.

The big family kitchen was warm and welcoming. Colorful stoneware bowls, still holding a bit of pesto and the last strands of pasta, sat among the bread crumbs. It was just as I'd imagined, complete with the aromas of wood smoke, herbs, olive oil, and coffee, and the sounds of happy voices and clinking glasses.

Through the kitchen window, set deeply in the thick masonry walls, evening sunlight skipped across the golden leaves of the family vineyard and deepened the shadows cast by the low rock walls guarding the narrow lane that wound down the hillside into the city of Valdagno.

Northern Italy has been my son's home for more than a dozen years. Finally, I was actually seeing it for myself. It was a dream fulfilled, but along with happiness I was feeling a little disoriented. I told myself that it was only jet lag, but as I listened without comprehension to the happy conversation around me, I began to feel lonely. Even though I had been studying Italian for several months, I couldn't keep up.

I sat there, smiling and shrugging apologetically. I felt stupid and ill-mannered that night, but as the days passed, I slowly began to fit in and enjoy the adventure.

Remembering it all on the flight home, I thought about my unexpected reactions to stepping outside my culture and leaving behind my language—my voice. I had underestimated my reliance on communication for my sense of self. You've probably heard Descartes' famous line, "I think, therefore I am." Well, I'm no philosopher, but for me a more apt statement might be, "I communicate what I think, therefore I know who I am." Not being able to express my thoughts coherently had made me feel less: less competent, less likable, less me.

One morning while on my own in a park in downtown Valdagno, a fashionably dressed older woman joined me on the stone bench. I smiled—and she spoke to me. In Italian! I couldn't ignore her. In a panic, I tried to explain that I was an American and didn't speak the language. She responded very graciously, speaking more slowly and using gestures to help me understand. Before she went on her way, we enjoyed a pleasant few minutes discovering things we had in common. Our brief exchange buoyed me up and encouraged me. That woman's persistence in trying to find some way to communicate made all the difference.

As the plane surged among the clouds on my journey home, I began to see similarities between my experience and that faced by newcomers into our churches and fellowships in the body of Christ.

The church has a culture and a language of its own that isn't always easy for "foreigners" to learn. Think of some of our jargon: pew, narthex, sanctuary, baptistry, pulpit. Our songs are called "hymns" and they are sung from "hymnals". We give testimony and praise, speak of being saved and born again. We gather in a fellowship hall, sing the doxology, and receive tithes while listening to the offertory. Our pastors often live in a parsonage and preach sermons from a text hidden in a seemingly incomprehensible set of books call the Bible, with obscure references such as Habakkuk 1:1-2a. It's no wonder so many of our churches are removing their traditional trappings in order to become less intimidating to the "unchurched" (another phrase you won't find in your spellchecker).

We do need to be more aware of the perspective of the "tourists" in our midst, but perhaps removing the pulpits and eliminating our traditions isn't the best answer. There must be ways of finding what we have in common with our visitors while remaining true to our own voice as well.

If Italy were exactly like the United States, it would have been so much easier for me to fit in, but what a loss that would have been! The differences were a pleasure when I made them my own, as when that woman in the park made such a gracious effort to encourage my fumbling efforts to speak her language. She was patient with my mistakes and repeated herself, using the little English she knew and rephrasing her Italian in order to find words I might understand.

Acquiring new skills helped me too. The first time I drove in Italy was a challenge. I was apprehensive about my ability to merge into the fast-changing streams of traffic, especially on the unfamiliar roundabouts and narrow, twisting lanes. At teh ede of my drive, I was elated. Learning to do things the Italian way was empowering.

It's natural to be shy in unknown territory, but given a chance, we adjust and grow. It would be unrealistic to expect a country to change its laws and language to accommmodate every visitor. Travelers must expect to make adjustments to foreign cultures. So maybe rather than becoming a "stealth church" and discarding or camouflaging our uniqueness, we should make the histroy and meaning of our traditions accessible, understandable,and enjoyable to everyone.

People come into our sanctuaries in search of something they haven't found elsewhere. Our traditions may help them to find what they seek.

Seasoned travelers appreciate opportunities to learn. That can be true of the ones whose journey leads them into our churches. Let each one find a voice within the context of the church. And let that voice enrich and amplify the voice of the the church as it speaks to the world.

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