that busted pew in the middle of an Arby's

When Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the front door of a Catholic church, it was — in theory — a great historical moment. This act of defiance showed that everyone has a voice. Anyone can take a stand. It was like the world’s first blog post.

I say, “in theory,” though, because this split in the church ignited countless others, to the point where we now have over 45,000 (!) different denominations and branches of Christianity. What we gained in freedom we lost in unity.

Differences between churches come down to a few things like baptism (infant vs. adult), free will vs. pre-destination, and views of communion/eucharist. Each group is trying to lay out the most accurate doctrine. It's like filling out the perfect March Madness bracket.

One of the many church splits took place in the early 1800s. There was a man named Barton Stone down in Kentucky and a father-son duo (Thomas and Alexander Campbell) over in Pennsylvania who believed we should go back to the basics. Study the Bible. Imitate the early church as closely as possible and restore/unite the church.

What emerged, or re-emerged, from the Stone/Campbell Movement was called the "Church of Christ." (Not to be confused with "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints," aka the Mormons). Every Sunday morning, I went to a Church of Christ on Wheeler Road in Midland, Michigan.

But when you’re 11 or 12 years old, you’re not thinking about theology, and church history, or which church has it "right." In reality, I didn’t pick the Church of Christ. It picked me. And I don’t mean that to sound deep. I mean that I was eating a brown sugar Pop-Tart and my parents told me and my brother to hop in the Toyota Previa minivan. Time to go to church. 

The Wheeler Road Church of Christ is shaped like a cross. Walk down the long hallway, turn right, and there's the auditorium. There’s a baptismal at the front and a small stage. It has a really tall ceiling and two rows of pews. Oh man, those stiff pews! They were the ultimate chiropractor. You’d lean back and not only crack your back but it sounded like you were cracking the back of the pew itself.

We didn’t have songs, we had “hymns.” No instruments either. Not even an organ or piano. True A cappella. We’d all stand and there’d be this moment of silence before the voices came together.

Love one another, for love is of God.

He who loves is born of God;

And knows God

He who does not love, does not know God,

For God is love, God is love, God is love.

This first “Alto” part was sung by 80 percent of the women. Once they hit “For God is love,” it was time for me and my brother to stand tall, puff out the chest. We joined the bass section like two young warriors heading to battle. I tried to avoid an ill-timed puberty crack.

Love bears all things,

Believes all things,

Love hopes all things,

Endures all things.

Now the tenors joined in. They had the easiest lyrics:

God is love, God is love, God is love.

Finally, the sopranos. The remaining 20 percent of the women sounded like a group of angels descending on the choir.

Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart,

For God is love, God is love, God is love.

When all the voices came together, it created this one harmonious voice but you could still hear a few individuals. Especially the best singers in the house. It’s like basketball, we were all playing together, but Bonnie Sitter was hitting the Steph Curry threes.

Singing is church’s version of lay-up lines in basketball. By the time you sit down, you’re all warmed up. You’re in church mode. Now it's time to take communion.

And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you.

The silver plates weaved through the aisles. I’d quietly look for the biggest communion cracker.

And likewise, the cup after they had eaten, saying, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.”

This part was more intimidating. You had to hold the tray, pick up the tiny little cup, drink it — while still holding the tray — place the cup back without spilling. Big time sizzle scenario.

After communion, it was time to stand and greet your neighbor. There’d be a short message for the children and then our preacher, Jim Chilton, delivered the sermon. Prayer requests, announcements, every now and then someone came forward to be baptized.

And then it was time to “beat the Baptists to the buffet.”

We’d hop in the minivan and drive over to Arby’s. My brother poured Arby’s sauce into paper communion cups. Dad got the roast beef. Mom the chicken bacon & swiss. Tom and I got chicken fingers. Curly fries. An order of jalapeño poppers and mozzarella sticks. Wash it all down with Sprites and Diet Cokes.

We always went to the same busted pew in the middle of the Arby’s. Why? Not really sure. It was always open, probably because it was missing a few springs. Tom and I loved this spot like a rusty old car. We’d sit down and feast together as a family. Then we’d head home for an NFL nap. That was the expected rhythm of a Sunday.

But in middle school, 7th or 8th grade, I had my own Martin Luther moment. Instead of a list of 95 grievances for why I was leaving the Wheeler Road Church of Christ, mine looked something like this:

• There's a big church in town where a lot of my friends go

• They have drums, guitars, and a youth group of 200+ people

• I liked one of the girls in the youth group

  
  

I made my plea: “So uh, can we go to this church instead?”

This created a schism in our family from 9:30 to noon every Sunday morning. Dad joined me (I couldn't drive yet). Mom and Tom stayed at Wheeler Road. Then we’d come back together at Arby’s. In the same busted pew.

The summer before high school, I don’t know what it was, or who was teaching. Not even sure if it was at the big church, at a summer camp, or in a small group. But there was this particular strand of pre-destination that freaked me out. In theory, it should’ve been good news. Once you're in, you're in. But my 8th-grade self met this all with a pile of worries and uncertainty. 

If there’s no free-will, how do I know if I’ve been picked?

I turned God, the Author of Life, into a gym teacher randomly picking kickball teams. A glorified game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe. I became extra cautious about mistakes, sins, and I'm talkin' even little things like swearing or a bad thought. I worried that any mistake proved I wasn’t one of the "elect." My nightmare boiled down to one central question: 

How do I know if God even loves me?

This haunted me for months. My thoughts went 'round and 'round in circles. I lost a lot of weight (and there wasn’t that much weight to lose). I don’t remember many trips to Arby’s the summer before freshman year.

In the fall, I reached out to Jim Chilton at Wheeler Road. Mom or Dad must’ve dropped me off. I took a seat and shared some of the concepts that were freaking me out. What seemed like a 500-pound gorilla, to me, Jim swatted away like a mosquito. It was a complete 180 from worry to peace. From uncertainty to faith. I won’t go as far as saying I was like the blind man receiving sight, but I could finally hear the words of Amazing Grace. “I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see.” 

After this meeting, I could’ve gone back to the big church, but I felt like it was time to come home to the Wheeler Road Church of Christ. Not because they had it 100 percent right and the others had it wrong, but because it felt like home. When my Dad and I returned, it was like walking into a family reunion. Hey, how you doing, Bill? Chris! Handshakes. Pats on the back. Hearing the A cappella singing instead of guitars and drums, again, I don’t think there’s one right answer here, but after spending an entire summer worrying if God loved me, to hear 100 voices affirming together, “God is love. God is love. God is love,” I didn’t need to be anywhere else.

Our family was together again, inside a larger family. Church would end and we’d hop into that ol’ minivan. Head back to that busted pew in the middle of an Arby’s.