Coincidence or God? Lost In-Laws

This is my last coincidence story for now. The car keys made me scratch my head and the drunk uncle incident made me wonder about God’s involvement in coincidences, but this encounter actually helped Jenell and I make a major life decision. Bear with me, this one requires a little back story.

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In December of 2007 Jenell and the kids and I had flown out from Columbus, Ohio to visit my parents in San Diego. One night they told us to go out and have fun, just the two of us, so we decided to drive up PCH and find a restaurant. We weren’t very familiar with the area, so we just headed north.

We soon found ourselves passing through Carlsbad village, a collection of beachside shops and restaurants, and Jenell said, “Oh, I think this is where my brother’s shop was!”

Over ten years before Jenell and I were living in Utah when she and her half-brother, Adrian, first made contact. They always knew of each other, but never met. Somehow Adrian’s wife tracked down Jenell and reached out, calling her one day. He was in his early twenties, newly married, and curious about the sister he’d never known. They formed a bit of a relationship over the phone and soon we were inviting them to come to Utah for a visit.

They spent a weekend with us. It was a amazing to see this person who in so many ways resembled Jenell – in appearance, mannerisms, and even sense of humor. More so for Jenell, who had been raised an only child. They connected instantly.

Adrian talked about the retail business he’d just started back in California, and we talked about our dreams for ministry. We talked about kids, about marriage, and, of course, about God. Adrian was an atheist and his wife Stephanie was dabbling in other kinds of spirituality, so they were a little unsettled to learn that we were in Christian ministry. It wasn’t long before we were chatting about religion and God, but the discussion remained friendly – even if it grew serious at times.

When the weekend ended we said our goodbyes and sent them back to California. Adrian and Jenell traded phone calls for the next year or so, but we both moved and changed numbers soon afterward and eventually lost contact. Jenell was always grateful for that visit, but sad about losing the relationship too.

All of these memories came flooding back ten years later as we drove through Carlsbad Village that night. We wondered aloud about Adrian and Stephanie: Did they still live in the area? Was Adrian’s business here? We talked about how nice it would be to reconnect.

We kept driving up PCH, looking for a decent restaurant, all the way to Camp Pendleton at the end of Oceanside. Nothing looked good, so we turned around and headed back to Carlsbad where we’d seen a Mexican food place that seemed promising. We parked, left our names at the crowded adobe-style restaurant, and were told it would be about 30 minutes.

So, we walked. And prayed.

We were in the throes of a big decision, pretty sure God was leading us to plant a church…but where? How? Our trip to San Diego was, in part, an excursion to see if God might be calling us back there. Was this the place? How would we know?

We walked around the Village, talking through it all and praying out loud, “God, show us what your will is? If this is where you want us, make it clear.” That’s when I saw it. Across the street.

A Starbucks.

“Let’s cross the street,” I said earnestly. “I think God is leading us over there.”

Jenell snickered.

As we made our way to the Starbucks we kept praying, “Show us Lord. Show us something.” We were so engrossed in our talking and praying we nearly ran into a small group of people walking the opposite direction. We managed to thread past each other without incident, until one of them turned back suddenly and said, “Jenell?”

We both turned and looked at the woman who’d called Jenell’s name. I didn’t recognize her. And I could tell by the look on Jenell’s face that she didn’t either. Slightly amused, I waited to see how she would handle it.

“Uhhh” Jenell mused, trying desperately to make the connection. Finally, she gave up, “do I know you?”

“I’m your sister-in-law!” The woman said.

Now I was confused. Sister-in-law? Was this woman crazy? My brother and his wife lived in Stockton, and she’s not…then it clicked. She did look familiar. I glanced to her left, and there, eyes wide and mouth agape, stood Jenell’s brother Adrian. They were older, but it was definitely them.

Everyone freaked a little – except the couple with Adrian and Stephanie who stood off to the side looking every bit as awkward as they felt. We invited them all to dinner with us, but the other couple had to get back home. Adrian and Stephanie joined us.

At dinner, Jenell said, “Wow, I can’t believe you guys still live in the area after all these years!”

“Oh, we don’t,” said Stephanie.

“We live about an hour away, in Temecula,” said Adrian.

“We haven’t been here for years,” added Stephanie. “We hardly get out these days with the kids. I don’t even know why we came here tonight. We never really come back this way anymore.”

“Don’t you have a business here?” Asked Jenell.

“Oh no,” laughed Adrian. “That didn’t last long.” He switched subjects quickly; something else was on his mind. “I have to tell you guys, that weekend in Utah changed our lives.”

We blinked. “What do you mean?” Jenell asked.

“Well, we became Christians because of you.”

We just stared, unbelieving.

“Oh, we’re like totally Christians” Stephanie emphasized. “Adrian even thought he wanted to be a pastor for a while.”

“It’s true” he said, chuckling a little. “I even went to bible college for a while.”

“But, you were an atheist,” I said. “How did that happen?”

“It was you guys,” he continued. “We just couldn’t get over how different you were. You didn’t judge us or pressure us, but you had this passion for God and life that we wanted for ourselves. It didn’t happen right away. We came back and time passed, but sooner or later we started looking for a church where we could find that same thing. Eventually we became Christians.”

We talked for long time, catching up on each others families – nieces and nephews that had never met, jobs and careers, causes and passions. We talked of the joys of discovering God and fellowship, and the disappointments that come along with church too.

It was a real gift to us, in more ways than one. It turns out they’re amazing people who are doing amazing things. And we get to hang out now (see the pics above from Father’s Day this year). Not only was it a gift to hear – all those years later – that we’d made some kind of difference in their lives, but we took it to be a genuine sign that God was confirming our sense of being led back to California, and while we didn’t base our decision solely on that encounter (not even close), the truth is, it was a factor.

We asked God to show us something, and He gave us something instead; more than we could ever have imagined.

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Was it God or coincidence? How can we know the difference?

Technorati Tags: Coincidence, Free Will, sovereignty, Stories

Coincidence or God? Drunk Uncle

I have two more coincidence stories to tell. Honestly, my response to the car keys incident was plain-old, head-scratching bewilderment. Nothing more.

But this next encounter made me wonder. (Yes, I’ve changed some of the names).

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One cool summer evening the phone on our bedside table rang late at night. Jenell and I both jerked straight up in bed, immediately gripped with anxiety: Was someone hurt? Had there been an accident?

I snatched the phone from its cradle, “Hello!”

“Hi, yes, uh this is Robert Smith an I need to talk to someone about my bill.”

It was man’s voice. Older. Unrecognizable to me but recognizably intoxicated. Lascivious music loitered in the background and voices crowded the middle distance.

“Excuse me?” I said, “your bill?”

He jumped on my question: “Yes! My bill. I need to talk to someone about my bill!”

“What bill?”

“What bill?” He mocked with disgust. “What do you think. My phone bill.” He lamented to someone over his shoulder, “Jesus, what the hell is wrong with this person?”

“I don’t know who you are and I have nothing to do with your phone bill.” I flirted with hanging up, but somehow I felt he needed to understand he’d called the wrong number. Mostly, I just didn’t want him to call back. “I’m afraid you’ve called the wrong -”

“I already told you, this is Robert Smith. Just look up my account. You guys fucked up my bill and I need to straighten it out. Right now!”

My wife could hear the yelling from the phone. She looked at me, questioning. I rolled my eyes helplessly and shook my head, letting her know it was nothing serious.

He was peppering his tirade with more profanity now. He was completely wasted, and emboldened by the alcohol to swing for the fences. Soon he would unleash all his phone-company-frustrations upon the uncooperative employee at the other end of the line. Me. I halfway sympathized, but also realized that it would continue to escalate. So I switched tactics.

“Alright Mr. Smith, my apologies, I’m going to take care of that bill for you.”

“It’s about fuckin’ time! Jesus…” he muttered.

“Can I have your phone number please? Starting with the area code?”

“Yeah, it’s 909-555-5151.”

909? I thought to myself. That’s from Riverside, California. What are the chances someone from my hometown would call a wrong number and get me in Utah? Weird.

“And where are you calling from?”

“Where am I calling from? What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I just need it for my records, sir.”

“Uh…okay. I’m calling from a payphone at a bar in Victorville.”

Victorville? I had lots of family in Victorville. This was getting suspicious.

“Okay,” I said, “give me a second to pull up your account on the computer.”

“Great.” He was calm now. Satisfied and vindicated. He started talking again to the man over his shoulder about a woman across the bar, and the things he’d like to do to her. They giggled wickedly. That’s when I realized he was with a friend. Maybe someone less drunk than himself?

“Okay Mr Smith, I have your account in front of me and I can definitely clear these erroneous charges, but I need one more thing from you first.

“Great, what’s that?”

“Are you there with someone?”

“Excuse me?”

“At the bar. Are you with a friend?”

“What the f-…what does that have to do with my phone bill?” He was ramping up again.”Yeah I’m here with a friend. I’m here with my buddy Terry. He just got out of jail tonight and we’re freaking celebrating! Is that alright with you? Goddamn…” he said away from the phone again, “You believe this guy?”

“Could you put him on the phone please?”

“What? Excuse me?”

“Sir, can I please talk to your friend Terry?” I was still being polite.

“I don’t know why the hell you need to talk to -”

“Mr Smith,” I became stern, “do you want me to take care of your phone bill or not?”

He demurred, “Well, yes.”

“All right then. If you let me talk to your friend Terry I can erase this bill for you. If you don’t, you’re going to be stuck with these charges.”

“All right,” he gave in, “Jeeez, fine.” Away from the phone I heard, “He wants to talk to you…” followed by muffled protests. Then, “I don’t know, he just does. I need this taken care of, I can’t afford this bill. Just talk to him!”

The phone shuffled for a second. Then another older man’s voice tentatively said, “Hello?”

I recognized this voice.

“Terry?” I ask.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Terry Jones?” I pressed. I already knew the answer.

“Uhhh, yes. Who’s this?”

“Terry, this is Jason Coker. Your nephew.”

“What the…Jason? What are you doing on Robert’s phone?”

“He called me Terry.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know Terry,” I said, using his name as a punctuation mark. Do you know why your friend would call me here in Utah? From a bar in Victorville? After midnight?”

“Oh shit…” He trailed off.

Jenell was sitting up fully now, staring at me, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “Terry,” I called into the phone, trying to bring him back to the moment. “Did you give Robert my phone number?”

“No. No, no. Swear-to-God Jason, I didn’t give him your number. I don’t even have your number.” Off-phone Terry hissed at his friend, “Robert! You called my nephew. Jason. In Utah. He’s a PASTOR!” He let that last word sink in, as if he’d just unveiled the most dangerous secret in the universe.

“Then how did he get my number Terry?”

“Oh my God Jason,” he was back. “I know what this is.”

“Oh? What is it Terry?”

“This is GOD. Trying to tell me something.”

“Terry…”

“No, I’m serious Jason. Oh my God. I shouldn’t even be here Jason. I just got out of jail!”

“Terry, I don’t know if…”

“I get it Jason. Loud and clear. I get the message. I’m so sorry man, but I get the message.”

“Well, alright,” I said. “You take care of yourself.”

“I will. Seriously. I promise.”

“And tell your friend that I can’t help him with his phone bill.” With that, I hung up.

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So, God or coincidence? Is there a more likely explanation? Do you think Terry and Robert were telling the truth?

Technorati Tags: Coincidence, Free Will, sovereignty, Stories

Coincidence or God? Car Keys

I’m fascinated by stories of coincidence. Most Christians have no trouble attributing serendipitous events to the providence of God, but for me it’s just not that simple. I’m a big believer in free will, so these incidents are both an intellectual challenge and a real source of marvel for me.

I’m going to tell a few of my own stories of coincidence. Mostly just for fun, but also because I’d love to prompt some discussion about these kinds of encounters and maybe read some of your stories too.

So, here’s a small example:

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I thoroughly enjoyed living in Park City, Utah for eleven years. As a youth pastor, skiing and snowboarding with teenagers was my job (I highly recommend it).

One time I was skiing at Park City Mountain Resort with a friend. It was a huge powder day and we were having crazy fun carving big turns in the deep, fluffy snow. We came to the bottom of a run and stopped at the chair lift grinning from ear to ear, when suddenly I realized my jacket pocket – the one with my car keys in it – was wide open and hanging inside out like a gutted fish. My keys were gone – lost somewhere in the 4 feet of snow on the mountain.

Of course I had to call my wife and have her bring a spare key to my truck so I could drive it back home, but the real bummer was all the other keys I would have to have made: house keys, mailbox keys, church keys…huge bummer.

I put it off as long as I could.

One week later (to the day) my dad was visiting from California. Naturally, I took him skiing. At some point in the day we were flying down the very same run, and when we reached the bottom I stopped in the big crowd of skiiers queueing up for the lift and said to to my dad, “Man, I was skiing here last week and came down that very same run and lost my keys somewhere in the powder. I was a huge bummer.”

Just then a man came flying down the hill and skidded to a stop about twenty feet away. He stabbed his poles in the snow, pulled off his goggles, reached into his pocket, and yelled to the crowd, “Did anybody lose a set of keys?!”

There, from his outstretched fingers, dangled my keys. I couldn’t believe it.

“Those are mine!” I yelled over to him. My dad looked at me unbelieving, and said, “No way. Shut up!” He thought I’d set the whole thing up. It took me 15 minutes to persuade him that I was telling the truth and that he’d witnessed the unfolding of a bizarre coincidence.

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So, what do you think? Is that God? Why or why not?

Technorati Tags: Coincidence, Providence, sovereignty, Stories

The Evils of Drug Use in a Nazarene Bible Class

Let me set the stage for you: Private Christian school at a Midwestern Nazarene mega-church, Bible class project: Make a video infomercial warning kids against the dangers of drug use. What grade would you give them?

(BTW: These are friends of my daughter Savannah – this is her previous school):

Technorati Tags: Christianity, Drugs, Videos

Mumford and Sons on Letterman

So, last week I met a new friend in Houston named James. He gave me a bit of hell in the Q&A portion of my panel for “unfairly picking on Martin Luther” in my paper concerning the development of the autonomous self through the theological validation of usury, and wanted to know if I didn’t think Luther’s contributions in that way couldn’t be seen as part of the Hegelian notion of progress. I said “no” – I think Luther just caved to pressure from his new patrons, the emerging German princes.

Anyway, I came to know James a bit better later on and found out that not only is he brighter than me, he’s incredibly talented as well (he’s currently writing a screenplay) and he’s royalty. Sort of. His mum and dad (John and Eleanor Mumford) are legends in the Vineyard and the heads of the Vineyard Association in the U.K.

Well, apparently, they’re an unbelievably talented family, because his brother Marcus heads up a band – Mumford and Sons – that made their American network debut last night on Letterman. Check em out:

Technorati Tags: Letterman, Mumford and Sons, Mumfords, Music

From L.A. To Vegas

(I’ve been slowly moving archived posts from an old blog to this one. This is a two-part story of a plane flight I took not so long ago.)

I’ve always thought those stories of pastors evangelizing people on planes were fascinating. You know how it goes: The good-natured pastor ends up seated next a divorcee, or maybe a young couple “living in sin.” The pastor introduces himself, delivers the gospel, brings them to repentance, unburdens their guilt, and cures their souls of dysfunction, all before touchdown on the destination tarmac.

Personally, I hate talking to people on the plane.

As an introvert I’d rather have my toenails scooped out with a spoon than break the ice for an hour or two with a stranger on a plane. It’s not that I dislike people. Sometimes I don’t. It’s not that I don’t care. I pretty much always do. I just don’t care about shallow things, and that’s what happens on a plane. Shallow. Tortuously long volleys of stilted banter about weather, sports, hobbies, travel and other insipid close-quarter glad-handing.

Ugh.

Sometimes when I sense an irrepressible “talker” I charge like a sanguine Rhino, all horns and happy swagger, snorting intense personal questions at breakneck velocity, pressing frighteningly toward the ecstatic landscape of life’s horrific uncertainties. Tell me everything. Generally folks don’t receive that very well. That’s the idea. Break the American social contract of aesthetic minutia and people clam right up. It’s a sacred contract. Sometimes it even works with friends and family. Trekking much further afield threatens most people’s lovingly cultivated gardens of unfettered freedom – freedom to think and believe and do whatever the hell we want. Nobody wants to lose that.

So I read.

I don’t know about you, but the way I do it reading is an altogether different sort of dialogue: It’s an orderly, controlled, intentional dialectic with someone whose ideas are intellectual, deeply meaningful, and unusually well-considered (we’re talking the ideal book). It’s like conversation…for Calvinists. Plus I can interrupt the author and scribble all over his face if I disagree. Real live people tend not to appreciate that. Michael Servitus certainly didn’t.

So recently I climb onto a plane – a short hop to from L.A. to Vegas – and immediately pry open my latest conversation partner (The Starfish and the Spider, great book btw). Soon a woman slides into the seat next to me followed by a man, both in their late twenties and apparently not together judging by the informal courtesies exchanged during individualized pre-flight rituals.

I take the opportunity to transmit psychic morse-code: don’t talk to me…deeply engrossed in book…extremely focused…barely aware of you…nothing personal…completely uninterested. They get the message. Not a word. I cease broadcasting and ease back into the cockpit.

The steward bangs the plane door shut and the woman jumps straight from her tail as though a mini-ejector in her seat is wired directly to the latch. Suddenly she’s hyper-ventilating like a scared rabbit.

“Oh my God!” she says just above a whisper.

Oh my God, I think, ignoring her.

“Are you afraid of flying?” asks the man. He seems genuinely concerned. Good. She has a comforter. Maybe they’re both single. Maybe they’re MFEO. The last thing I need is a case of derailed kismet haunting my karma. Better to keep quiet.

“Oh, no-oh-oh-oh,” she stutter-laughs, “I mean…uhhh maybe a little, but I’ll be okay.”

Just as I’m telling myself her histrionics will subside after take-off the tired old plane shudders from the belly up, lumbering down the taxi-way, and the woman somehow shoves her entire head completely between her knees. Muffled primordial spasms erupt from her throat. I am amazed. I’m still trying to figure out the maneuver when she comes up for air. Apparently God is still on her mind

“Oh-my-GOD-oh-my-GOD-oh-my-GOD…”

She’s really emphasizing that name. Suddenly I’m wondering why we refer to that sort of thing as using the Lord’s name “in vain.” It doesn’t seem useless to her. I’m fascinated. I’m thinking through a more generous theology of “spontaneous utterances” when she starts barking. Well, more like a coughing-bark, actually like she’s clearing the fear from her throat. The man on the other side of her glances at me nervously: Your turn.

Uh-uh, I flash back. Determined not to be shaken I dig a foxhole in the paragraphs of my book. I hunker under piles of shoveled prose. Weather the storm, I tell myself. It can’t get worse.

“Oh my God, I think I need a barf bag,” she chokes, rifling through the seat back as we finish taxiing toward the runway.

To be continued.

Technorati Tags: Evangelism, Plane Flights, Stories

Top Ten: 2009 Pastoralia Posts

I know, I know: I’m way behind the curve. Most self-respecting bloggers did this sort of thing the last week of December. Whatever, better late then…well, you know. Here are my top ten most visited posts of 2009:

1. The Not-God of I-35 and John Piper

2. The Arrogant Bastard Church

3. The Mega-Freeloader Church

4. Birds, the Bible, and Broken Down Cars

5. How Eddie Gibbs Ruined My Life

6. I’m Calling B.S. On That

7. Todd Hunter and the Re-Branding of Christianity

8. The Body of Christ, Stolen For You

9. The Challenge of Community

10. Congratulations, You’re Postmodern

Technorati Tags: 2009, Lists, Top 10

Church as a Costume

It’s fun to dress up.

When we celebrate Halloween or go to masquerade parties, dressing up becomes a way to explore our inner desires. When I was a kid my best friend and I once dressed up like Ninjas for Halloween, complete with fake throwing stars and swords. We stole out at midnight and scaled neighborhood trees, hacked random bushes, and kicked and chopped at each other savagely.

Of course, neither of us actually knew any martial arts fighting techniques – mastering any martial art requires years of intense devotion and practice, a price we certainly weren’t willing to pay – but wrapped in black gear and brandishing fake weapons made us feel like the real thing, and we bloodied each other all the more for it. There’s something about dressing up and pretending that ramps up our short term enthusiasm and it’s far easier than becoming the real thing. It’s easier in the same sense that buying new running shoes is easier than becoming genuinely fit. Sometimes we buy these things because they make us feel the part for a little while. Continue reading…

Technorati Tags: Church, Costuming, David Allen, Jesus, Matthew, Tools

Congratulations, You're Postmodern

About two years ago I was at one of Savannah’s softball games. At the time she was a freshman at a very conservative private Christian school in Columbus, OH, nestled affectionately in the lap of a very large Nazarene church. As a freshman she didn’t play much – except to pinch run from time to time – so, as I often did, I brought a book. On this particular day it was James K.A. Smith’s, Who’s Afraid of Post-Modernism?

At one point Savannah skipped over from the dugout and sat next to me for a few minutes so we could make fun of the other team. After a pause she snatched my book and looked over the cover.

Wrinkling her brow, she said, “What’s Postmodernism?”

“It’s a loose school of philosophy reacting against the underpinnings of the Enlightenment,” I deadpanned.

“What’s ‘underpinnings?’”

“Basic principles.”

“Ooh, Ooh,” she popped with sudden excitement, “I know what the Enlightenment is!”

“Oh?” I said, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Continue reading…

Technorati Tags: Books, Family, James K.A. Smith, Postmodernism, Savannah

Eating Our Own Egos

I’ve been a pastor for nearly 14 years in a denomination that is known the world over for its innovation in worship music. But there’s a dirty little secret that not many people talk about: hardly anybody in church sings anymore.

And it’s not just us.

I’ve been to dozens of churches in different denominations (including my own) and there’s not much singing going on in any of them. In fact, it’s not just the congregations. Last year I was at a regional pastor’s conference where for two straight days worship bands took the stage morning, noon, and night and blasted us with heartfelt songs…and very few people sang. We watched, we tapped our feet, we clapped politely after every song (I hate that), and we smiled. But hardly anyone sang. And these were pastors.

I have to admit, personally I have been completely bored with Sunday morning worship for well over 12 years. By and large I think the evangelical brand of worship is an inch wide and an inch deep and, even worse, our dependence on technology results in the mediation of genuine experience – and video-venue churches only exacerbate that problem.

Lots of folks want to blame the decline of congregational singing on shallow pop-songs and amplified music, but let’s be honest: the problem of lackluster worship began long before electric guitars. Archaic hymns weren’t connecting with emerging generations in the 60′s and hymns connect even less with uninitiated emerging generations today. They may learn to appreciate hymns (as I have), but it takes time to integrate hymns meaningfully into our context. Besides, there’s nothing inherently virtuous about songs written before the 20th century.

Some think the solution involves raising the bar for “good songs” or “good worship leaders.” I’m all for doing things well, but what people typically mean is that we need to ratchet up the skill level. That sort of subjective elitism will only lead to more of the professional/amateur split that already threatens the integrity of the Western Church at large.

Others vilify the Jesus-is-my-boyfriend brand of worship songs which make Christ the intimate object of our emotional expression. There’s an entire chapter devoted to this in a well-known missional church book. The author’s rant toward intimacy-orientated contemporary worship is so antagonistic that it borders on homophobia (seriously, I was embarrassed for him when I read it).

But, as bad as contemporary worship can get, I think we ought to admit that it has done much to revitalize the faith of (probably) millions of people all over the world. In fact, by far the most participatory, passionate, powerful congregational singing I’ve joined, hands down (no pun intended), was in contemporary-worship settings. There’s nothing inherently wrong with emotionally expressing our love and devotion to God through contemporary, first-person songs. Emotions ought to be part of our offering.

It’s true that many old hymns are theologically rich compared to many new worship songs, but we tend to compare the best of the former with the worst of the latter and pat ourselves on the back for being theologically astute. Moreover, I think many people simply feel hymns are theologically richer for strictly aesthetic reasons. Archaic language tends to seem smarter because it’s less accessible – when in fact it’s just archaic (people think the King James Bible is theologically richer for the exact same reason).

Usually, when it comes down to it, these perspectives are mostly about taste and temperament. We want our worship to look like us (gregarious, dignified, upper-class, blue-collar, hip-hop, alternative, contemplative, country, hipster…take your pick). When it looks like me it doesn’t threaten me.

There’s a lot going on with this dilemma, but I’m going to risk oversimplifying by saying I think it’s fundamentally a failure to teach what worship is through our church praxis. Our understanding of what worship actually is must be followed harmoniously (which is where evangelicals fail) and contextually (which is where inherited traditions fail) by the way we actually practice worship. What we do teaches more powerfully than what we say. When we attract people to a passively-received spectacle, we’re teaching them that worship is spectatorship – so we shouldn’t be surprised when they become passive spectators. As Bill Kinnon recently observed, What we win them with is what we win them to.

Good teaching is a relatively slow process of discerning not only what people need, but also what they already have. It’s like a pot-luck. The good teacher’s job is to set a table where everyone can enjoy a full meal because of what everyone brings. Moreover, what we’re teaching (namely, Christian worship) is not an event or a gathering – it is an ongoing life of this very kind of meal, where the first gift is offered by God (demonstrated via Eucharist) and the offering of oneself to God in return through the diverse gifts of the faith community (which are also given by God) is the only reasonable response (Rom 12). It’s logically obvious that at this kind of meal and in this kind of life everyone must pitch in (1 Cor 14). Hence, this kind of worship is best taught by living that way intentionally, over a long period of time with other people. Our gatherings should represent that same slow-cooked, pot-luck life.

However, from a church leadership perspective, there’s a very real temptation to abdicate that kind of participatory worship-teaching in favor of entertainment because entertainment can quickly draw a crowd, and crowds can be inspired to give money – and money is what makes the world church go round (isn’t it?). We never say that out loud, but we always rationalize it. We think we can’t sustain ourselves without the kind of revenue that entertainment promises. We’re addicted to the drug of conspicuous success (bigger, better, stronger, faster) and we no longer believe that God’s daily provision of gifts, given through the faithful, will result in conspicuous success – and it probably won’t. Therefore, we’ve taken control of God’s gifts by converting them to cash so we can spend them however we please.

But there’s another dimension to teaching, and, behind that, another dimension to the preference for entertainment-based worship.

On the last night of that lackluster pastor’s conference, a well-known worship leader took the stage and did something radically different: he told us what to do. He coached and exhorted us through our apathy until eventually the place came alive and people brought their sacrifices publicly. There is a general squeamishness today among missional leaders about being too directive – and for good reason. For far too long the church has been enamored with a coercive posture of power. But good teaching also recognizes when to be directive and correct mistakes.

We’ve confused individualized liberty with authentic worship and the result is entire congregations of people who are isolated in a crowd: “Good morning! Here at church XYZ we believe you’re free to worship any way you like. Just do whatever feels comfortable.” Well, frankly, that’s a leadership cop-out. It’s bad teaching and it isn’t even remotely theologically true. When we worship this way, we aren’t feasting at the table of the Lord on gifts of grace that flow from divine abundance, we’re merely eating our own egos. Like modern consumers of fast food, we’re getting spiritually fat while simultaneously dying of malnutrition.

Down deep, our worship dilemma isn’t about the songs, the style, the instruments, the amplification, or even the loss of connectedness to our past traditions. Those things are important and should be used appropriately in harmony with the best theology. But the core problem is us, not our structures or systems. We’ll always take every opportunity we can to break every well-intentioned system we create. The problem is the condition of our hearts. We need to learn to lay down our egos and offer ourselves as living sacrifices. We need to surrender and submit to the will of the ultimate other (that’s the literal meaning of coming to “the alter”).

That’s hard, vulnerable, and humbling. After all, when it comes down to it, we’re all the students in this classroom. Sometimes we’re leaders and sometimes we’re followers – but we’re always beggars at the table. At the end of the day it’s easier serve entertainment because that way we all get to keep our egos.

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