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.—after the farmers finished their milking and before lights had to be out for the black out during World War II.
The truth is I’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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