Strangers at church
Years ago a wise and respected mentor suggested that I needed to experience the church outside the boundaries of our nation. He had friends in Scotland and assured me that he could facilitate a pulpit exchange with a Scottish pastor. All I needed to do was come up with the airfare for our family of seven, with five children ages three to 13. So we did it. We emptied out our small savings, borrowed the rest, booked a flight on British Air (in the days when spouses and children could fly for greatly reduced rates) and soon were shivering on the tarmac of old Prestwick Airport, surrounded by our 21 pieces of luggage. We were met by two elders from the Scottish church who drove us four hours north into the Highlands to a wee manse in Kinlochleven.
We wonder now how we had the nerve to go. Yet at the same time, we agree that it was the best thing we ever did as a family.
On my first Sunday in Kinlochleven, I was nervous. I knew that in Reformed worship the point is the glorification of God, not the performance of the preacher. Nevertheless, I worried about what these Highland Scot Presbyterians would think of me. The clerk of session—pronounced “clark”—met me before worship. He explained that he would lead me into the chancel, place the big Bible on the pulpit and then escort me there. I asked if he was planning to say a word or two of introduction. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, which only increased my anxiety.
