When I walked into the United Methodist congregation one Sunday morning, I was greeted by a man who looked to be in his mid-forties. His dark hair was cut short, and he wore a dark suit with a carnation boutonniere. He smiled at me, said, “Welcome! How are you this morning?” and shook my hand. I replied that I was fine, and he handed me a bulletin. He told me to sit anywhere and make myself at home. He asked, “Do you have any questions?” I said no, smiled, and went in to sit down.

It is a huge sanctuary, with gray, heavy stonework, dark wood, and a vaulted ceiling, with seating for about 500 on the main floor plus a large balcony. At one time several hundred people attended services each Sunday morning. Now there were just over a hundred people in the sanctuary, which was typical for a Sunday service. Many of them were older, but there were also younger couples, some with children.

The small congregation was spread out through the first twenty pews. Taking a seat at the back edge of where the people were, I had one-half of a twenty-foot pew to myself. Nobody sat by me or spoke to me as the service began. About fifteen minutes into the service, the time came for the passing of the peace, a ritual that is performed in many churches, Protestant and Catholic, every Sunday.