Where to Find Idiots: Thoughts on Marriage and Church Relationships

I just finished Elaine Miller's book, We All Married Idiots, and discovered that, sure enough, she's right. David Bogdan married an idiot. Chances are good that you did, too.

When (God's) People Disappoint

Some time ago a woman told me she’d decided to leave her church (for what seemed to me a silly reason). “Only three people had the gumption to call and say they’d miss me,” she lamented over the phone. “I’m so disappointed!”

I Just Want to Be a Mom--Sincerely, the Preacher

I never signed up, exactly, to become an author and to plant a church at the same time, all the while mothering four kids and trying to be a good wife. In fact, I’ve spent years judging others for having too many irons in the fire (confession time!). Suddenly, I’m meeting publishing deadlines and preparing sermons and hoping my kids have eaten breakfast.

Joyce Meyer says it’s almost become fashionable to be too busy. If that’s true, I’ll dress for comfort, thank you very much. But these days, it seems I have no choice.

Some of my friends have expressed envy—they’d love to have a book coming out, a ministry pedestal and the like. It is to those friends I must continue confessing the truth:

We're Starting a Church and We're Crazy

Cornell Street

I took this photo on a recent road trip through Cleveland. I wanted to capture the architectural beauty of this church before nightfall. I didn't notice the name on the street sign, illuminated by the setting sun, until I uploaded the photo later.

How many of us can make full sense of the road our lives have taken? Three years of grad school at one of the world's top universities followed by three years of unemployment and counting....

Church Mutt

I once heard the darling Margaret Feinberg refer to herself as a “church mutt.” I can relate. My parents gave me a full range of church experience—dragging me off to “revival” meetings where I grew up in the south, and to conferences and vacation Bible schools  everywhere and any time the doors were open. As a result, I feel at home with any Bible-believing group of people. I am not denominationally pedigreed.

I am a church mutt.

Hello Halloween (Part Two)

Thanks for showing up at my door for another Halloween post.  You’ll have to decide, by the end, whether this was a trick or a treat.

Jesus, the Smelly Room, and Why I am a PIG

Picture this. You’re driving through town on a Sunday morning and the marquee outside a church reads, One Time Guest Appearance Today—Jesus Christ.  Overcome with curiosity, you go in. If He is really here, you expect to see Him in the pulpit. Even the most egocentric pastor would defer to a visiting preacher of this caliber. But Jesus isn’t there. You look around. Perhaps He’s in the audience, content to  enjoy others’ gifts and talents. But there’s no Jesus in the pews.

Church Mystery Shopper (Read this if you are a pastor or church member)

I am on an extended stay out of town and so I got to be a church visitor this morning. I chose my place of worship based on the church's website (Take note, pastors. This is how people choose a place to visit in the 21st century. Your church website will be one's first impression.). It had a clean, professional appearance, and I figured their style is probably as up-to-date as their calendar of events. Another selling point for me was that they offered a coffee-and-donuts hour prior to service (because face it, people need to talk, and food has facilitated talking since the beginning of time). I put on my jeans and drove in a torrential rain to a place in the country that looked like Cracker Barrel. It was a flat-roofed warehouse with cafe tables set up outside that I imagined were used in good weather. I've been alone for almost three days, so I was looking forward to conversation like it was a plate of Homemade Chicken n' Dumplins waiting in there for me.

What I found were four school-age boys sitting against the wall in the only chairs available while their parents rushed around making preparations for the service. The coffee lady welcomed me with a "free-for-visitors" coffee and donuts commercial and walked away. I helped myself and soon realized that I had hydroplaned across flooded intersections to stand in the middle of a room caffeinating myself alone. When one of the boys got up I took a chair and read through my bulletin. The word "community" was scattered all over it, like little C-shaped grubs curled up to die. By the fiftieth checking of my watch the saints came marching in, about ten minutes until starting time.

The doors to the sanctuary opened and I took a seat in the middle, in front of some ladies that looked promisingly conversant. No one greeted me. For a moment I wanted to leave and drive back into town to the church with a steeple, vespers and senior citizens. But then I looked across the aisle and saw a young woman sitting alone--the only one in her row. Her hands were folded on her lap and she looked down. I had a horrifying thought: What if she's a visitor too? I walked across the room faster than Bill Hybels and introduced myself. "Mary" was a sweet, shy twenty-something girl with a welcoming smile revealing teeth that hung like yellow stalactites. She'd been a regular there since the church's beginning.

Announcements dragged on for twenty minutes (Apparently the congregation is illiterate and needs someone to read their bulletins to them).  When the people were told to "greet one another in that wonderful love of Jesus" I rushed to the ladies' room to pee out my Dunkin' Donuts and make it back to my seat in time to be welcomed by someone. I didn't miss anything.

The music was fresh and invigorating--an acoustic guitar and bongo drums backdropped by the rain falling outside the open windows. The preaching was even better--perhaps the best I'd heard in years. Conviction was so heavy I felt like crawling down the aisle and laying myself at the altar. Take James McDonald with a sweet dash of Billy Graham and turn him loose in a 40 x 80 warehouse and that's what you've got.

This place should have been bursting at the seams. Instead it had grown to a whopping sixty people in fifteen years, trying to be seeker-friendly while forgetting how to be people-friendly.

After the service, a middle-aged couple asked my name and where I was from. They were sincerely interested in getting to know me. Thank God they showed up. Otherwise, the overall feel of the place was that no one really cared about visitors beyond the obligatory, "Hi, how are you?" For all they knew, I could have been on the brink of suicide. I hate to admit it, but if I had been a non-believer visiting there this morning, I may not have walked into another church for a long time, if ever.  

Pastors, laymen--this is a wake-up call.

(Note: If you are not a believer and are thinking, "I knew it. They are no different than anyone else"--well, you'd be right. Romans 3:10 says "There is none righteous, no not one." Jesus said that a physician comes for the sick, not the healthy. The church is made of sick people in recovery; we are in the process of recovering from the fall to become the original loving selves we were meant to be (i.e., Jesus-like). Some are further along on the journey than others.)

I Corinthians 13 for Evangelicals, Charismatics and Otherwise Very Nice People

Though I speak in tongues and prophesy with shocking accuracy… though I fiercely defend truth and valiantly guard good doctrine… though I silence the skeptic with skillful debate and bedazzle Christian minds with Biblical insights about love—but have not love—I am a bothersome ringing in God’s ears.

Though I weep for the nations and intercede for cities… though I have faith that scatters demons, lengthens  limbs or brings multitudes to their knees… though my days be marked by fasting, my nights with fervent prayer and my years by serving on plague-ravaged soil—but have not love—to God I am nobody impressive.

Though I give lavishly to survivors of earthquakes,  passionately pursue justice for the enslaved, care for our precious earth, fight tirelessly for the rights of the unborn… or the hated; I have helped others, as I should, and that is good. But if I have not love—it does not get me an ounce of credit with God.

Love suffers long and silently under unfair assumptions and cruel accusations—never feeling the need to defend or explain.

Love freely expresses genuine happiness over another’s success.

Love does not casually slip her good deeds into conversation.

Love prefers to others-promote.

Love cannot remember yesterday’s insensitive remarks. It has forgotten last year’s rude comment.

Love is not paranoid or suspicious; there is no fear in love.

Love is not quick to correct.

Love can take correction.

Love’s first response to injury is compassion—not exposure.

Love is crushed at the news of an enemy’s failure.

Love puts up with immature babble. 

Love patiently bears with incessant whining, yet is not manipulated by it.

Love is gracious under unprofessionalism, never feeling the need to “help” by pointing out where improvement is needed.  Yet it knows when to confront with fearless grace.

Love is not short with the telemarketer or stingy with the slow waiter.

Love does not get even with the in-law; it dares to get flowers instead.

Love spends itself caring for the aged mother, never mindful of lost opportunities.

Love holds close the distant teenager. It keeps holding tight around rigid arms.

Love never fails.  Philosophies, programs, causes, books, lifestyles, facelifts, ministries, sermons, bailouts, heroes, romances, cash, adventures, diet plans, dating profiles, miracle drugs, business ventures, spouses, children, parents and friends may disappoint, fail and vanish away.

The sum total of all of our wisdom and knowledge combined is but a speck of dust compared to what we don’t yet know, but need to know. It will be done away with, when that which is all we ever needed comes to us.

It is time to put away childish thinking, living, behaving—childish loving.

One day we will see clearly the essence of love. We will see Him face to face, and we will know ourselves  and each other as He has always  known us.

People talk of the greatness of faith and hope. But one day there will be no more need for those. Only love will remain. For it is the greatest.


(See the original I Corinthians 13 for the truly inspired version.)

Charismaniac Attack

My ideal church would meet in a gym, allow bagels and jeans during the sermon, and make skeptics feel right at home. It would not allow the kind of person who attacked Gail Tipton* one Sunday in the early 1980's.

Gail is a fiery Baltimorean preacher with a college education and a distaste for nonprofessionalism. So when her pastor invited a cornfed woman from Kentucky as the guest speaker for morning worship, Gail folded her arms. This hick had runs in her stockings, coffee stains on her blouse, and very unbrushed teeth. But that wasn't all. At the end of a butchered sermon, the dear woman pointed to Gail and called her forward for prayer!

Gail wanted to run and hide, but instead lurched toward the front of the church and her worst fear was realized--she was about to be attacked by a charismaniac. Holy Roller Hillbilly yelled, spitting out every "s" in Jesus' mighty name, pushed and shoved unkempt fingers on Janet's head, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in her belly, in her belly, and in her belly! She shundalah-ed, roared, bound and finally loosed poor Gail to her seat. Janet went home and took a bath, half ready to throw in the Pentecostal towel and become a Methodist.

I relate to Gail. The left side of my brain frequently complains to God about the wackos in His family--the dreaming, angel-chasing, sign-seeking, shaking, quaking folks that clutter my would-be tidy Sunday service and logic-loving mind.

Three months after the quack attack Gail was rushed to the emergency room with unexplained internal bleeding. Her abdomen was swollen and she was close to death. Lying on the hospital bed in desperation, Gail silently cried out to God for help. Wanting to not make a spectacle before her roommate (polished as she was, you know), the frail woman grabbed two IV poles connected to bags of blood, and inched her way into the bathroom. She shut the door, leaned over the sink, and bargained with God:

"Do you remember that dear, sweet (very dear, very sweet) woman from Kentucky that laid hands on my stomach a few months ago, and prayed for healing before I knew I needed it? Well if you answer her prayer, I promise I'll never make fun of one of your servants again."

The next day Gail went home, healthy, leaving the doctors befuddled as to what had caused her hemorraging. She's been healthy ever since.

Gail spoke in our church--our little charismatic church--last Sunday. The night before I had talked late into the night with my dad about my disillusionment with the "containters" in which God stores His presence--people like the little lady from Kentucky. I had no idea that the next morning's topic would be Treasures and Containers. As Gail spoke so passionately and eloquently about the need to value the container (God's people) for the treasure (God) that they hold, I wept.

How many times had I reacted like leperous Naaman when Elijah told him to dip in the muddy Jordan seven times (II Kings 5)? It took the same humility for Captain Naaman to receive his healing that it will for me to receive what God might say and do through the sometimes muddled waters of "spirit-filled" church. Containers aren't perfect, but the treasure within, is.

(Note: I happen to attend a charismatic church, but consider myself interdenominational, or  nondenominational. I feel at home in any church where the Bible is preached and Jesus is our common ground.)

*name has been changed

Church at a Bar

I was discussing spiritual things with a Jehovah's Witness several years ago and she made a comment that caught me off guard:

"You Christians are always bickering over petty issues. You're hopelessly divided over doctrines and methods. You've got your splits, cliques and denominational walls. Who would want to be a part of that?"

Ouch.

Having nothing to say and knowing she was right, I changed the subject.

I wish I could have known back then to say this: There is a difference between uniformity and what she claimed to have in her church--unity.

Uniformity depends on everyone seeing eye to eye, agreeing on all points of the law, worshipping the same way and holding to all the same convictions. Been there, done that.

True unity, on the other hand, is not dependent on any of the above. In fact, the more diverse the crowd, the more meaningful the "unity of the Spirit," as described in the book of Ephesians. When believers are unified, the only common ground they need is love for our Lord Jesus. All differences fade away in the light of Who He is.

Ephesians says Jesus came to tear down the walls we put up between ourselves. While so many Christians insist on keeping those walls erected, some are choosing to keep them down. I saw evidence of this today, of all places, in a nightclub.
Passersby on route 352 in Big Flats may have wondered what was happening at Tags on this bright Sunday morning. They may have been surprised to find out that we were having---church?

Yup. If we call ourselves followers of Jesus, we should hang out in the places He did. And scripture makes it clear--he liked being with "nonnies." He had lunch in their homes and sat in their taverns. It was the religious folk who were disturbed by this habit of His.

But what I most enjoyed about this morning's gathering was not just our willingness to rub shoulders with "the world," but the fact that five churches closed their doors today and gathered together to celebrate our common thread--Jesus Christ. What made it so remarkable was the diversity in the crowd. I know most of the ministers represented, and many people in their churches. Let me tell ya, we aren't cut from the same mold. We worship, believe and baptize differently. We vary in all things color, age, education and political persuassion. Why last year even the local Rabbi and his wife joined us. If there were ever reason to raise walls, the several hundred people gathered at Tags today had them.

But our unity centered on our love for a Man Who loves us all.

The service began with a time of praise and worship, led by band members from different congregations. A dance team performed a very hip-hop rendition of "Awesome God" and then we enjoyed an inspiring message by Bob Cornwall, a man not affiliated with any church, but who travels from place to place encouraging believers to stay unified and fulfill the Great Commission. Afterward people purchased food prepared by Tags and sat around catching up on each others' lives, or getting to know one another for the first time. I looked around; people of Catholic, Methodist, Weslyan, Pentecostal, CMA and Baptist backgrounds were smiling, laughing and stuffing their faces. No one seemed to be quibbling over predestination and free will. It was a little (and quite literal, to be sure) taste of Heaven on earth. There is simply no other religion in which members can be so divided and yet united at the same time.

Then again, this isn't exactly a religion, is it? The Church is a family, a group of people in relationship. You know how your own family members can differ in points of view, yet the family name unites you. We have the same family name. What's more, because of the cross, we're blood related! I could start preaching right here.

It was suggested we send a thank you card to the owner of Tags for the free use of his facility. I hope many people follow through. It is my hope that someone looking on at this event today took note that: we are grateful for such a lovely meeting place, we left it clean, and we love one another. Who knows, maybe that girl I talked to years ago was looking on with curiosity....

I've had my fill of emerging church books for a while. They were delicious, but I have a truth ache. Time to put aside the king's delicacies and have some fruits and veggies for ten days. Please pass the Bible, with a sprinkling of Lewis, McDowell and Zacharias on the side.

Litmus Test for a Healthy House-Churcher

I recently came across a house-church website whose mission is to " inspire those whose spiritual hungers cannot be met in the conventional expressions of Christianity."

Woah there, Betsy. Who ever said anyone's spiritual hungers can be met "in the conventional expressions of Christianity?" I certainly have always known mine cannot. It's by every word that comes from His mouth. It's through my daily walk with Him, feeding on His Word.

Greg Dawkins and Bill Hybels of Willow Creek Church in Chicago have been surveying America's churches to find out whether the needs of the congregations are really being met. They found that for seekers, and new and growing Christians, the local church is doing it's job. But seasoned, mature believers are giving a different report: they are increasingly becoming dissatisfied--even dissillusioned with the local church.

Dawkins and Hybels diagnosed this problem with the fact that church leaders are not helping their people to become "self-feeders." I would agree with that. I think house churchers recognize this too, but it seems their way of dealing with it is to leave the local church and continue self-feeding.

Here's an idea: What if we "self-feeders" stayed in the nest and started feeding the baby birds (teaching them how to become self-feeders)? Oh I know God wants us to get dangerously on the edge of conventional thinking and leave the comfort and safety of reliance upon a pastor and the "system...." but try this on for size: What if we became so much "like a little child"--so "poor in spirit"--that we saw an opportunity in the local church to roll up our sleeves and get working, forgetting about whether or not our needs are being met? Just what if we started showing up to serve? I can't help but wonder if Willow's statistics would change.

None-the-less, I'm just as embarrassed by many aspects of conventional Christianity as anyone. Some days I come close to throwing in the Church towel and becoming a spiritual hippie. I'm glad people like Hybels and Dawkins (Barna and the like) are waking us up to the fact that the local church is failing miserably in a lot of ways. And I respect my brothers and sisters who choose to leave it. As for me, I choose to stay in for now, speak up and affect change. Someone's gotta!

(Sep. 2008 update) I'm not against house church. There are a lot of healthy house churches whose members are in it for the right reasons. But unfortunately, statistics show that many house churches are made up of disgruntled or disillusioned church members. Here's my litmus test for a "healthy house churcher:" Can you visit a local church at any time and feel at home with the Body of Christ? Or has it been years since you've darkened the door of a church? Is your speech about the "organization" laced with cynicism--or humility? Are your church-going friends uncomfortable bringing up the subject around you, fearing they'll be judged as being "still stuck in the institution?" Would your friends hesitate to invite you to hear a special speaker at their church--or do they shy away from the topic in order to keep peace?

On Excellence in Churches

If my "Cheesy Church" post left a bad taste in your mouth, try a bite of this.

I've been having conversations with an individual on the subject of excellence. This person and I have in common that we appreciate excellence on all levels and in all areas of life. In a word, we both hate, well, cheesiness. Sloppiness. It bugs us both when things aren't carried out in a professional manner. And church is the place where we most desire to see things done right.

However my friend and I part company when it comes down to the extent that we value so-called excellence. He recently left his church in search for a place where the leadership has it all together. I wish him luck. Actually--I give him a year. My guess? The honeymoon will eventually be over and alas, he'll be on to greener grass.

(And don't get me wrong--he has good reason to move on. The things that drive him crazy in churches and among ministers annoy me to no end.)

As I've reflected on my friend's decision to go in search of church-done-his-way, I've been asking myself these questions: What am I really after in church? Why am I there? What is and should be my--our--sole purpose in going to church week in and week out?

These questions are answered loudly and clearly every time I see a watery-eyed, broken soul drinking in truth during the adult Sunday School class. Or light-bulbs coming on as I dramatize Bible stories for the children in Kids' Church. Every time someone makes the walk to the altar and reconnects with God I'm reminded of the answer: It's not about me. It's about them.

To the little old ladies that faithfully prepare a Sunday School lesson every week, to the young youth workers who exhaust their energies in planning outreaches, and to the busy mothers who invite visitors over for Sunday dinner--thank you. Thank you for placing people above professionalism in the things you value in church. It may never get better. Some things never change. The sermons may be dry, the stage may look tacky, and the restrooms may stink. But we're all just people trying our best to keep people a priority. I really think God is far more concerned about that than getting us to sharpen up our style.

If you want to talk professional--how about being professional in the way we love each other? Isn't it a rather sloppy love that says, "I love this church and this pastor until it no longer measures up to my standards of excellence?" Contrast that attitude with "professional agape": "I love this church and this pastor because they are God's people and He loves them too." And if you really want a PhD in God's kind of love, try repeating this to yourself until it gets in your heart: "I am no better." Now that's excellence.

Cheesy Church

When I was eighteen I had a friend whose father was just starting his own church. I remember the tiny metal warehouse he rented in which to hold services. I attended one of the very first meetings and wondered where those humble and small beginnings might lead him. When I visited my hometown last summer (eighteen years later) I had a chance to find out.

Imagine my astonishment when a parking attendant led me in front of a multi-million dollar, several thousand member, state-of-the-art facility complete with a cafe, giant TV monitors and a Nickelodeon-like children's program.

As the service progressed and I took in the wonder of it all, I asked myself, What were the keys to success here? What is the difference between this and what I see so much of elsewhere--"cheesy church?"

Of course there are entire books devoted to the subject of how to grow a church, but if I might offer my puny opinion, here's what I came up with:


1. Progressive worship: If you sing modern worship choruses, keep them relatively current. For years I've seen churches take good songs and sing the life right out of them (I've gotten all I'm going to get out of "Come, Now is the Time to Worship"). And for the love of all that's holy, please don't ditch the hymns.

2. Relevant preaching: People that attend church on Sunday mornings have real life issues. If the message doesn't hit home, home is where they'll stay next time.

3. Excellence: It's a shame that secular entertainers outdo the church in this area. It seems that you have to look to the world for things like: a professional sound, an attractive website, and everything else on down to clean restrooms and floors. If we don't excel in these simple areas, why should people expect us to excel in the more important ones?

4. Authenticity: I've come to realize that authentic Christianity--not "Churchianity"--is what people, especially the younger generation, are craving. We need to ditch the fluff and stick with real stuff. Bake sales, attendance books, members-only mail boxes, floral arrangements, panty hose, offering plate pitches, and long announcements were nice back in the day. But there is a body emerging within the Body that is increasingly being turned off by such plethora. They're tired of Cheesy Church. (The pastor of one church I visited actually wore a suit that was yellow with three-inch wide brown stripes. No kidding.)


Speaking of authentic Church, I recently visited a church that I believe just may be in the beginning stages of what I described earlier. I hope they're looking for a bigger building....

Here's what I experienced at the Vineyard Church of Ithaca (http://www.ithacavineyard.org/): I walked into a gym bustling with a very diverse crowd of mostly college age kids. The service began with a half hour of coffee, donuts and mingling (they had me right there). The lead pastor then promptly began his teaching. I was expecting some kind of pre-show, so I had to scramble to get out my notebook and scarf down my french cruller. The message was relevant and applicable. I took notes for the first time in years. And then we worshipped for a while. The band was simple, but they sounded good. The songs were fresh.

We visitors were smiled at, greeted warmly and given a gift bag (picked up at a table) containing a professional music cd and the book The Case for Faith (perfect for college town intellects). We weren't forced to stand and tell our life story. We were allowed to simply enjoy. And enjoy it I did.

And the best part? Visitors were encouraged (in the bulletin) to fill out the church's on-line visitor survey. Wow! I've always felt every church should have a suggestion box.


One final and very important note: Don't assume I'm equating "success" with large numbers, talent or high tech equipment. There are plenty of churches that have all these and more, and yet are failing miserably in weightier matters such as preaching the truth and sincerely caring for the flock. By the same token, there are those small, humble gatherings that offer what I consider the finest in authentic Christianity. I belong to one such group--about eight of us who meet regularly to pray with and edify each other. We've become a family that bears each other's burdens. A replica of the early Church. Success!

Say No to Crack!

I am about to become an instant prude—a totally uncool, narrow-minded, old-fashioned biddy. It’s been nice knowing you.

The fast-approaching hot weather compels me to finally say what I’ve always kept in the confines of my home and discussed with only my husband. To be blunt, I hate immodesty.

Oh brother, I hear you groan. She’s one of those.

Actually, I’m one of many who are hesitant to voice what we wives have been thinking and feeling about the issue. And that is this: Please cover your cleavage, loosen your shirts, lengthen your shorts, and say no to “crack.”

I know you’ve heard and been turned off by pleas like this before, but perhaps no one has ever explained why it is and should be an issue—especially for Christian women in the church. Simply put, our men—our husbands, sons, worship leaders, pastors, elders, nephews and brothers—are human. It’s not that they are perverts and need to redirect their eyes. And it’s not that we wives are insanely jealous and insecure about our own bodies. The fact of the matter is, normal--even Christian--men are visual. God made them that way. And he gave them wives to look at half naked--not you.

When my husband and I are in Christian circles, he's been known to mutter about scantily clad women, “Put on some clothes.” He’s speaking for all the guys. It’s hard enough when they’re out there during the week, constantly fighting the temptation to “look.” Church should be a safe haven for them. Women should respect their brothers in Christ in the way they dress. And they should respect their friends’ marriages. If you think my husband has “a problem,” read For Women Only, by Shauntie Feldhan. You might be surprised at how men are wired.

Yes, there are those men who do have a particularly serious problem in this area. Put yourself in the place of their wives. You come into church hoping your husband finds deliverance from his addiction to porn. Instead, there’s one more hindrance in the row in front of you—the lady who doesn’t respect you enough to dress decently. She worships God impressively, while she makes her brother stumble.

It never ceases to amaze and sadden me that, while we'd never think of offering a beer to a recovering alcoholic, we don't think twice about tempting men with something infinitely more difficult to resist--a glance at our boobs, butt, thighs and belly.

On behalf of all of my brothers in Christ, let’s dress to help—not hinder them. I’ve been guilty too. I hate throwing out that cute red halter top. But I’ve got a responsibility to our men—and to please God.

You can be sure I'll take a lot of flack for this post--from Christians.

Oh, and check out what the guys have to say at http://www.crosswalk.com/11537027/page2/.

( For those freedom-flaunting individuals who embrace an "all-that-matters-is-love" philosophy, I challenge you with this: Look your best friend in the eye and tell her you're playing by the Golden Rule when you knowingly lure her husbands eyes to your skimpy-clothed body. I dare ya.)

My Final Word on the House Church

Friday, March 30, 2007 at 9:56 AM EDT

I have several friends who house church and I know would love to see me leave the man-made, "non-New Testament" institution called the local church. They figure, as I do, that my personality would better fit into the more intimate, freestyle setting of a house church. They're right--it would. I love authenticity, tend to rebel against tradition, and am a sucker for letting down one's hair and getting real.

But I'm still stuck behind the four walls, putting up with nonsense like membership, offering plates, annual business meetings, heirarchy, nylon stockings, the telling clock on the back wall, dirty politics, endless pleas for giving more of my time, the programs and agendas...on and on it goes. And let's not forget those dear individuals Christ has placed in the Body to constantly test and try our character. Honestly sometimes House Church looks real good. But there's just one problem. I'm in love.

No, not with one of the elders--I'm in love with the Body of Christ. I can't get enough of it. For some reason, every single time I come away from a church meeting I feel pumped, charged, and ready to go face my world again. Just from being with them. Granted, it's not the ideal setting condusive to the "koinonia" house churchers celebrate. There's a lot I'd like to change. But somehow just being present and looking out of the corner of my eye at people so different from me sincerely worshipping the same God is enough to keep me coming back. It energizes me. I'm just not ready to trade that in for the luxury of sitting in a cozy living room surrounded by like-minded people, feeling smug because we do church right. I left a "group think" long ago. I'll never go back.

I guess I see my relationship with the local church as being kind of like a healthy marriage. There will always be the little things (and big things) that drive me crazy. But the fact of the matter is, I'm in it for love. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. The organized church of today is sick in a lot of ways. I happen to believe that I have something to offer. If Jesus could go to the synagogue (talk about man-made tradition!) day after day because He knew He had something to offer, I figure I should follow His example. Funny--He never house churched. He must have decided, as I have, "if you can't fight 'em, join 'em."
Don't badger me with quibbles about the greek meaning of "ekklesia." I'm too busy getting myself ready for Sunday morning. There are lots of needy people there, and someone just may need a word of encouragement.

Hello, Halloween!

I love living in the country most of the time. There's one day of the year, however, that I always regret the rural seclusion. It's Halloween. If ever I want to be in a residential neighborhood full of traffic and people, it's on October 31.

Yet year after year I observe the same strange phenomenon among evangelicals: The people who travel across oceans to reach the lost are the same ones who shut themselves behind closed curtains on the one night of the year that scores of unsaved walk by their darkened doorway. The people who preach on city corners and pass out tracts are the same ones who lock their doors to a spiritually hungry multitude that knocks, literally holding their hands open for whatever we might give them--if only we were available.

Would somebody please tell me why Christians would rather turn off their lights and hole up in the basement during the greatest ministry opportunity to ever come to their neighborhood? While you're coming up with the answer, I'm getting ready to go trick-or-treating. Yep. Taking my kids and going to collect gobs of sugary junk. If they won't come to me, I'm going to them. For me, it's good-bye country, hello city. Good-bye selfishness and legalism, hello love and liberty. I've got my costume on, including feet that are shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace. One never knows what conversations might ensue; if I can touch one life with a word in season to the weary, it's worth every cavity and potential pass of judgment from my non-celebrating friends.

Besides all that (for those that would label me an opportunist), I just want to be where the people are. I once read of a young carpenter who felt the same way. This is the main reason I take my family trick-or-treating.

If you want to join me, I'll be walking around Elmira's West side with Cleopatra, Pocahontas, a ladybug and Snow White.

(It is with fear and trembling that I have written this post. One of my pet peeves is when Christian's offend others with their so-called "freedom in Christ." Jesus said that it would be better for me if a millstone were tied around my neck than to make a little one stumble. So listen up, you young'uns still living under your parents' roof: Don't even think about using this post to con Mom and Dad into letting you do the Halloween thing. In a few years, you'll have your own family and will be able to make that decision yourself. For now, if you go against your parents' authority, you go against God. Be afraid. Be very afraaaaaaaaaid!) ;)

The Visitor

Sunday, October 02, 2005 at 2:04 PM EDT

Church goers at Southside Alliance were not expecting to see a homeless woman in the parking lot that Sunday in September. Charlotte Frazier herself wondered how she ended up in such dire straits. She hadn't eaten for a whole day. She stunk. Her feet were wet and cold from wandering through rain puddles. But this was a church. Surely she and charity would meet here....

The first vehicle arrived for Sunday school. It was Jack in his slick SUV. Charlotte responded to his hearty, "Good Mornin!" with, "You got a dollah? I wanna get me a Egg McMuffin. I ain't eat since yesterdee." Jack instantly produced a five dollar bill and slapped it into Charlotte's hand.

"Thank you very much," the astonished beggar whispered.

More church members arrived. Charlotte casually made her way over to anyone who she suspected might show some compassion. Peter, a teenager, invited her in and gave her a dollar. Sue, a classy, professional looking woman took the time to welcome her. Bill asked her so many questions she began to feel nervous. She wondered if there was a catch. No one had ever showed that much interest in her pitiful existence. Then there was Mike. He had a preschooler in tow. Charlotte let him off the hook and walked the other way. But to her amazement there he was, offering her a hand to cross the street. What was with this place?

Eventually she heard the sound of music--the worship service had begun. Dared she accept the invitations to go in? Knowing she had nothing to lose and the hope that the unconditional love she met in the parking lot would be found inside, Charlotte stepped into the foyer of the church. She made a bold stride down the center aisle and sat on the front row. A woman behind her leaned forward and squeezed her arm reassuringly.

The worship progressed and the congregation sang these words:

King of all days you stepped down into darkness, 
Opened my eyes, let me see 
Beauty that made this heart adore you
Hope of a life spent with you 

Charlotte inched her way to the altar and knelt with her face in her hands. "Here I am to worship," she sang softly. Immediately she felt an arm around her. "Did you know you're beautiful?" the kind woman asked.

When Bette and Charlotte were seated the pastor choked out a sermon on loving the unlovely. Then he closed with an announcement. "I'd like to introduce a regular member of our congregation to you. Her name is Faith Bogdan. Faith, will you come to the front please?"

And I, Faith--Charlotte Frazier--walked sheepishly to the microphone as an astonished and befuddled congregation looked on.

I tearfully thanked them for reaching out. They had not played church; they had been the church. The New Testament writer warns us to entertain strangers, because they could be angels in disguise. I'll be the first to admit I'm no angel. But if you see Charlotte Frazier in your church parking lot next Sunday, be the church. I assure you that Charlotte--real or disguised--will be comforted and encouraged.