Gray Pinstripe suits. Tie clasps. Badges. Long dresses, and musky cologne. Of course, briefcases. These are the crisp and clear memories of what I call “The Worldwide Church Culture”. It's been a long time, but it could be just yesterday. The memories of a distant life remain not-so-distant, a world long gone yet still so close.
A Hymnal on every other seat. “Reserved” signs on certain end-chairs. Speaking of chairs, who can forget those gray metal folding chairs – some with the local Church area stenciled on the back? And those Bulletins – filled with Telecast information, prayer requests, local church activities, and of course, the agenda of the service – pianist, song leader, sermonette, announcements, special music, and the sermon (or split sermon).
The Church experience was a vinyl record with its needle stuck on a groove. It was rinse and repeat, do and do over, week after week, festival after festival, occasion after occasion. Everything became so predictable – right down to the tone and pitch variances of the speaker, the special (or not so special) music, the fellowship hours, potlucks, Bible studies – always the same.
During the song service, you'd know the voices that carried over the most, for the good, or for the bad. You wouldn't even need the Hymnal – you knew every word be heart. You'd even look around slyly to see who else was cool enough to not need the Hymnal. The prayers were always close to the same – opening, and closing. You could almost say them with the speaker giving them. You'd know what pianist was the best and which one you dreaded the most. And you knew where to sit, and where not to sit – everyone had their spot – and don't sit in someone else's spot.
Cliques of four or five of the same people every week, in the same place, in the same hall, talking about the same things. The same handshakes. Some strong and hearty, some weak and flimsy. The same greetings. The same smells – of people and the building alike.
Life in the Church was a constant not subject to change in a world where everything always changes. Cities change year after year. The school you grew up in, the hangout you bought Bazooka gum at, the neighborhood constantly changing. In fact, the only constant thing about life is change. Most neighborhoods now are completely different than they were in 1980. Yet we were trained to live in an environment that never changed. No matter what happened, no matter how the world shifted, moved, we were the one rock that we knew would never, ever, ever change. Until that day when the rug was pulled out from everyone's feet, and we were forced to accept the winds of change in one form or another.
In many ways, it was like pulling off the helmet of your spacesuit whilst being pushed off the space station. Everything was moving so fast, you felt breathless, and you had no idea what was going to happen next. The unchangeable changed, The unmovable moved – and every person and family scattered to the four corners of the Earth as if a large water balloon had suddenly popped.
Many “held fast”, as the saying goes. Many others “ran fast”, others DID fast, and others had pork sausage for Break-fast. But whatever people did, the income fell faster. We all were confronted with a hard fact – we had to make a choice. We had to think, choose, and act. Our culture was about to change. Could we? Would we?
It has been 25 years, just about, since that fateful day in 1994. In December, it will be exactly 25 years since our culture has changed. It's been 33 years since the Armstrong era ended. And if there's one thing we have learned to do as a people – no matter which way we ended up going – is adapt to change. We all have had to evaluate our priorities, our lives, and our choices. And we all have had to adjust to a completely different world where the phone we hold in our hand is more powerful than the largest computer in a large room in the 1980s. It's a different world, and we are different people. Yet 25 years later, if you close your eyes, and you remember – you could be right back there. In an old, musty, smelly, bingo hall, wearing a pinstripe suit and wingtip shoes holding a large King James Bible, talking about what's about to go down in just 2 or 3 years, afraid to make a long distance call because it was 35 cents a minute state to state, 10 cents local toll, with Climbing through the Windows Leap running through our heads driving home from the 4 hours at Church that Sabbath day – completely unaware and completely sure what was about to happen was never going to happen until it DID happen, and we all would look back in 2019 to 1980 in utter disbelief – many thankful, many grateful, many sad, many wistful – all of us having learnt a lesson or two, all of us victims to the winds of change.
submitted by SHT
submitted by SHT