It all started with a snare drum. Or maybe it was the electric guitar—nobody can really remember anymore. What we do remember is that Brother Harold, clutching his weathered copy of The Old Rugged Cross, declared that the new “praise team” had introduced sounds that could only be described as “the musical equivalent of the Beast from Revelation.” Sister Marlene countered by saying the organ was “so dead it made funerals feel lively,” and within weeks, the church was no longer divided by doctrine but by decibels.
On one side stood the Hymn Loyalists, white-knuckling their hymnals like medieval shields. They saw themselves as the last guardians of the faith, defenders of “How Great Thou Art” sung at forty-two beats per minute with a faint odor of mothballs. On the other side stood the Contemporary Crusaders, wielding PowerPoint slides, fog machines, and songs that repeated the same seven words seventy-seven times until everyone wondered if they’d been hypnotized.
I tried to be the peacemaker. I suggested a compromise—perhaps an alternating schedule: one Sunday hymns, the next Sunday contemporary. You’d have thought I had proposed we start sacrificing goats in the fellowship hall. The Loyalists said compromise was a slippery slope toward disco balls and leather pants. The Crusaders said hymns were a gateway drug to boredom, which inevitably led to atheism.
The tension finally snapped during the annual chili cook-off. A well-meaning deacon plugged in his guitar to “warm up” before blessing the chili, and suddenly the organist fired up “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” in self-defense. Before long, we had a full-on battle of the bands: one side screaming about God’s “reckless love,” the other booming about bulwarks never failing. The chili grew cold, and the congregation split faster than the Red Sea.
Now we’ve got two churches across the street from each other: First Traditional Baptist and Second Contemporary Community of Relevance. The parking lots face off like dueling pistols every Sunday morning. Rumor has it, both congregations are planning simultaneous Easter cantatas this year, which will likely summon Gabriel himself just to tell us to shut up.
As for me? I’ve decided to worship in silence. I sit in my living room with a Bible, a cup of coffee, and the blissful absence of both organs and guitars. I figure if the angels sing in heaven, at least they’ll all be on key—and nobody will storm out over the tempo.
