Anything Less

Another long #AnikaStory.  Ministry Edition. (Possibly worth the read if the latter resonates with your professions and callings and you or churches complain at all about “how to get more people to come to church”…)

Tonight I was invited to a community dinner.  At a church I’ve been meaning to visit (my “pulpit supply” and “life” dance cards have been quite full post move).  I’m painfully lacking in connections in the place I now call home and so I decided to accept the invitation (which the inviters went out of their way to extend.  I wanted to acknowledge their gracious effort with at least a little of my own).

Except I literally knew no one at this church – including the inviters. (#AdultPK connections) I couldn’t pick them out of a line up.  I exited the surprisingly full parking lot (this church is out of town and almost in the middle of nowhere and I was impressed by the turnout) and walked into a beautiful church building, which I had never before entered, not knowing what to expect or even the faces of those who invited me. What started as a genuine, if half-hearted, attempt at connection turned into a bit of a social experiment as this life long PK and a near professional pulpit supply (aka: I’ve been in and served in a LOT of churches) attempted to find a literal seat at the table.

To keep an extremely long story from getting excruciatingly long, here are the highlights:

•           I entered the church to a couple of ladies who looked up pleasantly but acknowledged me only by how high I jumped when the doors clanked behind me (“Looked like that surprised you!”). They returned to a conversation while I looked for directions, expectations, where to go, etc.  Their table had a note pad with names (was I supposed to sign in??) and numbered cards (were those important??) but they didn’t point me towards it. Or anything for that matter. They hadn’t actually said even “hello”. After a minute or so I located the fellowship hall down a hall.  A “thanks for coming!” followed me as I walked that way.
•           I wandered around the fellowship hall for several minutes.  I saw many church people (identifiable by their bright shirts and aprons) but there were none to greet me or give me instructions. There was no identifiable food line and I couldn’t quite figure out where/how the flow was supposed to go.  A slight bottle neck of people were by the kitchen window, but I couldn’t figure out quite what to do based on observations (Were they serving at the table? The window? What was being offered?) I saw drink pitchers on tables but no cups.  A desert table with cakes being served, but no silverware. I kept wandering.
•           There were two or three friendly nods from a distance, but no one spoke to me or approached me. (Yes, I fully realized I could have asked, but by this point I really wanted to see how the numerous church people would respond to me, a random community person, at a free community dinner, who looked lost – because I was.)
•           I found the coffee as I circled back to the entrance – with mugs – finally something I could do on my own.  Tables were set up family style (10-12 could fit comfortably around).  Several were completely full. The rest were empty.; there were no half-filled tables. So, I sat down at a completely empty table, by myself, with my mug of coffee, and people watched.  I sat alone for more than 20 minutes. NOT ONE of the two dozen people in bright church shirts did more than polite nod in my direction as they passed. 
•           I was getting ready to leave when my inviter paused to say hello, asked my name, and then, realizing who I was, introduced herself and engaged in conversation. What struck me was her excitement over how invested this church is in missions with a list of the things they do.  All I could think was “you’ve mastered the ‘to’ part; you’ve failed at the ‘with’.”

There were things the church did well. Pieces I could celebrate. But as someone who walked into a church where I wasn’t the guest preacher or the pastor’s (or the DS’s *gasp*) daughter for once, I wondered immediately what they are like on a Sunday morning.  I want a church that cares that I exist, not just that I’m there (though I’m not sure the latter was true either). I want a church that wants to do life with me. That wants me to do life with them.   

And the reality is, I’ve been in some of your churches on a Sunday morning (as the guest preacher or the pastor’s daughter and just someone looking for a church home, honestly) and have too often gotten versions of the same I experienced tonight.  Some of you (or your churches, or just that one grumpy old lady in the back row.  Please let me take a moment to note during this Pastors Appreciation month how many of my connections are pastors and how hard your job is and that the call to feed and shepherd your sheep comes along with the adage about bringing horses to water... I realize most of you are the choir.) are complaining about how to get more people in church pews on Sunday when you don’t care when they are literally in your own building on Thursday! And they are the ones who got as far as the building!

I’ve been to churches where I was yelled at for looking the for the bathroom when there was no one to ask, let alone put me in the right direction.  I’ve been “huh-humph!”-ed out of more than one pew that apparently is occupied by a season ticket holder. I have filled pulpit at churches where I was asked if was a first time visitor - despite having worshipped with that same congregation more than a dozen times. There are the churches whose welcoming committee needs a less people-y ministry if they are going to greet first time visitors by bad mouthing other church members. And, honestly, I’ve visited SO many churches where I have sat alone in a pew, worshipping alone, may or may not have been given a cursory handshake by the pastor at the end of service, and left without a single person saying so much as “good morning”.  If you don’t even care about me on Sunday when you can include me in the numbers, I guarantee you don’t care about me on Thursday.

I’ve been to conferences and had conversations about how to reach the next generation.  I’ve heard well meaning speakers talk about Boomer churches valuing tradition over connection.  I’ve heard pastors talk about what it means to reach younger people. And I gotta tell you, I agree with the premise, but I disagree with most solutions.  I’m a millennial who loves a meaningful worship team but was raised on organ and piano and absolutely think your drums ruin “Great is the Thy Faithfulness”.  And as a millennial I will tell you my generation (and those below I’ve chatted with though I in no way speak for all or even most), don’t actually care about whether or not you have a guitar player or an organist (though there is a desire for quality in whatever you’ve chosen). We don’t care about the size of your screens or even if you’ve finally updated to Canva instead of PowerPoint.  We are looking for signs of life.  For signs of intention. For honest connection. For relationship.

The thing is the good news of Jesus Christ has been changing lives for over 2000 years.  And it’s been done with Gregorian Chants and pipe organs and electric drums.  With incense and candles and smoke machines. With big churches and small churches and home churches and AA meetings where the smoke is more therapeutic than atmospheric.  It’s been done with NIV and The Message and the KJV.  Perhaps most confusingly, it’s been done with Latin.  And church history is RIDDLED with problems and apologies and things that haven’t been done even a little bit well…but the hope of Christ has carried on despite it all.  Which tells me that we need to care a lot more about the message than the mechanism.  And a relational message needs to be communicated in relationship. Emmanuel literally means God WITH us…  what makes us think that we can communicate such love and hope with anything less?

On Tulips and Waiting

I’ll be the first to admit…I don’t hold an overly favorable opinion of Valentine’s Day.  A day so completely divorced from its roots the irony of the day is almost laughable.  That being said, however, over the years I’ve tried to create quiet traditions of doing something special for myself; using Valentines Day as an excuse.  Typically, this involves a bottle of slightly-better-than-average wine and a planted tulip.  I always choose small planted tulip arrangements. They tend to last longer and when the blossoms inevitably die, I carefully harvest and dry the bulbs, storing them to plant in the fall.

This year, with the sum total of the rest of my plants in foster care at my parents’ house as my own home is covered in paint and drywall dust, I didn’t pick up any tulips.  But then I did.  They were 50% off and I justified that I could always bring them to the office to enjoy.

It was quick to see these tulips were woefully neglected and 50% off because they were likely also about 50% dead.  The dirt was far too dry.  The stalks stilted.  My love for tulips drove me.  I convinced myself they just needed a little TLC.  I watered the thirsty bulbs and made sure they had access to adequate sun.  And watched as my tulips not only refused to bloom, but the top of the leaves began to wilt and crumble, despite my fervent care.

It didn’t matter how I watered.  It didn’t matter whether it was sunny or the perfect ambient temperature. My tulip came too close to death and now it won’t bloom.  In fact, if anything, the nourishing water and sun is hastening the inevitable end…

A sad look at my dying tulips and I found myself thinking about, well, me. About my soul. I thought about how fervent my spiritual life once was. How desperately I surrendered my heart and life to the Jesus I love and who I know loves me and how far I feel away from that love.  I thought of the roads I’ve walked and of the lives I’ve lived. I considered how many times I’ve felt abandoned by people who claimed to care, or worse – the ones I thought actually did.  I thought of how utterly bruised and beaten I’ve been by the Church and by churches over the past decade or more. The big “C” Church with its endless fighting and bickering and outright hatred and the way it looks so little like Jesus that, for the first time in my life, I find myself embarrassed to admit I’m a Christian – not because of who I am and know myself and my Jesus to be, but because “guilty by association” is real and I’m embarrassed by who YOU think I must be.  The little “c” churches with the muchness of investment and pouring of myself into places that couldn’t or wouldn’t reciprocate. Churches I attended for years and the many churches I served for months upon months, without ever being “one of them”; how many lives I truly tried to invest in during my time…though few if any knew anything about me, including how to spell my name – though printed in the bulletin week after week. I wondered if that was what Jesus meant when he said “foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”  That the cost of following Jesus often means you won’t belong in the places others find so natural, so much like home.

I thought of how, if I were a tulip, I would be embarrassed about the honesty of my 50% off tag. The one that says no one has wanted me to point and that maybe what I have left to give – no matter how much it feels of who I am – is less than 50% worthwhile.  But how maybe now the pressure is off to constantly succeed, to constantly strive, let alone thrive. I thought about how dried out, worn out, and absolutely exhausted I am.  By what life is and what life has been. 

I thought about how church hasn’t been a healthy place for me lately. How even my favorite faith-based music is often annoying and my heady theological books, the prize of this nerd – books I finally have time to read – have left me feeling cynical. This attempt at watering is too much, too late. Instead of healing me, strengthening me, empowering me…I too feel like I’ve come too close to death and won’t bloom.  Not in this season anyway.

But maybe not for always.

That’s the beauty of tulips.  Maybe the beauty of me.

You see, after tulips bloom, if you let the foliage die rather than trying to resurrect them or force another bloom…then everything that looks like and is death nourishes the bulbs in the dirt below. Those same bulbs which seem to have nothing left to offer simply need a place away from everything it would otherwise need…no sun, no heat, no water.  And then, and only then, you plant them again. And you wait. Because tulips need to almost die and struggle through frozen ground to bloom again.

Maybe I do too.