by Haley Mitchell, managing editor

I am staunchly, starchily Czech. Preaching-the-difference-between-klobasniky-and-kolaches, polka-dancing Czech. I go to a traditional Czech church where most of the attendees are over seventy and get their kicks from domino tournaments. We sing from hymn books and an organ player is involved with ninety percent of the music selections. The college-based, twenty-something run church my friend took me to last Sunday was nothing short of a culture shock.

At least half the people are in chacos and t-shirts, and when there’s standing room only in the back, they come down the aisles and sit criss-cross-applesauce on the floor in front of the stage. They whoop and holler in the middle of prayers, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a girl kneel to the floor she was so moved during one of the eight-minute-Jesus-ballads. To me this was a whole new world, but not the magical carpet ride kind Aladdin promised. To my Catholic friend who was also attending for the first time, it was nothing less than terrifying. To me, it sent a thrumming through my blood.

In the middle of the sermon, why wasn’t the preacher yelling about everyone going to hell? Why were they fitting nine different musicians on the stage, and why were none of them organ-players?

There’s this cooking technique called “blanching”, where you take a tomato (or whatever desired food, usually a vegetable) you’ve been boiling and plunge it into ice cold water. I had never related to a tomato so much in my life.

But looking around after the service, at the smiling faces greeting each other, at the greeters by the door who didn’t pressure you to stay for coffee or try to herd us into Sunday school, I knew that going back among the community of eighty- and ninety-something attendes at my church would be different. Maybe even difficult.