I had a pretty scary week. After being in agonizing pain for about two days, I couldn’t take it anymore, had my wife pack up the kids in the car with a bunch of videos, and drive me to the ER. After about an hour, I was told the whole going home thing wasn’t happening. So here I am, in the middle of a pandemic, checking in to a hospital because, why not?

I’ll spare you the details, but I ended up having my gallbladder removed. Apparently, it was trying to kill me. Most people have a little time to prepare for this procedure. Most people who need this surgery are ten years older than me. I guess I’m special.

I spent almost the entire time in the hospital fighting back tears. Sometimes the tears won, coming out in sobs. Like when the chaplain called, simply to offer words of calming and prayer. Or when I saw my kids on FaceTime. Or when my wife’s co-workers stopped by just to say hi.

The tears were probably because I was starving, tired, stressed, in pain, and terrified. At some point, your emotions have just had enough.

It might have been emotions.

It might have been grace.

When I arrived at the hospital, I was in agony. I could barely walk or talk. I was embraced and cared for by every person with whom I interacted. Each one did so without any knowledge of who I was, what I did, or why I was there. All they knew was that I was broken and desperately needed healing. I needed the healing only they could provide. And they provided it silently, gently, with no demand of any form of reciprocity.

And I was overwhelmed.

From nurses who were gentle and kind as they drew my blood and set the IV lines that would provide me with much needed fluid, to the transporter who gingerly navigated halls, recognizing how much discomfort I was in. From aids who constantly asked if I needed anything – even simple things like water, to cleaners who dealt with things that happen in hospitals. From physicians who aided in my decisions about direction for care, to staff who were there when I woke up from surgery, reassuring me that everything was ok.

I was surrounded and overwhelmed by grace.

One time, Jesus was talking with someone about the last being first and the first being last. He described a pretty embarrassing situation in which an individual shows up for a party and, assuming his status higher than it is, takes a seat near the head of the table. As the real VIP shows up, the individual is asked to relocate further down the table, with a pretty hefty blow to his ego. Another individual shows up and seats himself at the foot of the table, assuming his status to be low. Surprised, the gentleman is asked to move closer to the head of the table. His status was higher than expected.

All of us, I assume, would prefer the experience of the second man. It’s far less embarrassing and it’s also more uplifting. Literally. We can take an egotistical perspective on this story – the man gets to take the walk of shame to his lower position, or wave his newfound respect in people’s faces. Our interpretation of events, then, is that we should take the lowest seat so we can have our egos stroked as we walk to the head of the table.

But what about the people who sit at the foot of the table because that’s where they think they should sit? In another story, Jesus talked about a banquet to which no one showed up. The host opened his doors to anyone and everyone who wanted to come. I’m sure, when the peons overcame the shock of their invitation and cleaned themselves up as best they could, they all crowded nearest the foot of the table. None of them would have dared approach the host. They were grateful simply to be in his presence. They didn’t deserve to be there. They didn’t deserve an amazing meal. They didn’t deserve anything about where they found themselves. They didn’t deserve…

But they did.

It’s been said that grace is when you get what you don’t deserve. Lately I’ve bristled at that sentiment. In the movie “The Greatest Showman” the bearded lady at one point sings the lines: “And I know that I deserve your love. ‘Cause there’s nothing I’m not worthy of.” When we think of God giving us grace as something we “don’t deserve,” we end up instantly demeaning ourselves. It is an idea often reinforced with scripture like, “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” But here is the truth:

There is nothing we are not worthy of.

Let me say that again. There is nothing we are not worthy of. Not even God’s love. Especially not God’s love. God, who spoke into nothingness and created all that exists “knitted you together in your mother’s womb.” If you’ve ever knitted anything you know how intimately you become familiar with what has been created. Every stitch. Every slip. Every loop. Every mistake. Every repair.

The God who knit you together in your mother’s womb knows of each stitch, each slip, each point where the yarn ran out, each section where the knitting was tighter because the pattern required complex twists, each point where the stitches were looser because of a transition from one needle size to another, or intentional slack built in because of what would come later.

When we sin, when we “fall short of the glory of God,” it’s not because we are broken, worthless, frail creatures who don’t deserve the love of God, it’s because we are constantly making the best decisions possible given how we have been knit together.

God’s grace doesn’t come because he’s just a really nice guy who knows we’ll try harder next time. It comes because God knows our limits. God knows we’re trying as hard as we can every moment of our life. God knows that the gifts he gave us aren’t always the most useful of tools. God knows that when we do the wrong thing knowing full well that it’s wrong, we are doing so for deep and meaningful reasons that stretch back, deep into the womb.

When I was lying in the hospital I was broken, in agony, and scared. My pain went deeper than issues caused by gallstones. Early this past semester, I was told that my services would no longer be required at the school where I teach. The decision was made by one administrator and, based on the minimal feedback I had been given, was entirely based on my personality. Meanwhile, I’ve been home with two small children and a wife working at the hospital.

One reason parenting is so difficult is the toll it takes on your self-worth. You spend your day pouring out everything you have in service of these people. Because children are still learning, they are typically ineffective at reifying their appreciation, or affirming you as an individual.

So here I am, devastated professionally, exhausted from caring for small children, and the world had slammed me, sucking up any prospect of interviews, or even job opportunities – and lacking time to look if the opportunities did exist. Now, I’m lying in a hospital. I’ve been in pain for three days. I’m starting to turn yellow because my body can’t process waste. The world had told me I am deserving of nothing.

But the Master opened his doors, invited me in, and cared for me.

Grace isn’t getting what you don’t deserve. No one who cared for me during my stay would have ever suggested I was undeserving of the care I received. In fact, no one who works in a hospital would ever say anyone is undeserving of care. That’s how God works. You are never undeserving of sacred, holy, deep love. In that moment, lying in that bed, being tended to by dozens of people who knew nothing about me, that grace became real to me.

God extends us grace not out of kindness, but out of understanding. Grace is not a gift we have no business receiving. Accepting a gift like that is awkward, imbalanced, and impersonal. Instead, grace comes from a depth of understanding. It is extended because our creator knows us so intimately, that everything the world sees as a flaw or failure is transformed through the eyes of God; seen with a deep and intimate context that explains each decision.

Like those who cared for me in the hospital, God is unconcerned with externalities that bring us to any given moment. Only the acute needs, like healing, are addressed. When we recognize that grace comes entirely because we are deserving. We recognize that we aren’t broken or worthless. We open ourselves to the love of others. We accept the unending love of God.

We receive grace.

And it is overwhelming.

It’s been a rough few weeks for me.

I didn’t realize until now how important that brief couple of hours on Sunday morning was for my soul. Nothing can replace the life-affirming power of an embrace, a kiss, a handshake, or the myriad other ways we pass The Peace on Sunday mornings. It’s simple, but powerful; expressing the love of Christ in real and tangible ways.

In the absence of that soul-feeding embrace, I spend most of my Sunday mornings now with tears streaming down my face.

I want to touch my family.

One amazing benefit of this time is that my wife and I have been able to experience church with multiple congregations. Of course we attend to our own community, Mason FUMC. But we also participate in worship with Court Street UMC in Flint and Memorial UMC in Gladstone. As a result, not one Sunday has gone by where I haven’t received a message that has touched my heart in ways only God can. This Sunday, all three messages, though completely different in nature, blended into a beautiful bouquet of blessing that transformed my view of The Church in this hour of need.

It began in da UP with Rev. Cathy Rafferty placing us in the perspective of Jesus’ friends; sharing the fear they must have felt in finding the empty tomb; reminding us of how amazing the world has since become with the presence of a risen Christ. Just as our world is now full of fear – fear of death, fear of economic instability, fear of losing our liberties – the disciples must also have felt the same discomfort about this new and amazing world they were promised. We know they did, because one demanded to feel the holes and touch the scars.

Her message led to a moment of conviction from Rev. Jeremy Peters in Flint. While he was quite critical of those who would openly protest, he reminded us of two things. First, that everyone was scared – and for good reason. And fear makes us do irrational, illogical, and often reckless things. Second, that getting angry at each other is the most ineffective response to fear. He made me think about a recent Facebook post I made, using some naughty words to describe people with whom I disagreed. Such a response, I was told, is counterproductive to our mission as Christians. We are called to love above all; to love in the way God loves us.

Let’s hit pause on that thought and bring in one last voice.

We then came home to our own church where Rev. Susanne Goodwin offered her own take on an Mythbusters (one of my favorite shows btw). She addressed the myth that faith was for the weak. Her conclusions confirmed that myth. We are all weak, we all experience fear, we all know the right thing to do but choose otherwise. Faith is the remedy for people willing to admit their discomfort, and shortcomings. It doesn’t fix the broken outside, but works miracles on devastation inside.

Ok, let’s bring this all together.

We are in what is referred to as a liminal space. In religious studies, liminality is the experience occurring between two spaces. Like discomfort of a return to earth following a spiritual high. We realize how deeply faith can transform our life, but come face to face with the real. Our world was comfortable and predictable. Then came a pandemic that locked us all in our houses, sheltered in place – alone or with family.

Now we have no idea what comes next.

It’s liminal.

Like the disciples at the empty tomb. Their walk with Christ was exciting, but relatively normal. It wasn’t life-changing. Not in the way defeating death changes lives. Christ’s absence placed them in a liminal space, between time with their spiritual leader, and a world-altering religious movement.

Liminality, however, is terrifying.

And we often react to fear with anger. Our lizard brain kicks in and we start looking out for number one. We worry about whether or not we’ll have enough if we start sharing the limited resources we do have. When people express their needs for things we have, we get angry that they didn’t work hard enough. We get scared that sharing might result in our own deficit. We lash out at each other. It tears us apart.

But that’s where the church comes in.

Nothing in our world is better at calming those fears than faith. Faith is for the broken, the scared, the lonely, the hopeless. “Faith is the existence of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.” True, deep, boundless faith doesn’t fix the world around us, it changes how we see that world; helps us see beyond us. Faith gives us sight beyond the empty tomb.

But faith takes community. Our faith comes from that of others who have been there before. We find comfort when we speak to an angel who can tell us, I’ve been there. I’ve felt that pain. It hurts. It will get better. It will get better.

And nothing in our world is better at building community than The Church. Just to be clear, I am not trying to single out Christianity – all other religions are equally capable of developing these bonds. With all due respect to other organizations, none are set up to be as openly affirming, accepting, forgiving, and loving than The Church. Christ’s message was for the Jews and the Gentiles.

But we have squandered our opportunity.

Jesus came like a thief in the night and we were miserably unprepared. We were warned to fill our lamps but instead we chose to argue about transubstantiation or consubstantiation; about whether Revelation meant pre-trib or post-trib, or even if the tribulation would happen at all.

We could have heeded the warning and gathered oil, but we chose to argue about what our tax dollars should be allowed to support, what our public schools should teach, and who should be allowed to marry whom.

And we tore the church apart.

Now, in the moment when The Church is needed most, we are woefully unprepared to provide the faith necessary to share the Good News of Jesus. Our Savior taught us to love unconditionally, but our churches have argued about conditions. In this moment, people are desperately seeking hope in the hopelessness; resurrection while surrounded by death.

The Bridegroom came, but instead of being prepared with a lamp full of oil, our churches stepped out to foment disunity, spread lies about science, and make it clear that some children of God are unwelcome in their Father’s house.

Like a thief in the night, Christ came and caught us entirely unprepared. Our religious leaders have attempted to use faith to fix the outside world. If you have enough faith, you won’t get sick; you won’t die. If you have enough faith, God will defeat the virus.

But that’s not what The Church is for. Faith can’t fix the world around us. Prayer won’t mutate the virus. God won’t miraculously create PPE or ventilators. Attending church with others won’t inoculate you against illness.

So let’s be clear about this: What is needed in this moment is not your church, but The Church. This is not a moment for you, this is a moment for us. Because what makes us Christian is our love. “They will know we are Christians by our love.” The greatest commandment of all is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, your soul, your mind, and your strength. But the second most important is similar, to love your neighbor as you love yourself. According to Christ, on these two commandments hang all the laws and the prophecies.

Nothing else matters.

And that brings me back to my community of faith. Scanning through Facebook, some of the things friends of mine post threaten to influence my perceptions of them. But then, I think about the kind words, the embrace, the smile, the affirmation they’ve given me. And I’m reminded how much I love them; how much God loves them. Nothing they can post will ever change that.

That’s the job of The Church – to create bonds between broken people in moments of fear so together we can carry each other to the moment of resurrection.

Now, more than ever, we desperately need The Church. We are all broken, scared, and desperately in need of hope. Only community provided by The Church can get us through this moment. But we must stop arguing about how to fix the world around us and help everyone fix the broken within.

We all desperately need The Church. If you are a Believer, please be The Church.

My grandmother is approaching her 100th birthday this October. As she ages I find myself simultaneously reflecting on the impact she has on my life and preparing for life without her.

Just to be clear: My grandmother is still very much alive. She’s moving a little slower and a little less capable of pounding out Scrabble words that not only use all seven letters, strategically placing the Z on the triple letter square while ending on triple word score (It may not be possible for you, but my grandmother could pull it off), but also runs parallel to another word to maximize her score. She’s still very interested in what her children and grandchildren are up to. And she’s not showing too many signs of stopping in the immediate future.

But still, people don’t live too many years past 100. It’s not sad, it’s just how we were designed.

Life is finite.

As I’ve been reflecting on my relationship with my grandmother, I am reminded of a poem, Crossing the Bar :

Sunset and evening star,
  And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
  When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
  Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
  Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
  And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
  When I embark;

For tho’ from out our Bourne of Time and Place
  The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
  When I have crost the bar.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Over half a century ago, my grandparents bought a small cottage in Kingsville, Ontario, not fifty feet from the northern shore of Lake Erie. My father spent entire summers in that small house with his family and shared the experience as much as he could with me and my brother. So much of my life during the summer can be connected in some way to that piece of property.

While I could fill volumes with memories of spending my time at grandma’s cottage, only one point is relevant to this discussion: The bar. Out front of the cottage in the lake every year was a sand bar. Some years it was so close as to create a beach or slight valley before shallowing to ankle depth and dropping off into the vastness of the smallest Great Lake. Some years it was hundreds of yards off shore, its existence indicated by changes in water color. Most years it was a brief swim across 7-10 foot deep water before shallowing to anywhere from knee to neck deep.

Regardless of where the sand bar was, or how deep it was, its presence had an effect on the lake. Waves would break early. Colors would mix and change. Wildlife would congregate. It was evident that The Bar delineated where the real lake began. Our small insignificant existences weren’t safely allowed into the expanse.

And that brings me to the faith of my grandmother.

Church has been a central element of my grandmother’s life for as long as I can remember, probably longer. But here’s the thing: I never remember having an in-depth conversation with my grandmother about theology. It is only in retrospect that I can see her influence on my own life and on my own understanding of God.

My grandmother has the most consistent, powerful, unshakable faith I have ever seen. Her faith is so strong, so certain, so sure, that she feels no compulsion to broadcast it to the world; no reason to shame, demean, or lessen the value of others to make sure they know she has an unflappable faith in Christ. Her faith, instead, compels her to live by a much simpler rule:

Love.

Love unconditionally, unendingly, unashamedly, deeply, voraciously, and with no expectation of reciprocity.

Love in a way that mirrors the water beyond The Bar. Uncontrollable. Unfathomable. Expansive. Unending.

So many of us love like that space just beyond the beach. Many of us will venture into the deepness where our feet can’t quite touch; risk ourselves until we find that small, shallow Bar. The Bar, where beyond is The Deep; The Expanse. But that’s where most of us stop. We find comfort in those around us and rarely venture beyond. We’ll play for hours, as my cousins and I did, surrounded by depth but generally safe.

To love beyond such safety is to risk so much. But it is how my grandmother lives her life. It is how my father and his sisters were raised; how they also live their own lives. To be in the presence of my grandmother or her children is to be surrounded by love.

When my maternal grandmother passed away a few years ago, I remember, as a grown adult, sitting in the front pew, wanting nothing more than to run into the arms of my aunts sitting only a few rows behind me. My mother was dealing with her own grief, my father was with her, but I knew I could count on my father’s sisters to embrace and care for me. They don’t judge, don’t demand reasons, they simply clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and comfort the prisoner.

Because they were taught to love.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem is about the end of life. His prayer, to meet his Pilot “face to face” when he has crossed the bar. What I see as I reflect on what my grandmother’s faith has taught me, is that we can cross The Bar; we can meet our Pilot face-to-face, before our life ends.

Evident above all in the life of my grandmother is that she crossed The Bar years ago. She left the safety of that shallow space out from the land, didn’t concern herself with religion, and focused her energy on loving like Christ.

I’m convinced my grandmother has met her Pilot face to face.

And my grandmother has company. My father and his sisters followed her into the water. They were all taught to love in a way that treats all people as if they are special creations, loved by God regardless of who they are. To be sure, their love is expressed in unique ways but its foundation is strong.

Life is finite, but when we meet our Pilot, we glimpse the infinite. Meeting our Pilot, however, requires leaving the safety of The Bar. And when we love the way my grandmother loves, we teach others the power of that love and achieve an immortality in the lives of those we touch.

The Sioux have an expression, mitacouye oyasine, it means, “and all my relatives”. It’s the phrase they use each time they enter and leave their sacred spaces. They say it as a reminder that all those who have come before, and all those who are yet to come, present or not, surround them wherever they go.

My father demonstrates the presence of my grandmother in all he does. I can only hope that the example of her faith demonstrated through the most important man in my life can lead me across The Bar; can teach me to love in the most dangerous of ways.

I know I will see my Pilot face to face when I have crost the bar. That is the faith of my grandmother.

It is the faith for which I strive.

A quick warning: There is some naughty language in this post. Part comes from anger, the other part, though, is an intentional choice – there just aren’t any words that better express the emotions I feel.

I grew up in the United Methodist Church.

It was where I learned everything I know and understand about God. Sure, I spent a ton of time in graduate school and on my own seeking out deeper and richer theological and philosophical expressions of faith, but each moment I spent exploring God was done so through the lens of the United Methodist Church. It was the UMC that allowed me incredible leeway to explore, to ask questions, to doubt, to challenge, and to come to a personal relationship with Christ.

The most important lesson I learned in the UMC was to love and respect all people. I attended a church in which, during the 90’s, an overwhelming majority believed AIDS to be punishment for drugs and homosexuality. But they didn’t press that opinion on me. Instead, they gave me opportunities to read the Bible for myself; to interact with committed pastors and youth ministers; to engage with others. That church leaned toward conservative perspectives (and still does), but never allowed anyone who walked through its doors to doubt for one second that they were loved by God. Doctrine was secondary.

Love came first.

I spent three summers as a counselor at a UM camp, spending each moment with children trying to plant a seed, even a mustard seed, into their hearts. I wanted them to know that they were loved. I didn’t ask for any details about who they were. It didn’t matter, they were loved.

My time as a camp counselor led to three amazing years working in youth ministry in the UMC. It could only have been the UMC. No other church had the depth of doctrine and the breadth of acceptance. There was no spiritual test, no mandated doctrinal covenant, and no required set of beliefs. In fact, the opposite was true. Before communion, the pastor stood before the congregation and said some version of “The United Methodist Church believes in an open communion table. You need not be a member of this or any church to partake. All you must have is the desire to meet Christ.” Each time I heard those words, my pride in the UMC was affirmed. I taught the kids I worked with that faith was only valuable if you arrived at your own conclusions.

The UMC was a church in which I was free to question any and all aspects of doctrine. I was free to disagree. I could attend annual conference and put forward motions to change the Social Principles. My church allowed me “grow in the faith”, even if I was surrounded by people with whom I disagreed.

Especially if I was surrounded by those with whom I disagreed.

I watched General Conference today as I went about my work. It was heartbreaking. I watched the church that taught me to accept and love those who hold opposing opinions close ranks and vote me out of their community.

Let me be perfectly clear: I was not expecting or even demanding that the church adopt language explicitly supporting homosexuality (though that’s where I would like the church to be). I simply wanted to know that I still had a place at the table. Their actions today made clear that this matter is not up for discussion.

They had on the table options to allow tension to exist; for clergy to live their conscience, or for the church to simply remain mute on the issue. Instead they chose, in no uncertain terms, to stake a position that is repulsive to slightly less than half of our worldwide congregation. The question that kept going through my head was this: I can accept a church in which you, who hold opinions I find wholly unacceptable, join me for a sacred meal, why the hell can’t you accept me and my beliefs? Let’s break bread and pray and talk and cry.

What’s more, in their decision, they have likely done significant damage to all of their congregations. There will be a dramatic exodus from the UMC, mostly in the Northeast and the west coast, draining untold amounts of members and funds. Those small, struggling, conservative churches, will have far fewer resources to support them. Their rate of closure will accelerate. But this death is one the denomination has chosen for itself.

The more unjust consequence is in relation to the more liberal churches that will face an impossible task: Remain connected to, and supported by, a denomination that affirms untenable social positions, or become an independent congregation with no viable support network.

And what hurts most is my choice going forward. I know this: I cannot maintain membership in the United Methodist Church, assuming the plan before General Conference passes as proposed. But I don’t know what options I have.

Currently only three major Protestant denominations have language affirming God’s love of all people: Presbyterians (PCUSA), Episcopalians, and Lutherans (ELCA). I’ve often joked that Methodists are Presbyterians who vote because we don’t already know the answer. I’m not a Calvinist, though, so that’s out. I like my hymns with only 3-5 verses, so Lutherans are out. And I’ve always found Catholicism a little too stuffy for me – Episcopals are just Catholic lite, half the sin, half the guilt. So it’s a no-go there.

Please excuse the tongue-in-cheek humor, I don’t intend to demean any of those traditions. None of them, though, have the deeply connective network of the UMC. None of them are large enough or strong enough to create an organization like the United Methodist Committee on Relief.

None of them are home.

I know they would all accept me and my family with open, loving arms, and we may look to them. But for now, we grieve.

I didn’t want a decision that alienated half of the UMC congregation – one way or the other. I wanted a decision that said “this shit is fucking hard and we have no idea what the right answer is. All we know is God said to love each other so that’s what we’re going to do.”

I don’t want to attend a church where I’m surrounded by a bunch of liberals who pat each other on the back for how open and accepting they are.

I don’t want to be the only liberal in a congregation of conservatives where my comments are met with uncomfortable or angry glances.

I want a church where I sit in my pew and the pastor says “following Christ is fucking hard as fuck and no one here has all the answers, but if we embrace each other, carry each other, and LOVE THE HELL out of each other, we might just make this thing work.” And then, I share a pot of watered-down GFS coffee and my cross with others willing to take that message into the world.

So until the final vote, I will remain connected to the church that raised me. As soon as the ink is dry, I will become one of the “nones” as I search for a church home that represents the open and accepting love of Christ I was taught as a member of the UMC.

I love my wife.

The dumpster Fyre Festival that was the United Methodist Church’s General Conference consumed far more of my day yesterday than it should have. It also made me do things I haven’t done in years, like write in this space, post to Facebook, and even (gasp!) interact on Twitter. None of those things were good for me. Not one of them enriched my life, strengthened my faith, or made me feel better about myself.

I knew the outcome was preordained (perhaps I am a Calvinist now). The only thing left was for pain inflicted from both sides to play itself out in a bloodbath of parliamentary procedure. I knew what the vote would be. I even knew the subplots. But I watched anyway, probably for the same reason I wasted hours of my life I will never get back from the Clinton/Trump debates.

Anger has consumed me for the past three days. The last time I wrote in this space, I stated plans to leave the denomination. The words stated on the floor from both sides were hurtful, damaging, insulting, and hopeless. It was not representative of the church with which I wanted to be allied. My plan today was to swing by church on the way home and remove my name from membership.

I love my wife.

Last night I had a conversation with my amazing wife who helped me place the yesterday’s events in context. The reality is, nothing in the United Methodist Church has changed, save for a few lines in the Book of Discipline. While those words are hurtful and fail to represent a loving and compassionate God, they aren’t scripture. They weren’t divinely inspired.

Those words didn’t change the hearts of the people at the church I attend.

And I love my church family.

Let’s pull out an obscure reference to a movie from 1995 most people have never heard of, Angus. In the final scene of the movie, a kid that has been bullied his entire life finally fights back. The quarterback of the football team shoves him down and he responds:

I’m still here asshole.

I’ll always be here. You push me down and I’ll get right back up again. And again. And again. And again. I could beat you right here, right now. But I don’t want to be better than you, Rick. I don’t want to be better than anybody. I want to be who I am: A fat kid that’s good at science and fair at football. That’s who I am. I can live with it, why can’t you?

[RICK: Because it’s not normal. You’re not normal.]

And who is, you?… There are 400 people in this room that are nothing like you. Some of them are tall, some of them are short… Some of them have scars of frizzy hair…

But most of them walk these halls every day never telling anyone the truth about what they really want or need because people like you, normal people like you, have them terrified of being who they really are. I mean, if you’re “normal”, what does that make them?

“Angus”, 1995

Rick, the quarterback, responds “Whatever I am, it’s something you’re never going to be.” To which Angus gently replies, “Thank God.”

I could leave the UMC, the church that raised me, the church that taught me to love.

Or I could stay.

I could stay and be the virus that metastasizes; that teaches young people to be patient, let the ignorant have their say; that forces his way onto Church Council and into church leadership; that screams at the top of my lungs during prayer about what God’s love means.

To those United Methodist reading this and considering walking away, I ask you, please join me. Be the virus. Because one thing we know about the love of God, it spreads faster than hatred – and it’s harder to kill.

There is a small (and some might say growing) majority in denominational leadership that want to rid the UMC of this virus. They will push us down. To them we say:

We’re still here, asshole.

We don’t want to beat you. We don’t want to be better than you. We don’t want to be better than anybody. We just want to be who we are: Christians who will throw open the doors of the Church to anyone who comes; who will attend same-sex weddings, bless ordination of gay clergy; who will be a thorn in your side.

Go ahead, bring up clergy on charges. Conduct your “background checks” like some McCarthy-era House committee. Turn the Episcopacy into “Survivor – UMC Discipline.”

We’ll make sure every one of your actions is front-page news. We’ll find intelligent, articulate United Methodists to make our case to the greater public. We are a bigger, more well-connected denomination than any Protestant group, and the minority is diverse and passionate, and we love our church. You can’t take it from us.

What we saw over the past few days was a small majority (54%) demonstrate to the entire congregation that they would rather violate our constitution, disrespect the rulings of our bishops, ignore young people, and demean people of God, than allow someone who isn’t “normal” to aid in bringing souls to Christ. And they want everyone who disagrees to leave.

We’re still here, asshole.

So please, join me. Be the virus. Multiple people at Plenary yesterday referred to us as a “stain.” We aren’t a stain, we’re a virus. And if we commit to infecting our congregations, that virus will spread faster and more out of control than any message of exclusion.

Be the virus.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, but, perhaps out of a need for catharsis, I have decided to share these thoughts.

On November 9th, I arrived at my 8am class ready to teach. Only a small handful of students were present. Those who were there were dejected and depressed. Many of them shared my political views and (it seemed) all expressed disappointment and sadness about the election of Trump. Later, I received an email from a student who was home sick, but also disappointed about the election.

As I scanned the news, I saw schools offering responses like discussions with counselors, safe spaces, vigils and protests. As an individual who did not vote for Trump, I shared many of the emotions: disappointment, sadness, anger, but I needed to understand why those emotions were present. My candidate had lost elections before, and that loss was disappointing – but this time was different.

This time felt different.

I’ve been thinking about what makes this election different, and I’ve come to this conclusion: It is different because, for the first time in my (admittedly limited) memory of presidential elections, people (myself included) were personally attacked and insulted by the candidate.

• He began his campaign calling Mexicans rapists and murderers and told a judge from Indiana that, because he was “Mexican” (despite facts that he was American), he couldn’t do his job fairly.
• He called for a complete ban on Muslims entering the country in the wake of terrorist attacks, despite the fact that most acts of terrorism are committed by white Christian men.
• After calling to ban Muslims, he started singing the “Islamic Terrorism” mantra, aligning a beautiful, peaceful religion with the small number of apostates who pervert its messages for their benefit.
• During a rally, he mocked a reporter by performing a caricature of his disability.
• He questioned Megyn Kelly’s ability to treat him fairly by implying that she was menstruating.

I could go on, but these were his greatest hits from early in the campaign, and I’m sure you  are aware of most of these major events so I won’t exhaust them here.

None of these statements hurt me personally. I’m not Mexican, Muslim, disabled, or female. But Christ had some words that never left my head. Matthew 22:34-40, a passage you with which you are likely familiar. Here’s the highlight, “love your neighbor as yourself.” There was no love in any of these statements. I could not vote for a man who failed to live up to the second most important commandment in my holy scriptures. We can debate immigration policy (should we build a wall? Should we close our borders? Etc.), but when you demonstrate a lack of love for our neighbors, I can’t support you.

Another passage has been echoing constantly in my head. Matthew 25:40, “Whatever you have done for even the least of my brothers, you have done to me.” Millions of people are fleeing their homes in Syria to escape civil war. And the response of our president elect was to compare them to poisoned Skittles.

And there was support.

That hurt. Millions of people in my nation were turning their back on Christ because they were afraid. Here’s the rub: When a deranged young man walked into a preschool and shot children, the response was to buy more guns, not take them away. Same when a deranged racist entered a church and shot people in the Bible study. But when a family, who was so terrified of the war outside their house that they floated across the Mediterranean Sea in a dingy, arrive at our shores, we turn them away.

We turned Christ away.

And then, things got personal.

There were two issues that were personally insulting to me. First, Trump’s response to questions about his “grab ’em by the p****” comment, and second, his response to news media and facts.

First, I was insulted as a man (and the father of a daughter) that our president thinks it’s ok to use language as obviously degrading as his about women. His response, “It’s just locker room talk.” Real men don’t talk about women that way (maybe they do in middle school – but high school seniors (or subsequent girlfriends) usually beat it out of them by the time they are an adult). Real men beat the sh*t out of men who talk that way. To imply that men who are so self-absorbed with their masculinity and sexuality are in any way representative of men in general was hurtful.

People let it go. And continued to support him.

That hurt.

Second, as a academic devoted to “finding the Truth” and a scholar of media, I was insulted when Trump incessantly and abhorrently derided the Fifth Estate as inherently biased and unfair. What were “the media’s” crimes? Restating Trump’s own words and asking him about it, and rebutting Trump’s statements with citations and facts.

Rhetoricians approach debate this way: I bring an argument supported by evidence. You respond to my argument with different evidence. If our evidence differs in fact, my job is to explain why my evidence is more accurate than yours.

Trump only responded by suggesting the evidence was wrong. He never explained why it was wrong (except of course to blame the corrupt media).

It hurt to be told I was wrong without engaging in debate.

Ok, so those things hurt quite a bit. But, that didn’t explain why it hurt so much after the election. What hurt even more was that people ignored the voices of those who had been hurt. We were relegated to thin-skinned liberals who were too concerned with political correctness.

Here’s my thing about political correctness. I’m not sure why so many people think it ridiculous. If I call you Bob when your name is Dave, that might just be a mistake. You correct me, I apologize, and we move on. If I continue to call you Bob, avoid the apology, and ignore your pleas to change, I’m not a nice person.

Millions of us were screaming that we had been hurt by this man, but people still voted for him.

That’s what hurt the most.

Call me thin-skinned, but words do hurt me. And Trump’s words were not hurtful once, they were hurtful numerous times to numerous people. And we asked him to stop, but he continued. Milania Trump wants to make bullying her pet cause. I’m in favor of that. But it means we must stop whining about being politically correct. We need to start listening and reacting when people express pain from our words. I don’t expect you (or anyone) to know the proper term for every race, orientation, or creed. That’s unreasonable. But when someone says, “I would prefer you call me Dave,” we need to respect that.

Instead of telling Dave, “but you look like a Bob.”

Martin Niemoller, a prominent pastor, was famously quoted as saying, “First they came for the socialists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a socialist…. Then they came for me, and by then there was no one left to speak up.” Those of us who rejected Trump did so because we saw the need to speak up. Our voices were not only ignored, but fully and completely marginalized.

That’s what hurt the most.

Note here that I have said nothing of Hillary Clinton. That was intentional. She lost the election. I want people to know why those of us who did not vote for Trump are devastated by his selection. Now that he’s going to take office, there is no option to suggest that he’s the lesser of two evils.

If you supported Trump through the election, you now have to defend his words on their merits.

Remember: Words have consequences; words can hurt.

Last week I made my case that an entire generation can be described by the U2 song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” I ended last week with a cliffhanger (OK, that may be a little extreme). This week, I said, I will focus on why the “lost generation” isn’t as lost as many people think.

So here goes:

Before I get into the meat and potatoes, I need to make sure we are on the same page. I am coming from a perspective that many Christians have been touting for years. It is a long (well, around 2 centuries) history of “fire and brimstone.” The idea is this, if you aren’t one of us (read Christian) then you are serving Satan and bound for hell. I personally got my first taste of this theology when I attended “Acquire the Fire” back in middle school. Ron Luce and his army of presenters taught me that anything not specifically holy was of Satan. He went on to discuss our need to save the world for Jesus; to bring everyone under the same banner. Luce is not alone in his assessment. Other religious people like Pat Robertson tout the same message. “If you aren’t with us then you’re against us!” they would say. They cited scripture about burning in hell, God hating that group, etc. I can’t tell you what verses they cited anymore because, even if I found the same verses, my understanding of scripture has changed so drastically I wouldn’t recognize them.

There’s a problem with the dichotomous theological perspective and it is likely a source of friction between Generation X and the two generations preceding and following (Baby Boomers and Millennials). The problem is this: Generation X is still looking for faith. We who were raised in the Gen X world were forced to find our own way, to make our own friends, and to become fiercely independent. The implication then defines our generation as open and accepting… Which we don’t find in any faith community.

When you take a look at who is making accusations about the godlessness of adults, it turns out most of them are Baby Boomers. What we see is a cultural shift. Boomers grew up in a culture where a church was placed on every street corner and if you didn’t participate you were excluded from the social network that would help you advance. Two things happened in the intervening time. First, urban sprawl distanced us from our work. We no longer lived in the same social system as our boss and he, therefore, didn’t know (or care) if we went to church. Second, we found a lot of other interesting things to do that didn’t involve sitting in an uncomfortable pew in a stuffy sanctuary singing slow, ancient songs, and listening to a boring, irrelevant, and pointless sermon. In short, Gen Xers grew up in a world where church communities never made a compelling case for relevance.

Now let’s talk about Bono’s words.

“I have spoke with the tongue of angels, I have held the hand of the devil, it was warm in the night, it was cold as a stone. But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…”

Generation X followed closely on the heels of the Woodstock, Free Love, Women’s Liberation generation. We came into an unstable world still seeking that equilibrium between pure liberalism and a death grip on our traditions. This was also the latchkey kid generation in which children were left to their own devices. We sought God in all we did, but we never committed to a faith community in the same way as our parents. We tried to date both god and the devil.

But we never lost our hunger for that which we sought:

“I believe in Kingdom Come, then all the colors will bleed into one… But yes, I’m still running. You broke the bonds and you loosed the chains. You carried the cross of my shame… You know I believe it. But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…”

And here’s the secret about Generation X that everyone seems to overlook. We are a deeply spiritual generation. We haven’t abandoned our faith. We are simply seeking it in our characteristically pragmatic ways. American Christians are exceptional at sharing the story of our faith. We love pointing to individual cases of Jesus coming to the rescue, breaking the bonds and loosening the chains, claiming those stories as evidence that Jesus is the only way to heal.

But many of us remain unconvinced.

Where those on the inside, those already “saved” see redemption, many see judgement, pain, and exclusion. Last week I ended saying that I would talk about what many in Generation X want from their faith. So here it is. Those who refuse to enter church, those behind the Freedom From Religion Foundation, those seen as antithetical to Christianity are often closer than many Christians are comfortable to admit. While it should be noted that many in the atheist camp are devoted scientists who are unable to accept the unprovable tenets of faith, a large population exists who have not denied spirituality. Instead, these individuals have denied religion.

And can you blame them? They have grown up their entire lives under the umbrella of individuals in the “Religious Right” who find their sin du jour and demean those unwilling to align with their way of thinking.

They talk of “feeding the world” but only provide Bibles; returning home to their mansions built by donations.

They call women take birth control whores; those who have abortions murderers.

They fight for laws protecting their rights to bigotry against homosexuals and remain silent when nations put gay people to death.

They preach a message love, acceptance, and forgiveness in their churches; hatred, rejection, and punishment in their politics.

The people of Generation X who are not in the pews still have a strong faith and a deep spirituality. Their faith, however, may not be in the same god many Christians worship. These individuals want to change the world. They want the love their feel for those in their community outside of church to be echoed, amplified, and enhanced when they attend a religious service. For these individuals, they are still looking for the beauty they have been promised. They believe it exists.

They know it exists.

They know it exists in the deepest, scariest, most remote places. They know the true Love of God exists when people focus more on loving others than on condemning others (Generation X isn’t lazy – when they were told to read John 3:16, they also read the following verse). The faith of a Gen Xer looks different because they are willing to ignore sin in others and look for God everywhere. For these individuals, the search may be long and they may never find what they are looking for. But so long as Christians are unwilling to throw open the gates and allow all to worship in the House of God, not as sinners but as beings lovingly created by the Almighty, these seekers will never find what they are looking for in a church.

They’ve already found God when he was kicked out of his home.

Quite a while ago I was listening to NPR and they started listing off bands that Gen Xers thought represented their generation. I don’t remember most of them, but one band stood out in my mind: U2. The journalist made a point to clarify that Bono, the frontman, was actually a baby boomer. I started thinking about it more and I realized that the comments for U2 as the band of a generation were justified. As Exhibit A, I give you the song, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” It is an anthem for a generation that has been promised, and given, everything yet finding life empty and wanting. Below is my case for this song as the theme song of Generation X.

Before I make my case, I should, in the interest of full disclosure, point out my personal position. I was born in 1980. By some accounts that places me in Generation X while other accounts place me in the Millennial Generation (Also called Generation Y, more on that later). In truth, I fall into the generation gap. I claim equal traits from both generations. I am skeptical of the government (X)  yet involved in political matters (X). I’m not the biggest fan of people (X) but enjoy my job surrounded by them (Y). I could go on, but I think this description should suffice.

I should also mention that I don’t take all that much stock in generational personality generalizations. Most of the time these descriptions (you can find a number of them online) are sweeping generalizations made in hindsight with little to no data to back them up. Often they’re drawn by people form the previous generation who take a cynical, crotchety old man view of “those damn kids.” Still, there are assumptions that can be made about a generation based upon the events and the data surrounding those experiences. In other words, U2’s song is a theme song for a generation of people, not necessarily for individual people of that generation.

Generation X is nestled, uncomfortably, between the “get out of the house but be back for dinner at 6” generation and the “don’t get too far out of my sight generation.” Baby Boomers were typically kicked out of the house to get into trouble with their friends. Communities were close and parents trusted other parents to look out for their kids. On the other end, Millennials saw the introduction of Helicopter parents who are infamous for their omnipresence in the life of their child. Children who were raised in the 70s and 80s, Xers, often had parents who were both working. It was the height of the latchkey kid – you know the one who came home from school to an empty house and a Stouffer’s lasagne thawing on the stove with instructions to toss it in the oven for dinner. To be sure, parents were not absent from these children’s lives, nor did they love their children less than parents of other generations. Instead, it was a shift in labor demands. Dual income became the norm for maintaining middle class lifestyles.

Here is where the song comes in.

Generation X became a materialistic generation. Parents tried showing their love (perhaps read “assuaging their guilt) by giving their children “opportunities.” This might mean the newest video game or a family trip to an exciting locale. These “opportunities” translated into a generation that was open-minded, experimental, and innovative. And there is the problem. Xers excel at finding solutions to problems, they just struggle at defining the problem.

They still haven’t found what they’re looking for.

Bono’s lyrics are powerful and chilling. “I have climbed highest mountains, I have run through the fields, only to be with you… I have spoke with eternal angels, I have held the hand of the devil, it was warm in the night, it was cold as a stone… But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…” The song describes a quest in which the seeker has looked everywhere, but fails to feel fulfilled in their search. Left to their own devices, Gen Xers have tried everything, but they have struggled to define that which is sought.

One fallacy that I have discussed a few times in this blog is the decline in spirituality. Gen Xers are often cited as being the least religious generation because of their lack of participation in churches. Such a claim denies the reality, that Gen Xers are deeply spiritual people who have been given little direction. A few things have happened here. First, the increase in work hours has placed leisure time at a premium. About 25% of that leisure time happens to be on Sunday mornings – you know, when church typically meets. That means children have been introduced to a culture that finds no problem missing church on Sunday morning to sleep in, or take a vacation. Second, the “free love” attitude of the 60s created a generation of parents who see little value in enforcing religious perspectives on children – Hence the disappearance of teenagers from church pews throughout the 70s and 80s [as an aside, a large reason for this gap in mainline denominations comes from a lack of investment but I’ll get to that in another post]. Third, the generation that experienced numerous political scandals (e.g. Watergate) taught their children to be wary of institutionalized anything – Including religion.

Throw these variables together and you get a kid that may have been “raised in the church,” but has been given minimal reason to stay and every reason to question the authority they are told to trust blindly. Thus: I still haven’t found what I’m looking for, because I don’t know what I’m looking for.

All is not lost, though. I have experienced two distinct reactions to the dearth of Gen Xers in religious organizations.

Exhibit A: Acquire the Fire (AKA: Day One). These Christian rallies gathered tens of thousands of teenagers together to unite them behind the scourge that is destroying our country. When I was in middle school that scourge was secular music. We were told to destroy all of our non-Christian CDs and tapes (Interesting that there was a booth selling “Christian” music) because Satan was in that music. It was people who listened to that music who were drifting away from Christ. Later, when I took my youth group it was Victoria’s Secret primarily because it degraded women, but also because it allowed boyfriends into dressing rooms with their girlfriends. My kids came back from the rally wanting to picket the Vicki’s store in the mall.

Exhibit B: Church in a Bar. Ok, so I can’t remember exactly what church this was and I’m too lazy to look it up. The idea is this, “hey, man, wouldn’t it be cool if we could go to church in a bar?” The idea being it is less intimidating if people are allowed to experience religion in places they already feel comfortable. In other words, if you’re too lazy to come to me, we’ll go to you. These are designed to combat apathy with, “ok, you win.”

These reactions, though, miss the demands of Gen Xers and overlook the most important aspect of the generation:

We are a people crying out for relevant, life-changing spirituality. We don’t want you to meet us where we are, we don’t want to meet you where you are. We want you to walk with us down the deepest, scariest path you can think of. It’s not a prescribed religiosity. It’s an individual relationship with God.

Next week, I’ll talk about what that looks like and why there is hope for those who “still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”

I’m just putting this out there: Most weeks, I hate going to church.

Ok, so hate is probably a harsh word. Perhaps don’t enjoy? Even better: Would rather be doing other things.

It’s not that church is unpleasant or painful, or even that I don’t enjoy parts of it. There are quite a few redeeming qualities of the faith community of which my family and I are a part. I typically enjoy the music. The sermon often comprises words I need to hear. It’s typically the only time during my week when I stop to truly pray. And, most importantly, I love the people. Every week I am rejuvenated by kind words, hugs, and smiles from people who honestly care for me and my family.

But then there’s that pesky church thing.

It’s an hour of time every week that could be used to sleep, clean, work, even just watch TV. And, by the time we get ready, talk after the service, and get home, it’s typically an entire morning that has been “given to God” to attend worship. Now there’s the problem. Maybe it’s just a semantic thing – that term “giving to God” in reference to our time on Sunday morning. That phrase represents a paradox central to the problem of church. Worship services are supposed to be what we bring for God. It is our time to show God that we place Him at the center of our lives. But that makes it sound like we should go to church, “because God said so.” If that were the case, we probably wouldn’t have many people in the pews. And church wouldn’t be as “exciting” as it is.

As I’ve already mentioned, research on church attendance is mixed. The commonly held belief is that attendance and participation rates are in sharp decline as this next generation comes of age and abandons the church. Unfortunately, very little data exist to support that claim. The real story is far more nuanced as it requires clear definitions for “attendance” and “participation.” We even have to clearly define “church.” Add to the complication of terms the raw decline in births that occurred in the 80’s, the whole concept becomes even more muddled. What isn’t being argued is the decline of “mainline Protestant denominations.” For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it refers to large religious political bodies like United Methodists, Presbyterians, and Lutherans (all flavors). In the 60’s these organizations reached their peak and have been slowly declining since, with a more precipitous decline over the past 20 years.

As people have left the larger denominations, they have found their homes in megachurches. These organizations are often built around the charisma of one leader, demand strict commitment from their members, face few financial struggles (save for how to finance the new multi-million-dollar addition), and provide every member with somewhere to “plug in.” The centerpiece of these churches is the “relevant worship service.” An hour-long experience in which the faithful are brought into communion with God. Outsiders experiencing the service for the first time often feel like they are part of a rock concert or Broadway production. And they take their experience back to their home church.

I have been a part of multiple conversations at multiple churches where the term “contemporary worship” was thrown around as if it referred to the return of Christ himself; as if adopting the same production style in our small town church will suddenly overcome all of the variables working against us like demographics, location, and culture. Some churches make the change and see their membership grow. Others try it for a little while and see nothing different. Some churches reject the idea and continue with their current downward trend.

What is missing from this entire discussion is a conversation about what it means to go to church. Worship, as I’ve heard it defined, is about what we bring to God. At the same time, we must be mindful of what worshippers get out of the service. But we must also create a community in which each person experiences the overwhelming love of God and senses that they are valuable.

Churches succeed or fail in spirals. Recently (ok, about a decade ago) many churches started touting the “cell division” method for church growth. You start with small Bible studies that grow and separate. This way, everyone who attends a Bible study feels like they are a part of a small group, and that their opinions and thoughts are valued. When the group grows past the point where all members feel valued, new groups are created to maintain intimacy. This is the growth spiral: Everyone always has a sense that their presence and their voice matters.

The death spiral works in an opposing force. For many churches the death spiral begins with some dramatic change (organizational theorists refer to it as a punctuation). This could be a financial issue, a problem with the pastor, a disaster in the physical plant, or some other calamity that demonstrates weaknesses in the organization. To begin a death spiral the church responds by fortifying positions of power. People who are in control work to maintain that control despite the ground collapsing around them. The reason this functions as a spiral is because such fortification remains once the problem has been resolved. It’s also used as justification for maintaining the status quo (theorists say equilibrium) despite external demands for change.

In churches with a growth spiral, my presence at church is met with a position crafted specifically for me to contribute to the community using exactly those talents I have been given. In churches with a death spiral, my presence is met with relegation to menial tasks with which I have no interest and am often unequipped to address. Which church do you want to be a part of?

So what are churches to do?

On one hand, we can emulate the megachurches, providing (poor quality) Broadway-like worship services and trying to develop Bible studies with the same people who have been active participants for years. Such techniques are likely to result in abject failure, even when the church is resolute enough to follow through.

On the other hand, we can consider what it is that makes church worth attending. Church attendance is not about the worship service. It’s not about the music. It’s not about the sermon. Going to church is about creating a community where people feel loved, cared for, and, most importantly, involved in the work of God.

Do I have to go to church?

No, not really. In fact, if I truly hate going to church I should probably find somewhere else. Truth be told, I love the church community of which I am a part, and I look forward to Sunday mornings. Regardless of how I feel about the service, I feel like I am an important, loved, and valued member. I don’t think my experience is any different from the average churchgoer.

Going to church means feeling at home in God’s home. So many of our congregations comprise people who have deeply entrenched themselves in their positions of leadership that new members struggle to find a place to serve. When we can create congregations that make all who attend feel comfortable, loved, and valued, we will start to feel worship become interwoven into our daily lives.

And we won’t have to go to church.

But we will want to.

Last week I asked the question, do I have to go to church? This week I’d like to delve into the topic of what happens in church a little more deeply. I had this brainstorm a little while ago – it was a thought about the role music plays in worship and how we often equate music with the style of the service. The thought I had came to this conclusion:

Methodists have been known for their leadership in music. Of late, however, they have become followers.

In the history of Christianity, few denominations have contributed more to the cannon of church music than the Methodists. (To be fair, the Catholics wrote a lot of music but (a) they have an extra 1500 years on the Protestants and (b) can you really call singing a line from the mass using one note “a contribution to music?). If you aren’t a Methodist, chances are your hymnal is full of songs from the Methodist tradition. When John Wesley found himself with a church, one of the first things he did was put together a book, “A Book of Songs for People Called Methodists.” Even Garrison Keillor has made commentary about the quality of Methodists’ music. In fact, our music was one of the reasons people were terrified when those crazy Methodists arrived during the Second Great Awakening. We sang loud, and we sang with our heart and our soul.

The last generation, however, has seen a change in the role of Methodists vis-a-vis music. Where John and Charles would write songs that sounded like popular music of the day (it is a myth that they re-wrote bar songs, they were simply influenced by the songs they heard), our church has resigned itself to a reliance on popular worship music, emulating what we see in other churches. The result is best exemplified by the ridiculous supplement many United Methodist churches now carry, “The Faith We Sing.” The best way I can describe this text of contemporary worship music is what a mix tape (yes tape) would sound like if your parents made it for you. We have gone from a congregation thriving on our music because it was new, creative, edgy, and unique to a church that simply does what everyone else is doing.

And we wonder why we are losing people.

There is an organizational explanation for this and it comes in two parts: How we got here, and why we can’t change.

So how did we get here? How did we get to the point where we are known for our ability to sing “the old ones” so well and “the new ones” so poorly? We got here by being good at it. Take a look at your hymnal. Note the dates of the most popular songs. Most of them come from the mid- to late-nineteenth century. It was the time that Methodists and Baptists were blanketing the country in small churches, trained clergy, and the dreaded Big Tent Revival. What a Friend We Have In Jesus, Leaning on the Everlasting Arms, Onward Christian Soldiers. All were written at a time when people were growing increasingly connected to local churches. Once the fervor of the Third Great Awakening died down and we settled in to the structure and safety of denominational Christianity, we leaned heavily on the rich history of music, we used our wealth to invest in exceptional instruments as we built our churches, and we relied on tradition to carry the value of the Great Hymns forward. By the time we found ourselves in the middle of the 20th century, the previous generations had always done it that way.

Our success in merging with the Evangelical United Brethren to create the United Methodist Church made us complacent. We had for generations relied upon the assumption that everyone loved our 100-year-old music. It was the music we heard as children. We found it comfortable. Why should we change what was working? The thing about organizations, the larger they get, the more things become standardized. The older they get, the more entrenched the leadership becomes. I mentioned in an earlier post that our churches are led by small handfuls of people who are often unwilling to relinquish power. There are many reasons for this – it could be that they are afraid no one else will step up, it could be that they simply like having power in the organization. Regardless, when small handfuls of people cling to power, they make decisions based upon what has worked in the past. In this case, the past is what they experienced growing up.

So why can’t we change?

The easy answer is because that small handful of people running the church is unwilling to commit to a change.

But that is a lousy answer.

The real answer is because our church has been unable to reclaim our intentional leadership. As I mentioned, the problem with organizations is their standardization. Think about the hymnal. In order to publish a new edition of the hymnal a large group of people have to work together to find all of the music, research the author, date, etc., organize the songs into some reasonable order, and then go through the lengthy process of securing printing rights to almost every song. By the time that process is complete, the newest song in the book is probably two years old – that’s if they identified the song as popular as soon as it came out.

There’s another problem. The reason we were so good at singing those songs is because we sang the same songs all the time. We learned how to sing as a congregation. Our cannon of music was small enough that we could learn most of it and participate in the community. In four-part harmony. Our cannon has recently exploded. Outside of the 734 hymns in our hymnal (excluding the psalter), and the 300ish hymns in The Faith We Sing, we have also introduced popular songs from the contemporary domain. The more songs we are to learn, the harder it is to do them well. And, the less likely your favorites are going to come up in the service. There’s a reason radio stations put popular songs in “heavy rotation,” people listen if they think the song they love will come on the air.

In the interest of full-disclosure, I love the old hymns and I’m currently working with my church to organize a hymn sing… So am I part of the problem?

Potentially.

There is no easy answer to this situation. As Methodists, we must participate in the conversations at our church. What we need in our service is not better old music, a professional contemporary band, or a half-assed attempt at singing the new songs to appease young people. What we need in our service is a commitment to creating contemporary worship. Not worship that aligns with the cliched definition of contemporary, but worship that was, like that of John and Charles, relevant to the time in which it was held. We can’t get there by emulating the success of other churches.

We must create that success ourselves.