I like being a Methodist in England. It means having my cup of coffee after church in a china mug and not out of something made of styrofoam or paper. It means going to a Sunday evening church service that has historically started at 6:30 p.m.â€”after the farmers finished their milking and before lights had to be out for the black out during World War II.
The truth is Iâ€™ve come to appreciate the wonderful combination of tradition and pragmatism that characterizes British Methodists.
As an American Methodist living in England for the past 17 years, I feel I have made some concessions, of course: singing familiar hymns to strange tunes, living without church softball, fried chicken at covered dish suppers, and the benefit of a large, well-resourced national church structure backing up the work of local churches.
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