As a semi-professional church hopper, I end up making some interesting observations.

During my years on the “preaching circuit” within my home denomination, I was amazed by the local subtleties, shadings and varieties with which even the most rigorous denominational norms were applied.

I had communion with everything from grape Kool-Aid to a 1984 Chateau Sauvignon. The broken loaf ranged from oven-fresh unleavened bread to the remnants of a hamburger bun that had already spent too much time in a Loblaw’s 99-cent bin.

I may still need counselling for the psychological trauma of sitting on the edge of my seat trying to figure out when to drink the little cup of nondescript purple liquid handed to me. Do I swig it when I get it? Do I wait for both wine and wafer and drink and chew at the same time? Maybe this is one of those secret code churches where you hold on to both until the guy in charge says “Drink ye all of it!” I have seen several hundred permutations of the process, but because everyone assumes their way is right, newcomers are rarely given the local rules to the evangelical equivalent of the secret handshake.

Since I left local church ministry, my responsibilities as a correspondent and a few research projects have given me the opportunity to travel across an even broader spectrum of churches. Forget subtleties and shadings—we’re talking alternate universes now!

Just last month I went from hand-clapping, multiple decibel Pentecostal worship with 2,500 people one Sunday, to quiet reflection with fewer than 20 people around a simple Brethren communion table the following week. Then, later, a precisely chronometered Presbyterian service with a pipe organ and traditional hymns from a choir.

It was interesting that while part of my discussion with one of the mega-church pastors was about the challenge of remaining personal and close to people, the Brethren elder I spoke with the following week was thinking about how they should be growing.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve interviewed church leaders and people in the pews who thought the carpet was probably a little greener in “that other church.” Sometimes they’re right. Many others definitely know—and tell me without hesitation—that their carpet is the right shade of green.

But as a newcomer, the colour of the carpet does not bother me as much as the unspoken rules about not walking on the lighter squares, or not sitting in the chairs closest to the darker green circles.

Several Sundays a month, with fear and apprehension, I arrive as a stranger in yet another church. If it is so often such an unsettling experience for me with my 36 years of church life experience, knowing these peculiar people are brothers and sisters, I wonder what it’s like for newcomers to Christianity.

Admittedly, some of the personal difficulties I faced in the last two years meant that on some Sundays I worshipped—or at least tried to worship—with a very heavy heart. But if the statistics are correct, most of the newcomers to our churches are also very tender. They struggle with family crises, grief, finances, work stress....It is, after all, the great challenges and adjustments of life that send people looking for spiritual connections.

I suspect the exact hue of our church lobby carpet isn’t terribly significant to the bruised and hurting sheep who come each Sunday, seeking restful green pastures for which our low-maintenance, super stain-resistant industrial grade floor coverings are a very poor substitute.