Hey, Church…Stop me if you’ve ever heard this one
before. We need more young people! How can we
attract them? Why aren’t there more young adults in
our pews?
I’ve heard it. Back when I was young (many, many
years ago), looking for a new church to serve, I
noticed a trend among congregations seeking new
pastors. An assumption: If we call a young pastor,
they will bring young members. And (here’s the
unspoken part) we won’t have to do anything different
to attract them!
Now friends, just to be clear, saying we need more
young people…not a strategy. Neither, frankly, is
calling a young pastor.
When I served a congregation in Atlanta, we decided
we wanted to reach out to folks in their early twenties.
Recognizing we had to start somewhere, I contacted
several recent college graduates who had grown up
in the church and were living in the area again after
graduation. I met four of them for coffee together. I
knew all their parents and some of their grandparents
but had never met any of them. In conversation, they
expressed a real desire for deep, thick community.
They professed their love for the church and the
foundation it had provided them, a genuine interest in
growing in faith. When I asked them about roadblocks
to returning to church, they did not mince words.
Judgment. For starters, they didn’t necessarily want
to be associated with some of the labels placed
on “church people.” They had friends who had
experienced rejection and bitterness in church. And,
perhaps most personally, they were concerned about
the reception they would receive if they showed up.
I listened. But then, I encouraged them to come to
church anyway. They all agreed that they would
consider it. I had all but given up when, about a
month later, three of them walked into the back doors
of the sanctuary on a Sunday morning. I smiled,
perhaps a little too obviously. I might have even
waved awkwardly from the chancel. Look at that—
young people in the pews! I bet they’re glad they
called me as their pastor!
My soaring hopes came crashing down one hour later.
I was on my way, parting the crowd, to greet these
three prized worshipers, but a member of the church
had gotten to them first. And, as I approached, I heard
this woman (who had known these three young
adults their whole lives) say to the young man who
had first voiced his apprehension in the coffee shop,
“Well, well, well, well, well. I’m surprised the roof didn’t
collapse. It’s such a shock to see you here!”
I watched him. His shoulders slumped. His eyes made
contact with his shoes. His smile evaporated. And I
knew in that moment we’d never see him again. What
is it about us, we humans, that causes us to turn to
shame so quickly?
The church in Rome was located in the heart of
imperial power, and it was, by virtue of its location,
a diverse community. It included both Jews and
Gentiles who had little in common with each other
beyond their newfound faith in Jesus. Apparently, the
Apostle Paul, who did not found the church, had never
visited the church, has learned somehow that these
two groups were criticizing and judging each other for
their meal choices and their preferences on worship
schedule. Paul has a simple message: Stop it. You are
letting your disagreements undermine God’s call to
welcome. Stop judging each other.
Judgment. It was a problem then. It is a problem now.
Now, I want to be clear on this before the emails roll
in. The witness of scripture is not ambiguous about
human sinfulness. All of us fall short of God’s design.
All of us miss God’s intention for our lives. All of us
break God’s commandments. We fail to live in ways
that bring God joy. All of us. Often.
And I believe scripture is equally clear on this point:
it is not the role of humankind to occupy a place of
judgment over other broken and fallible people. Full
stop. In fact, that’s how the letter to the Romans
begins. Paul creatively and exhaustively catalogs a
list of particularly Gentile sins. It is as if Paul, standing
in front of the congregation, divides them in half and
then spends time highlighting the sins of one group in
front of the other. As the list grows, you can sense the
tension doing the same. Righteous pride on behalf of
some. Shame and anger from others. Paul continues
his list, naming only the sins that Gentiles commit,
for quite some time. And then, just when the tension
has reached its peak, he flips the script. Here’s what
he writes: therefore, you have no excuse, no matter
who you are, when you judge others; for in passing
judgment on another you condemn yourself. In other
words, the act of judging is deserving of judgment.
The Old Testament prophets deliver the same
message. Perhaps you remember Isaiah’s insistence
that God’s people stop pointing fingers and speaking
evil of each other. Judging others. Pointing fingers.
Speaking harshly. These are not grand acts of cruelty.
Certainly not crimes. Indeed, they have even been
normalized in our time. And yet Paul and the prophets
command us: stop it.
If you’ve ever experienced judgment, I would wager
you remember the feeling, the subtle way we can be
made to feel less than, out of place, unwelcome, not
enough. Well, well, well, well, well…
If you’ve ever participated in this kind of judgment or
exclusion, you know its enticement. It can feel so good
to be a part of the in-crowd, to pile on the criticism
of an individual or perhaps a whole group of people.
Our judgment tends to intensify as it accumulates.
Criticism creates contempt. Disagreement yields to
condemnation. Perhaps not grand acts of cruelty and
yet so deeply damaging to the bonds of trust and
connection that hold us together.
Whenever someone tells me that the Church is full
of hypocrites, my response is this: you are right,
and we’re always looking for one more! Now, that
flippant answer underscores a spiritual reality. Not
one of us is without sin. All of us have fallen short.
And in the Church, one of the ways we fall short is by
judging others’ shortcomings. If you intend to build
a community completely free of hypocrites, you are
likely to end up lonely.
At our best, we’re trying to do better in here. At our
best, we keep showing up, week after week, trying to
love God and all our neighbors knowing that we will
fail, and yet committing to try again. At our best, we
name and acknowledge the ways we get it wrong. We
confess our shortcomings, and we seek reconciliation
with those whom we have wronged. At our best,
we’re trying to be real. In a world that teaches us to
hide what is broken or painful or difficult, to deflect
our weakness by fixating on the flaws of somebody
else, we’re trying to do it differently. Not aiming for
perfection, but faithfulness.
A couple of weeks ago, Perry Bacon Jr. wrote an
essay that got my attention. His title was, “I left the
Church—and now I long for a ‘church of the nones.’”
Bacon describes how he grew up in Louisville where
his father served as the assistant pastor for their
small congregation. His family never missed a Sunday
service, and when Perry was accepted into college,
the congregation passed the plate. They took up a
collection to support him. In the years since, Bacon
has felt increasingly alienated by the extremist voices
claiming to speak for all Christians and the political
divisions in the church. He has fallen away from active
involvement as a young adult. He names activities
that provide some of what he’s missing, things like
weekly farmers markets and professional happy
hours—these consistent gatherings with people who
share values and interests.
And yet, Bacon confesses to feeling an absence, what
he describes in the piece as a “church-sized hole” in
his life. He concludes, “Many Americans, including
me, were once part of churches that were an
essential part of our lives. It seems strange to me that
America…is abandoning this institution as opposed to
reinventing [it]…”
What I want to tell the author is that he’d be welcome
here. Not because we will get it right, but because
we’ll be real. And what I want to tell you is this:
there are many people here today, and many others
who will hear these words, for whom Church is not
easy. Statistics tell us that many have simply slipped
away, and that is on us. At least partially. We’ve got
to stop the subtle shaming, the judgment in all its
insidious forms. We’ve got to stop giving our major
attention to minor issues. We’ve got to stop allowing
disagreement to be a cause for division.
Church, we can do better. We can be real, sharing our
lives as broken and beautiful as they are, in ways that
open us to growth and meaning. Here’s the truth Paul
passionately proclaimed:
We all belong to God.
So, why do you pass judgment on someone else’s servant?
We all belong to each other.
So, why do you pass judgement on your own sibling?
God’s children. No exceptions. No space for shame.
Oh, by the way. The sanctuary roof did not collapse
that Sunday. You probably knew that. But here’s the
surprise. It was not the last time that young man came
to church. He stuck with us. We started that group
for people in their early twenties, and not long after,
he brought a friend to one of our monthly meetings.
The group grew in numbers and in depth. The two of
them kept showing up, month after month, week after
week. In fact, the last time I was in that sanctuary—in
July of 2018—I was there to officiate their wedding. A
dozen members of our young adult group were there
too. We took a picture together. You know who else
was there? The woman who had been worried about
the roof. Just a few months later, she placed her hand
on his shoulder on the morning of his ordination as an
elder in the church. In that sanctuary, still standing,
roof still intact.
Now I know it doesn’t always go like that. But,
Church, we need to hear and tell these stories. Better
yet, we need to write them in the way we live and the
community we build together. Amen.