Believing that lives are changed through relationships, we are a relationship-based church. That is, we meet in small groups in homes throughout the week and come together on Sundays for a community worship service. The service is supposed to be secondary to small group time - a time of reflection and celebration, not an event. We don't have a building - we don't really want one. We don't have a choir or even a band unless we find one to lead us for a week or two. We are not hip or traditional, we are not young or old, we are not all singles or all families. We are probably not what you think of when you think "church," and we kind of like it that way.
We desire and intend to engage our neighborhoods and our communities culturally, socially and spiritually - getting out of the bubble and into the business of life. If we're doing it right, church should look like you having dinner at my house with our kids running around outside while we talk about the redemptive story of the movie you saw last week. Or like three or four families grilling out at the beach and bringing some extra hot dogs for the families sitting near us wondering why we're laughing so loud.
If we're doing it right - this job of infusing life together with faith, hope and love - then it should change the world, one person at a time.
And that's why we believe God created his Church in the first place.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Imagine if you will...
So, just like that, we became missionaries. Well, not exactly just like that - it really took about 6 years. But that's the perspective it took for me, at least, to understand church planting.
We are missionaries in our own city. Not by running a soup kitchen or standing on a corner with a repent-or-die banner or by hosting a crusade on the beach - there's a place for all of those things (except maybe the banner). We are person-to-person, life-to-life missionaries in a very cold, dark place that just happens to be a tropical paradise.
When we study the lives of the apostles, and the early church, that is what we see. Personal relationships, small groups of people living and sharing life together. While the message can be shared via the mass media of your choice, relationships are where lives are changed. And the best way to have a relationship with someone is one on one. It's not efficient, but God doesn't have to be efficient. He is just effective.
While we don't have to sell everything and live in a yurt on the savannah, being a missionary in your hometown is not without its sacrifices. We did leave a few things behind, like the ability to disappear into a crowded church service - which I have a serious hankering to do right about now.
We are missionaries in our own city. Not by running a soup kitchen or standing on a corner with a repent-or-die banner or by hosting a crusade on the beach - there's a place for all of those things (except maybe the banner). We are person-to-person, life-to-life missionaries in a very cold, dark place that just happens to be a tropical paradise.
When we study the lives of the apostles, and the early church, that is what we see. Personal relationships, small groups of people living and sharing life together. While the message can be shared via the mass media of your choice, relationships are where lives are changed. And the best way to have a relationship with someone is one on one. It's not efficient, but God doesn't have to be efficient. He is just effective.
While we don't have to sell everything and live in a yurt on the savannah, being a missionary in your hometown is not without its sacrifices. We did leave a few things behind, like the ability to disappear into a crowded church service - which I have a serious hankering to do right about now.
What would happen?
Collectively, we had seen a lot of church. We were familiar with the models and tactics employed by some really wonderful congregations around town, churches who were doing some really exciting and innovative things. We knew congregations who were as sincere and authentic as Andy Griffith. We knew our stuff, but one look around told us that no matter how many church options are available, an overwhelming majority of South Floridians - at least of those who are not already Christians - are. not. interested.
It's not that these churches aren't doing a phenomenal job of what they are doing. It's not that people wouldn't enjoy the music, or that they wouldn't gain something from the teaching or even that they're necessarily hostile to the idea of church. They just have better things to do.
Maybe all of America is like that now. But all of America isn't our problem. We live in South Florida, where major league sports teams can't sell tickets because everyone knows something more exciting may come along. South Florida is our problem.
So what's the answer? How do we, as a church, make a difference in the lives of anyone, if we can't get them into the building?
Answer: We bring the building to them.
It's not that these churches aren't doing a phenomenal job of what they are doing. It's not that people wouldn't enjoy the music, or that they wouldn't gain something from the teaching or even that they're necessarily hostile to the idea of church. They just have better things to do.
Maybe all of America is like that now. But all of America isn't our problem. We live in South Florida, where major league sports teams can't sell tickets because everyone knows something more exciting may come along. South Florida is our problem.
So what's the answer? How do we, as a church, make a difference in the lives of anyone, if we can't get them into the building?
Answer: We bring the building to them.
Letting it be
We had a few visitors come and go, but with no official structure, title or meeting place other than our back porch, it was hard to gain momentum - and we didn't even know if momentum was something we were going for. It was comfortable and easy to sit and talk about stuff. It was healing to be with like-minded people. And we were running out of chairs, so, really, where would the new folks sit?
In what would amount to several years of shared meals, we acknowledged that comfortable wasn't what we were called to. Not only were we comfortable on the back porch, but we were comfortable in our church - in spite of the flaws that come with it being run by humans. There were challenges, but we knew to expect them - they were our challenges. We weren't cynics anymore, but we were at odds, but the odds were predictable. There was comfort in the phrase "it is what it is." So we just let it be.
But the longer we let it be, the more our hearts were pulled toward a scary and dangerous mission field.
In what would amount to several years of shared meals, we acknowledged that comfortable wasn't what we were called to. Not only were we comfortable on the back porch, but we were comfortable in our church - in spite of the flaws that come with it being run by humans. There were challenges, but we knew to expect them - they were our challenges. We weren't cynics anymore, but we were at odds, but the odds were predictable. There was comfort in the phrase "it is what it is." So we just let it be.
But the longer we let it be, the more our hearts were pulled toward a scary and dangerous mission field.
Pendulum Swing
But we weren't in charge.
That was the whole point - the whole revelation in the first place. We are not in charge.
And yet we are not nothing. That was God's whole point. When he looks at us, he doesn't see nothing. He sees Jesus. And Jesus came to change the world. And when he left, he put us in charge of that.
Jesus established the Church as a means of accomplishing his mission of restoring the world to a right relationship with himself. So what did that mean for us? How could we be the Church He wanted us to be, on mission together with Him?
We spent time dreaming big - and doing everything that felt right. We got behind social justice causes, we sent a mission team to Africa, we served the youth group, we read Donald Miller. We broke bread together, we went to the beach together, our families grew - but our group did not.
That was the whole point - the whole revelation in the first place. We are not in charge.
And yet we are not nothing. That was God's whole point. When he looks at us, he doesn't see nothing. He sees Jesus. And Jesus came to change the world. And when he left, he put us in charge of that.
Jesus established the Church as a means of accomplishing his mission of restoring the world to a right relationship with himself. So what did that mean for us? How could we be the Church He wanted us to be, on mission together with Him?
We spent time dreaming big - and doing everything that felt right. We got behind social justice causes, we sent a mission team to Africa, we served the youth group, we read Donald Miller. We broke bread together, we went to the beach together, our families grew - but our group did not.
New Friends
Boy, were we grumpy.
As several of us like-minded cynics found each other, we began to meet weekly for what turned out to be some very therapeutic church-bashing sessions.
We were all at various stages of recovery, having individually grown to a place where we realized that no matter how many times we'd sung Awesome God or how many drinks we'd turned down, how bloody our tongues had gotten from biting back the bad words, we amounted to nothing.
We had nothing to show for our efforts, save a few notches in our Bibles for the few people we'd managed to love well enough into relationship with Jesus and a few Compassion kids. We were selfish, grumpy young adults who'd spent our lives thinking we were pretty awesome and had just had the rug pulled out from under us. Surely the church was to blame.
Not any one church, in particular, but the Church. The Church that had trained us to consume, consume, consume instead of to relate, relate, relate. The Church that had said "bring them here to us," instead of saying "YOU do it."
We tore down traditions, one at a time. We laughed and we cried and we dreamed about how we'd do it if we were in charge.
As several of us like-minded cynics found each other, we began to meet weekly for what turned out to be some very therapeutic church-bashing sessions.
We were all at various stages of recovery, having individually grown to a place where we realized that no matter how many times we'd sung Awesome God or how many drinks we'd turned down, how bloody our tongues had gotten from biting back the bad words, we amounted to nothing.
We had nothing to show for our efforts, save a few notches in our Bibles for the few people we'd managed to love well enough into relationship with Jesus and a few Compassion kids. We were selfish, grumpy young adults who'd spent our lives thinking we were pretty awesome and had just had the rug pulled out from under us. Surely the church was to blame.
Not any one church, in particular, but the Church. The Church that had trained us to consume, consume, consume instead of to relate, relate, relate. The Church that had said "bring them here to us," instead of saying "YOU do it."
We tore down traditions, one at a time. We laughed and we cried and we dreamed about how we'd do it if we were in charge.
Irrelevant
All of a sudden - quite literally - my world changed. It was almost like feeling human for the first time, like I could relate to all of those sinners out there because I really, actually, was one. No longer was I less-of-a-sinner because of the amount of time I spent at church...Abraham had leveled the playing field. If Abe's badness couldn't change God's mind about using him, then neither could my goodness.
I'd spent so much time working on my "goodness," (mainly the goodness that comes from not doing bad stuff) that I'd lost any sense of compassion for anyone who hadn't spent 25 years at the church buffet.
Fortunately, as my newly loosened tongue started flapping about my new revelation and my pendulum swung from church addict to church cynic (why do we spend so much time on behavior modification and so little time on the sovereignty of God? and so forth...), I found that I wasn't alone.
I'd spent so much time working on my "goodness," (mainly the goodness that comes from not doing bad stuff) that I'd lost any sense of compassion for anyone who hadn't spent 25 years at the church buffet.
Fortunately, as my newly loosened tongue started flapping about my new revelation and my pendulum swung from church addict to church cynic (why do we spend so much time on behavior modification and so little time on the sovereignty of God? and so forth...), I found that I wasn't alone.
A Funny Thing Happened
I should clarify that I wasn't just consuming God at church, but I also attended a Christian school, and when I went to college, my first visit was to a Christian fellowship group - the first of several that I would consume a la carte...small group here, Sunday service there, retreat here... If they were going to compete so hard for my attention with all this programming, I was happy to oblige all of them.
And while I was busy stuffing my face at the God-table, a funny thing happened.
I became irrelevant.
Instead of becoming more attractive to a lost and hurting world, or drawing attention to Jesus by serving my community or, quite frankly, by doing anything that He says to do, I'd lost touch with reality.
Maybe I never was in touch with reality - but I didn't realize it until, as a young mom dutifully finishing my weekly Bible Study, God taught me about Abraham.
Studying Abraham is a funny way to come face to face with reality, but that's who God used. Oh, Father Abraham, who threw his wife under the bus, ran away as often as possible, whose screw ups were so monumental that they were recorded in the most important piece of historical literature of all time...YOU are the guy who gets descendants as numerous as the stars?
I will never forget that moment crying on my red sofa when I realized a truth I must have heard 4,372 times in my life. I realized that reality was this: God didn't love me because I went to church. He didn't love me because I did a, b, or c, or because I didn't do a, b, or c. He's not going to use me to make a difference because I'm so awesome. If He chooses to use me to make a difference, it's because HE's so awesome, and He's the one who gets to make those choices. He can choose Cowardly Abraham, Sneaky Jacob, Arrogant Joseph...and he can choose overchurched Amy.
And while I was busy stuffing my face at the God-table, a funny thing happened.
I became irrelevant.
Instead of becoming more attractive to a lost and hurting world, or drawing attention to Jesus by serving my community or, quite frankly, by doing anything that He says to do, I'd lost touch with reality.
Maybe I never was in touch with reality - but I didn't realize it until, as a young mom dutifully finishing my weekly Bible Study, God taught me about Abraham.
Studying Abraham is a funny way to come face to face with reality, but that's who God used. Oh, Father Abraham, who threw his wife under the bus, ran away as often as possible, whose screw ups were so monumental that they were recorded in the most important piece of historical literature of all time...YOU are the guy who gets descendants as numerous as the stars?
I will never forget that moment crying on my red sofa when I realized a truth I must have heard 4,372 times in my life. I realized that reality was this: God didn't love me because I went to church. He didn't love me because I did a, b, or c, or because I didn't do a, b, or c. He's not going to use me to make a difference because I'm so awesome. If He chooses to use me to make a difference, it's because HE's so awesome, and He's the one who gets to make those choices. He can choose Cowardly Abraham, Sneaky Jacob, Arrogant Joseph...and he can choose overchurched Amy.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Backstory
I would consider myself something of a church expert. I didn't grow up knowing a lot about theology or doctrine or ecclesiology, or any other real churchy words like catechism or liturgy. I didn't know a deacon from an elder or an altar from a pulpit. But I knew church.
I knew church as well I as knew home, because I was there all the time. I'd even say that there were times when I was at church more than I was at home. I lived for youth retreats and Rich Mullins songs, for catchy Christian phrases and lock-outs. I was coming-of-age during a church revolution, when "contemporary services" were sprouting up everywhere and drum kits were showing up on fellowship hall stages, when pews started to look a lot like chairs and new sanctuaries started resembling warehouse interiors.
They were exciting times, when rock band churches and celebrity pastors were growing congregations into the thousands - we'd catch one on Wednesday night, one on Sunday morning and sign up for whichever retreat or event in town most of our friends were planning to attend.
We were giving ourselves the richest diet of spiritual goodness we could possibly imagine. Praise choruses on our lips, catchy alliteration-filled sermons feeding our brains - we were dining at a big ol' church buffet. And it was delicious.
Until...
I knew church as well I as knew home, because I was there all the time. I'd even say that there were times when I was at church more than I was at home. I lived for youth retreats and Rich Mullins songs, for catchy Christian phrases and lock-outs. I was coming-of-age during a church revolution, when "contemporary services" were sprouting up everywhere and drum kits were showing up on fellowship hall stages, when pews started to look a lot like chairs and new sanctuaries started resembling warehouse interiors.
They were exciting times, when rock band churches and celebrity pastors were growing congregations into the thousands - we'd catch one on Wednesday night, one on Sunday morning and sign up for whichever retreat or event in town most of our friends were planning to attend.
We were giving ourselves the richest diet of spiritual goodness we could possibly imagine. Praise choruses on our lips, catchy alliteration-filled sermons feeding our brains - we were dining at a big ol' church buffet. And it was delicious.
Until...
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