Why I Still Attend Church Every Sunday (Virtually)
The importance of showing up in your community, even if it can’t be in person
My soul bends under the weight of each thing I took for granted about going to my church in person. My friends’ new baby was just starting to recognize me when I held him. The older women who knew I suffered from migraines would seek me out to see how I was doing, week after week. One of the young dads often brought a loaf of sourdough bread to share.
We’d use this bread for communion, then gather around the leftovers for an after-church snack while kids ran in and out of the circle.The space we rented for Sunday worship was near the San Francisco Ferry Building, so after the bread was eaten, we’d walk a few minutes down the Embarcadero to continue feasting from the various stalls and restaurants.
Those moments, the people, us worshipping together, my pastor’s tendency to accidentally throw whiteboard markers while preaching, the laughter. All of it, I miss.
When my small church moved our Sunday service to Zoom last March due to Covid-19, I didn’t even think to miss these things, because we all thought we’d be back together soon enough. In the meantime, we struggled to translate our in-person rituals to the internet. The singing was especially difficult, because we didn’t have any of the equipment we needed for playing musical instruments on Zoom. The worship leader’s piano often cut in and out as he sang the songs and everyone else muted themselves to sing along in their own spaces as best they could.
We stopped taking communion, because we didn’t know if it made sense to do it virtually. For the entire history of the church — nearly two millennia — communion had been practiced only when physically together. What did this ritual mean without an in-person gathering? As overused as the word “unprecedented” has become, it certainly described not just my church’s circumstances, but those of places of worship around the world, as they reckoned long-held traditions with global chaos.
Even when the city briefly loosened restrictions on church meetings last fall, many churches couldn’t comply with the new regulations. There wasn’t enough space for social distancing in our rooms, and arranging safe meetings in often-overcrowded outdoor areas was tricky. Besides, even when gathering was allowed, singing was not — and singing is a big part of most Sunday services. So the harsh reality was that my church and others like it had only one choice for all of 2020: continuing to meet online, or not meeting at all.
My church eventually chose to practice communion on Zoom. We also bought sound equipment, and then we did what any good Bay Area institution does—we innovated. These days, from the city parishes to the East Bay megachurches, it’s now common to stream Sunday worship at the usual in-person time and then post a video for people to watch later if they wish.
This new norm has an unexpected upside: It’s easier to attend church than ever before.
Being able to “go” to church whenever I want is a good thing, right? As many churches grew large YouTube channels that offered spirituality on demand, it certainly seemed so. The resources are free, accessible, and convenient. My church now has folks who watch from hospital beds and even from other countries because it’s so easy to get involved online. That is a beautiful thing.
But I can’t help but notice how many people I used to see in person each Sunday at 10:15 who don’t join the Zoom meeting. They may watch the recording at another time, or maybe they don’t watch it. These are people I used to know, but I feel I know them less now, or even not at all. I wish I saw their faces, even on a screen.
I get why some would choose to watch the service later or feel the live gathering is useless. It’s hard to think of my church’s Sunday meeting as a gathering when it’s clearly not the same. I can see people singing in the Zoom gallery, but their lips aren’t in sync with mine. I can wave at everyone after the service is over, but only one person can talk at a time, so it’s not worth trying to hold a conversation.
Yet I still find myself joining my church’s Zoom call every Sunday at the same time, even on days when I’d rather watch the recording. For me, joining church on Sunday morning is an expression of my belief in things I cannot see, including the power of community, the power of showing up. And despite the convenience of watching at another time, plenty of others join on Sunday morning, from families corralling toddlers to nicely dressed older folks who learned how to use Zoom just so they could attend at the usual time. (I love their commitment, but I confess I’ve ditched the “Sunday best” in favor of comfier clothes.)
For me, and I think for many who join me, there’s an invisible yet powerful value to engaging in the simultaneous shared experience, even if virtual.
Don’t get me wrong, shared virtual experiences are poor replacements for shared in-person experiences, and I’m eager for the day when life is a lot more off-line. I miss everyone at church, especially the baby I knew last spring who is now a toddler. He doesn’t recognize me at all. I also miss hiking with friends, watching a show (my first-ever ticket to Hamilton got canceled), and even sitting in a coffee shop. But virtuality and isolation can’t ruin all sense of community. There is an indestructible sense of togetherness that we create by sharing in something as simple as a date and time.
My online church experience is not everything I wish it was, but I still think what we have together is beautiful. Using Zoom for church has even birthed a new tradition that I’ll miss when the pandemic is over. At the end of each Sunday service, everyone unmutes their microphones and we sing a traditional doxology hymn “together”:
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.
It doesn’t sound pretty when we sing it over Zoom, but it sure beats silence.
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