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...
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