I parked the car about one hundred yards from the front entrance of the church yesterday morning. After I dropped off my wife, I had to drive the entire length of grassy overflow parking area, past senior and guest parking spots, to find a spot.
I guess that’s what happens when your arrive ten minutes after the service starts. Worship was at 9:00, but we arrived for the bible class that starts at 9:15. Hey, I don’t mind the walk.
In fact, I used to pull my car into in the most remote corner of the parking lot on Sunday mornings. It was, unofficially, my designated parking spot. Why did I do that? Well, I figured my day would come and I would need a handicapped spot. Until then, since I was able to walk the distance, I would take the furthest spot.
What about rainy mornings? Yeah, they were a challenge. But once I got to the first building, I could use the covered walkway. If my car wasn’t there, everyone knew to welcome a guest preacher that day.
Who doesn’t like to see a church parking lot filled past capacity? On my way in, I commented to another walker, “I think I’m going set up a table about halfway to church and give out free water. We both chuckled. But you know what? When the summer sun is beating down, I’ll bet a lot of people would appreciat that.
When I went to the church where I used to be pastor, I saw that my spot was empty. I don’t think people were avoiding it in memory of me. Instead, worshipers are simply looking for the closest spot.
If the day comes when I guest preach at my old church, I’ll be sure to park in my spot.
The men’s bible class I attended last week began with prayer rather than saving it until the end. Usually, the leader gets sidetracked or the table discussions is really good, and we don’t get to prayer until 7:59 (class ends at 8). But this time, the leader said, “I’m going to let you guys share with each other and pray for about twenty minutes. Then we’ll get into the study.”
Four or five men were seated at each of the six tables. Even though I know most of the guys who come each week, I had just met the three others at my table. One had been a member of the church for about thirty years. Another had just moved to Florida from Oregon. To my left was a thirty-something guy who just started a data science degree program at the local state college.
Typically, the majority of prayer is devoted to those we know who are ill or recovering. Tonight was different. At my table, our petitions were all ones of gratitude. Bob’s son had come back to church, his faith renewed. Kevin was adjusting well to a new home, job and church. Mike’s life was getting back on track and enjoying his studies. I was thankful for time spent with grandchildren.
After we jotted down our prayers, we all took turns praying. Sometimes people are reluctant to pray, but not this group. Not one of my new friends hesitated to offer up thanks for the stuff going on in our lives. I thought to myself, “This is a powerful time, praying with these men.”
The class leader commented that talking about our prayers usually took up more time than the prayers themselves. He was right. We only prayed for about five minutes. But that’s OK. God was listening in on our pre-prayer discussions. That was prayer time, too.
The plan worked well. The leader lost track of time and we didn’t even get through half the night’s discussion questions. It’s a good thing we started with prayer.
At the pre-bible study meal on Wednesday night, I sat across from Jason. I’ve sat with him, eaten, and talked with him before, but never asked about his blindness. He faithfully comes to the Wednesday night men’s bible study. After a while you don’t notice the dark glasses and folded up white wooden cane under his chair. He’s just part of the group.
But tonight I said, “Jason, it’s Bill.” I try to identify myself when I sit down with him. And then I asked, “Can I ask you about your blindness? Have you ever had any sight?”
He smiled and told me he had been born blind. “In fact, when I was born, they had to remove one of my eyes. I’ve never been able to see.” He added, “But I really got messed up when I lost my hearing.”
Jason continued, “When I was a teenager, I would put on my headphones and listen to heavy metal music way too loud. My mom could never get my attention. I guess I overdid it. Now I’m paying for it.”
He then told me about a time when a nurse wanted to check his vision. “She wanted me to read a line of letters on the wall. I had to explain to her that I couldn’t see anything. Boy, was she embarrassed!”
One week, Jason made a pot of chili for the Wednesday night meal. It was delicious. He explained, “My mom taught me how to cook.” She was a good teacher. He has won a few chili cook-offs.
I’ve gotten to know a few of the blind who attend this church. Emily sings with the worship team, equipped with braille songsheets on her music stand. Ricky, with just a little bit of peripheral vision, does a lot of long distance running. Billie had her golden retriever assistance dog in church with her. Yes, of course, I stopped by to say hi to both!
Engaging with the blind is a great reminder that this world is not the way it’s supposed to be. It’s also a reminder that God is doing everything needed to restore it. Jesus gave us a taste of that, giving sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, and getting the lame back up on their feet.
Can you imagine what it will be like when the first thing you see in your life is Jesus?
Those were the words of a retired pastor friend of mine who began attending our church after about fifty years of ministry. I appreciate his candor, but I really didn’t understand what he meant.
Until now.
Now I am retired from full time pastoral ministry, and for the first time in thirty-six years, my wife and I have had to pick a church to attend. We did not move after my retirement. We have a lot of family in the area, plus we already live in a place where many retire to (Florida). My denomination asked that we not attend the church I retired from, to let the next pastor and congregation get used to each other.
So for the first time in forever, we got to pick where we worshiped on Sunday morning.
Here is the challenging part of this whole experience. I have found it hard to not critique the preacher, music, facility, and experience in the places where we have gone to worship. I have always wanted God to be the focus of worship. But when I walk into a church, he’s the last person on my mind.
Were the people friendly? Was the preacher engaging? Was the sermon biblical and applicable? Was the music well done? Did I know the songs so I could sing along? What would people say if they knew I worshiped at this church? What did this church believe, teach, and confess?
I had so many questions. And you’ll notice, none of them had anything to do with the one I was there to worship.
Did I encounter the one true God? Was my mind renewed? Did I offer up a sacrifice of praise? Was I assured of God’s grace? Did Christ’s love compel me to love, serve, and witness to others people? How was I encouraged? How was I challenged?
When I was the preacher, I was occupied with the logistics, the message, and connecting with those who came to worship. Now, as the worshiper, none of those things were on my plate. Now my job was to listen, confess, repent, and live a new life.
In hindsight, I now realize that I should have taken more time off to be a worshiper in the congregation. I should have taken time to remember what it was like to listen, to question, to take God’s word to heart, and set out to live a new life. I believe a sabbatical would have been an asset to my ministry.
So I am learning how to worship again. I am forgetting what is behind – a career of pastoral ministry – and pressing on into retirement as a listener, a worshiper, and a member.
My brother emailed me a few weeks ago to let me know that the church where we grew up, St. Mark’s Lutheran Church in Ridley Park, Pennsylvania had closed. He thought the building was sold or given to an Ethiopian congregation that had been renting space there. The closing of the church feels like the loss of a close friend.
I was eight years old when our family moved from northeast Philadelphia to Ridley Park in 1965. We attended that church on Sundays because my aunt and grandmother lived in the adjacent apartment building, and that was their church. That’s how I became Lutheran.
When we first began worshiping there, the congregation met in a fairly small building that had a preschool and kindergarten wing on one side. I only have one memory from that older sanctuary. It’s from an Easter Sunday morning worship service. The pastor’s son, a few years older than me, was singing with the choir. He had a solo verse in a piece called, “In Joseph’s Lovely Garden.” He had a wonderful voice and sang well, but felt faint and passed out after his solo.
The congregation built a new sanctuary that I think was dedicated in 1968. My brother remembers going there with my dad to do things during construction, but I have no memories of that. The new sanctuary had two rows of 22 pews with a red-carpeted aisle between them. I know the exact number because I dusted them all many times when I worked there as a janitor while in high school. I have two vivid memories of the dedication worship service. From the loft the organ and piano played “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.” It was the first time I had ever heard that piece, and it too my breath away. The robed choir processed up and around the nave several times during the first hymn before ascending to the loft.
Our family always sat in the third pew from the front on the left hand side in front of the pulpit. My mom and dad never left us three kids there alone when they went up for Holy Communion. They went separately so the other could stay with us. A wise strategy. I didn’t find church all that exciting. The cross in the front consisted of many stained glass stones. We sat there and tried to count them all many, many times.
We never missed Sunday worship unless one of us was sick. I heard a lot of sermons from age eight until I graduated from high school. There is only one thing I remember from all my pastor’s sermons. He would preach about those who were on a “rolley-coaster to hell.” I’m not sure what that was, but I sure didn’t want to be on ride!
After high school, I went to college and then to work in New Jersey, only worshiping there when I was visiting my parents. Both mom and dad had their funerals there in 2005 and 2019 respectively. Over time, pastors came and went and the church went into a slow decline until her final service on May 9, 2021.
Over it’s seventy years, the church educated so many children on Sundays and during the week. It spawned four pastors that I know of, including my brother and I. It served it’s community in many ways.
If you grew up in the church, then you know there is something about the church you grew up in that makes it different than any other. When I grew up and moved away, it was hard to find a new place to worship. No other church ever really measured up.
So I’m preaching. And the sermon is going well. My points are on point, my stories are connecting and my attempts at humor coax a hint of a smile from the most staid and serious congregants. So far, so good.
Suddenly, there’s a groan. Then a gasp. Then out of the corner of my eye, I see him go down. A few folks rush to see what’s wrong. Someone is already on the phone. Still another is out front waiting to direct the EMTs.
Now what? Bring everything to a halt? Just keep going? When in doubt, pray. Make the ultimate call for help. Done.
Now what? Sit there an do nothing? The silence is overwhelming, so we’ll sing. I call out a number of a familiar hymn. The organist introduces it and we work through the verses as the EMTs arrive to assess the situation. Before you know it, before the song is over, they’ve wheeled him out on the stretcher and pulled away in the rescue truck.
Now what? Well, where was I? As I reenter my sermon, I know that what we’ve just experienced is the point. This is the story. This is what should put a smile on our faces.
It felt familiar. It felt strange. It felt like home. It felt uncomfortable. It felt warm. It felt cold. It was a morning filled with contrasting sensations.
After seven weeks of “sheltering-in-place” virtual worship, we opened the doors of our church last Sunday morning. For an hour, the distance between members of the congregation shrank from miles to six feet. A thoughtful set of precautions reminded us of the pandemic. Psalms, hymns and spiritual songs reminded us of God’s powerful healing grace.
My mind vividly recalls these sounds and images of our first week back together:
For many, getting ready for church includes putting on a mask. Wearing gloves to church? The resurrection of an old tradition! Ushers and elders wore them for certain tasks. I wore them to distribute communion.
We did not pass the offering plates. Tithes and offerings were left at the door. Many were given electronically. Some were given by text.
We removed all the hymnals, bibles and visitor cards from the pews. Their absence made the church look even emptier. Until the worshipers began to gather…
…but the back rows were not filled! We sat on the aisles in every other pew, so many got to experience Sunday morning more “up close and personal” than ever before.
The little ones did not race to the chancel for a children’s sermon. I brought it back to them, to the place where they sat with their families.
The communion rail remained vacant. One person at a time came forward to stand at the altar and receive the sacrament.
My iPhone was perched on a tripod off to the side, live-streaming the service to many who were not yet ready to join us in person. Who knows how many actually worshiped with us on this day?
The sanctuary was filled with sound! It wasn’t just me speaking and singing and praying in an empty room. It was dozens of voices together, thanking and praising and praying. It was wonderful.
We had first time visitors in worship. The Spirit still gathers His people together.
Vigilant volunteers wiped down pews, door handles and chancel surfaces after everyone else left. (The filthy rags revealed we should have been doing this a long time ago.)
I can’t help but wonder if this is the new normal. Will we ever revert completely to how we gathered before? Will handshakes and hugs, kisses and high fives ever return to our assembly? Will we ever feel comfortable sharing books again? Or will we now always be hyper-conscious of the unseen germs all around us?
It’s only been one week. We’re learning as we go. I doubt we will soon forget how something so small can keep us apart. I just hope we never forget that someone so small – “to us a child is born” – can bring us together, too.
You have no doubt heard someone at church say, “We must have a strong children’s and youth ministry.” Why? “They are the future of the church!” Many hours are spent discussing how to attract younger families with children. A United Methodist congregation in Grove Cottage, Minnesota decided to shut down one of its campuses and relaunch that church to reach a younger demographic. Part of that process included asking the current members, most of whom were older, to attend another church for twelve to eighteen months. The approach and the reaction made national news.
The many different sides of that story does prompt the question, “Who is the future of the church?” I think it depends on the context. While children and youth may be the future of the Church, they are probably not the future of our church. You see, they grow up, go to college and move to where they find employment. We pray that they will be a part of the Church at large, but they will not grow up to be a part of our congregation.
Many of the people moving to Florida and our community are older. They are retired. They are tired of northern winters. And they are the future of our church. They are the new members, leaders, voices and teachers in our congregation. Yes, there are young families who move to our area, too. It’s an affordable place to live. But they are not necessarily the majority of the folks who come to visit and join our churches. That’s just the way it is here.
That is not necessarily a negative thing. In the pages of scripture, we find God staking the future of the church on a variety of people of different ages. Abraham was 75 when he got the call to move. Samuel grew up in the church. Moses was 80 when he was told to go to Pharaoh. David was a young shepherd when anointed the king of Israel. Josiah ascended to the throne when he was eight years old. Jeremiah had a job before he was born! Noah was 500 years old when he built the ark.
I love the babies, children and youth of the church. Yes, I am in my element when holding the infants, playing with the toddlers, teaching the middle schoolers, serving alongside the high school youth and praying the graduates off to college or the military. But I am also grateful for those who come with a lifetime of managerial, financial, educational and musical experience that fund, lead and drive the ministry of the church.
It’s ironic that some churches with a strong youth emphasis shuffle their young off to nursery and children’s church. It’s also ironic that those who want young families in church get irritated when the little ones get squirmy, noisy and leave Cheerio crumbs in the pew. Don’t you know how Jesus responded when the disciples tried to keep the kids away?
The future of the church will always be the gathering of people who need to hear the gospel, receive God’s forgiveness and be equipped to take that blessing back to their world. There are no age, height, income or experience restrictions on that experience.
Actually, the future of the church is “a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!” (Rev. 7:9-11).
I attended a required Child Evangelism Fellowship workshop today so that I could continue working with the Good News Club at a local elementary school. The workshop was held at the new campus of First Baptist Church of Daytona Beach, which recently moved from its historic location closer to the heart of the city. I looked forward to seeing their new site.
On the way there, I missed the turn into the church entrance. After I turned around, I turned into a mile long drive into a gorgeous acreage with the two new church buildings. A friend of mine commented, “That drive must have cost at least a million dollars.” I believe he was on target.
But as I pulled into a parking space, I was underwhelmed by two very understated buildings. I felt like I had pulled into an industrial park rather than a church complex. OK, take a breath. Just walk in and see what they have done here.
I walked into a space that was designed to be a coffee shop, restaurant and gathering area. It was very nice, and I quickly recognized others from my Good News Club. We sat together with coffee and bagels and caught up since our last time together.
The opening session was in the adjacent building, the main worship space. I tried to keep an open mind, but to tell you the truth, it felt like a warehouse rather than a church. The audio/visual technology was spectacular, but with a back wall of garage doors, exposed ventilation ducts and exposed walls, I did not feel like I had stepped into a church. I know that this design was intentional, but wow, what a difference from what this church used to be. Our breakout sessions were in very nicely appointed classrooms with very homey appointments.
So many thoughts went through my mind. Is this what a church looks like in the 21st century? Am I old enough to feel uncomfortable in a contemporary church? Is this what Jesus had in mind?
Jesus never went to church. What would he have to say about our churches? I am so glad he is merciful and abounding in love!
Waite for it... 