When God Finds You in the Wrong Pew (And Other Sunday Morning Disasters)

Sometimes the most important journeys begin with spectacular wrong turns. And sometimes faith finds you even when you’re sitting in entirely the wrong church.

Dear Gran

It’s Sunday evening in Labuan Bajo, the night is cool, and there’s music drifting from five different homes. I’m still smiling about last week’s church adventure. You’d have laughed until you cried, Gran, watching me dress up in my Sunday best, run my straighteners through my hair for the first time in over a year, and set off with complete confidence to meet my friend at church.

Only to spend an hour and a half in the wrong denomination entirely.

You remember how church was woven into the rhythm of our weeks when I was young? Sunday school, and then those mandatory services at boarding school where our vicar made sure we knew our Bible lessons as well as our Latin declensions. For years after leaving, I folded that part of myself away, like winter clothes stored in summer.

But something shifted during those difficult months in the village. I found comfort in Psalm 27 one particularly dark morning, and daily prayers became part of my healing. I wanted to take it further. To reconnect with the Christianity of my childhood, but through adult eyes, shaped by Indonesian life.

So I called my friend, whose faith is Christian Evangelical, and asked if I could join her. She was delighted and gave me simple directions: meet her at the church next to the Catholic one. Two churches side by side, same gates, same parking, twenty metres apart.

Dressed for Success (In the Wrong Place)

That Sunday morning, I took extra care. I chose a long black wrap-over skirt from Bali with cream patterns, and a cream silk blouse. Modest, appropriate, a far cry from my usual denim shorts and scruffy t-shirt. I even tied my straightened hair neatly back. For the first time in years, I felt properly ‘church ready.’

But my navigational confidence let me down. Eager not to be late, I took a shortcut down a steep hill and arrived from the opposite direction. Which meant I came to the Catholic Church first. In my excitement, I forgot there were two.

The Grand Entrance

My friend had called to say the service was just starting and she’d saved me a seat. I thought I could slip in quietly at the back.

That plan collapsed the moment I tried to open the doors. A chair had been wedged under the handle to stop latecomers. I forced it with all my strength, bursting the double doors wide open with a tremendous clatter.

Picture it, Gran: me standing in the doorway like a celebrity making an entrance, sunlight streaming in behind me, the entire congregation turning in unison to stare and then, as one, turning calmly back to the sermon. Not a smile, not even a tut.

Mortified, I froze. But a kind parishioner quickly ushered me to a seat, and I decided to stay put.

The Three Strikes

It took three small clues before I realised my mistake.

First, the priest’s green robes,  ones I remembered only from Catholic services.
Second, the repeated references to Bunda Maria - Mother Mary lifted high in a way that didn’t match my friend’s Evangelical church.
And third, a Sister in habit helping with Communion. That clinched it. Catholic, beyond doubt.

I stayed firmly in my pew as the congregation filed past. People smiled kindly, children stared at the conspicuous foreigner who didn’t join the line.

The Strategic Retreat

When the service ended, I bowed to the altar (seemed polite) and stepped out, still hoping to spot my friend. She wasn’t there. Instead, a banner under the church confirmed the truth — the Virgin Mary holding Jesus. I had spent the morning in the Catholic Church.

Later, on the phone, my friend burst into laughter. ‘That’s the Catholic Church! Ours is next door: smaller, one entrance, a few steps up from the car park.’

Finding the Right Place (Eventually)

This week, I found the right church immediately. The atmosphere was different, less formal, more rejoicing than reciting. Children played, voices rose in song, and the service was warm and simple. I didn’t understand every word of Indonesian, but I caught the rhythm, and it felt like home.

But here’s what struck me, Gran: regardless of where I sat, I showed up. Whether Catholic or Protestant, whether I slipped in quietly or burst through the doors like an uninvited guest, I was there.

You always said God has a sense of humour. Maybe He knew exactly what I needed to learn that morning: that faith isn’t about getting everything right, but about showing up with an open heart, even when you land spectacularly in the wrong pew.

Even then, it wasn’t the wrong place.

From the quiet of the mountains, where even wrong turns can be exactly right.