Implosion's launch pad

There are hundreds of church growth seminars offering church leaders enough "tools for their leadership toolbox" to stock a Home Depot. I've never heard of a seminar telling church leaders how to shrink their congregations...or even to kill them...but this happens A LOT. Stagnation, shrinkage or complete collapse may be more common than the stunning growth that those church growth seminars seem to showcase.

I'm thinking about this today because some friends from a former congregation sent us a copy of a resignation letter they'd sent to the church's leadership and asked us to pray for them as they set out into the Land of Church Transition. We are. Their now-former church had once experienced explosive growth. We were a part of the church during those amazing times, but have been gone for quite a while. It has been heartbreaking to hear occasional snippets through the grapevine about how the church has been experiencing a painful, dramatic numerical decline.

This got me to reminsicing about what it is like to live through a church implosion.

Bill and I have lived through a complete church collapse, and I wouldn't wish the experience on a cockroach. Bill was in leadership at the time, and one of the most stunning things to witness was the power of a few hysterical women to burn up hours on the phone doing group dissection projects as they picked at every single thing that was wrong with the church. Their husbands would then gather around a couple of men who didn't actually want to lead the congregation in title, but were more than happy to provide color commentary and fear-soaked "theological analysis" of every move the church leaders made to their devoted group of followers. Bill and the other elder spent hours talking, praying, meeting with each of the disgruntled folks individually, and in the end, as if most of them were following a script (which in fact some may have been), they left.

As these key influencer families left, their followers (their true personal congregation) followed. And then others, who had nothing to do with all of the drama, decided to move on to healthier pastures. Who could blame them? The conflict and grief had turned the place inward, and in the end, the church didn't make it. A handful of people left chose to merge with a group who'd been meeting as a house church for a while, reforming into a larger version of the house church. Our family, battered and weary, moved on into the Land of Church Transition. It took a long time to find a new church home. It's taken longer to experience a good measure of healing. If you're committed to a local church, it is a long dark journey to get to the border crossing of that land...and that's before you begin to wander the seemingly-barren terrain in search of a way out.

If you've ever been through a situation like this, you know that it changes you. It must. Reading the book of Acts and seeing supernatural growth even while experiencing conflict internal-to-the-infant-church tells me it is possible to thrive. Hearing accounts of stunning growth of the church in other parts of the world, without "tools" and copycat marketing strategies, shows me that the book of Acts is absolutely real and current here and now.

That barren terrain is meant to strip us of our false ideas of who the church is (both the glossy church growth version and the battleground/implosion version) and get us praying, "Lord, Your Kingdom come..."

And so I do. For our friends. For all of us.

File this under "(Way) Too Much Information"

Quite possibly, the wackiest headline I've ever seen.

Two Sunday morning moments

An African guest at our church stood in front of the congregation this morning, reading...no, proclaiming...today's New Testament selection. His richly-accented English brought the passage alive for me in a fresh way.

It was verse 15 that struck me: "As evening approached, the disciples came to him and said, 'This is a remote place, and it's already getting late. Send the crowds away, so they can go to the villages and buy themselves some food'". Even if our reader came from a densely-populated urban center, the word "villages" went 3-D in my minds' eye. I could taste the dust of the roads into the distant villages, feel the slant of the sun as it moved toward the horizon, and hear the sound of hundreds of "What's for dinner?" and "Who is He?" conversations swirling in the air.

So this was a cool little moment. But what was really interesting was what happened just a few minutes later. Because the church was so crowded this morning, Bill and I didn't sit in our usual spot. We even joked about it with the woman sitting behind us before the service started. At the mid-point of the service, when we greet each other/pass the peace of Christ, this woman grabbed me and said, "This morning, I thought about what it must be like to hear the Old Testament reading from your perspective as a Jewish believer. Wow..." Her voice trailed off.

God used us broken eikons to bring His Word to life for each other this morning.

You ever had something like this happen when Scripture is read (proclaimed!) at your church?

Back 2 School

When I was in 2nd grade, Miss Nelson used to have us go around the classroom by rows, reading aloud. My desk was next to a row of bookshelves, and I would pull a way more interesting grown-up book from the shelves and hide it inside the classroom readers that featured the compelling stories of Dick, Jane, Sally (oh, that Sally!), Spot and Puff. While the rest of the class soldiered on through this exercise, I worked my way through the classroom's library of subject matter. When the kid in front of me took his turn reading about Sally's Bad Day, I'd quickly find the place in the story so I wouldn't get caught doing my own freelance learning.

I'd internalized the delight of discovery early in my life. I was a voracious reader and nerd of the first degree, but was not highly motivated by grades and accomplishment. I would try...but was one of those kids who'd do little and take the B grade rather than work a bit to get the A. Now I realize I had my own agenda for learning, and it didn't seem to include school.

Or did it?

I loved the atmosphere of college, because the responsibility of learning shifted to me. And even when I hit that first "What'll I be when I grow up?" declare-a-major crossroads as I headed into my junior year and had to drop out, I kept reading and learning. My first published writing credits came during this time of my life, when I submitted some scripts for a locally-produced kids' radio show and WBEZ-FM produced and aired them.

But I worked for two colleges, then walked with Bill through years of part-time college culminating in the completion of his Bachelor's degree in 1990 and his Masters in 2007. All the while, I homeschooled our 3 kids, which gave me an opportunity to learn while my kids were learning. And after we moved back to IL, I found my way back to a staff position at a third college, my current employer.

I've been hanging around the edges of education my entire adult life. I want to be where the learning is happening, where I can have cool conversations with learners, and where I can feed that hungry little 2nd grade kid inside of me all the books she can handle.

In my new full-time job at the school, one of the perks is a free class a semester. One of the asterisks that came with the job offer was my promise that I'd finish my degree. I'd like the degree, though I'm not sure how much I'm going to love filling in a gap or two in my Gen Eds - like the math class I managed to avoid the first time around. And I'm deeply committed to continue my career as a writer. It's hard to get jazzed about pounding out a term paper, though I certainly have the passion for research.

But....

...there are doors in my life that have been closed to me because I lack the degree. There are other doors I've never tried to open because I knew I couldn't without that piece of paper.

At age 49, I'm about to begin a new chapter in my learning journey that will pull me out of my orbit around a classroom and back into a desk chair. I can already hear Dick, Jane and Sally laughing! You know what? I'm laughing with them.

Welcome to my parable life!

Alone

I happened to start my new job two days before a combo retreat and leadership training sesssion, which meant I got to attend the event. It was held here.

I have driven by the place no less than 7.5 bazillion times (OK, that might be a bit of a stretch) and had no idea there was another world beyond the dense tangle of trees and shrubs snuggled up against the state highway bordering the property on the south. The slim iron archway framing the narrow entrance doesn't exactly say, "Come on in, y'all". The whole place seemed a little foreboding, and I kind of figured you needed some kind of Papal hall pass to step onto the sprawling grounds.

So I never did. I'd drive by and wonder what went on inside that forest, but never felt like I could just drive in there. Until someone told me I had to do so.

I was entirely surprised that this gorgeous piece of property existed right here in my own backyard. Chicago's suburbs aren't especially scenic, unless you find strip malls, pot holes and gritty forest preserves scenic. Chicago's lakefront is pretty; the 'burbs, not so much. And though I find beauty in abandoned lots full of broken glass, every once in a while, my overheated soul needs to take a long drink of a view that's just flat-out stunning.

This was that. And in the stress of learning a gigantic new job and meeting too many new people (please, no quizzes on their names and titles. I'm not certain I'd get a passing grade today) the saturated, manicured green of the grounds was an oasis.

But my time outdoors led me to where I always, always seem to end up when I attend retreats and conferences: to a totally empty chapel. "Chapel" might be a bit of a misnomer for the worship space at St. Mary's - it was over-the-top ornate, and seated hundreds, but they call it a chapel anyway.

In that silent space, closed my eyes, bowed my head and waited. Worshipped. Alone.

And not alone at all.

"How lovely is your dwelling place, O LORD Almighty!
My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the LORD; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.
Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young—a place near your altar, O LORD Almighty, my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in your house; they are ever praising you." - Ps. 84:1-4

Check it out

http://www.theparablelife.com

Spiffy!

Growing a parable life

When I hear people talking about the stories Jesus told, I listen. I've spent the last few years focused on them. Yes, I've studied them, read lots of commentaries and sermons, delighted in contemplating them and written 2 books about them...but the true joy for me is simply immersing myself in these stories. These stories are my birthright (and yours) as a beloved child of the King. They describe His life and must define mine.

This morning at church, the Gospel reading came from Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23. The words stun and woo me. And then they brought me back to the thoughts I'd penned in Uprooted: Growing a parable life from the inside out in the introductory portion of my chapter about this story. Enjoy!

He told the crowd the story of dirt times four:
- The seed that landed on hard-trod dirt paths would never germinate. It would be pulverized by feet on their way to other places; it would become tasty bird food.
- The seed that landed on cool, moist rock would sprout feathery roots and a baby stem in the warm sun. That sun would then proceed to bake the tiny plant dry.
- The seed that landed in weedy, thorn-filled soil would be like a ballerina in a cage match, beaten senseless with sharp jabs before she was choked to death.
- The seed that landed on rich, loamy soil would grow and multiply until the black earth was transformed into an emerald ocean ready for the harvest.

It was obvious that only seed sown on good soil would become a part of a harvest. Some of Jesus’ hearers may have questioned that part in His story about a yield from that good field of thirty, sixty or a hundred times, when the best any of them could ever dream of was a yield maybe six or seven times greater than what they’d planted.

The religious teachers of Jesus’ day would sometimes explain that they were sowing truth into the lives of the faithful. But those teachers knew that the most they could hope for was a one-for-one return on their teaching in the form of a committed person becoming yet more committed to a religious lifestyle. If anyone listening to Jesus’ story that day had a glimmer of imagination that this stuff about a hundred-fold return might be referencing something other than agriculture, the absurd percentages Jesus used when talking about the good soil’s yield probably vanquished that thought.

His story sounded like today’s farm report…except for the way Jesus ended it. He didn’t say “good night, and good news” or “…and that’s the way it is” or “over and out”.

It was the perplexing “He who has ears to hear, let him hear”. English doesn’t quite capture the imperative urgency found in the original language. “You listening to me? Then do what I say!” is how that phrase might sound today. Author Eugene Peterson paraphrases it this way: “Are you listening to this? Really listening?”

If change was hopeless, then why did He tell His listeners to hear Him loud and clear? Dirt, after all, just lays there. It can’t change on its own. If it is concrete hard, it isn’t going to undertake an aerobic program to aerate itself. If it is rock, it is permanent and immovable. Dirt choked with thorns will never become self-weeding.

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” Jesus was telling them that true understanding translated into real obedience. Obedience to the Word of God was a combination plow – fertilizer - weed killer that could transform barren lives of trampled ground, rock and thorn-choked soil into lives that were characterized by supernatural abundance.

Later, alone with His disciples, Jesus explained the meaning of this story first by telling them that they indeed had ears to hear. The seed is the word of God, He said. Sown extravagantly, He knew that much of His precious word was going to land in the lives of those who weren’t prepared to receive it:

- Hearing the word of God, obeying Him, can be aborted by the devil before His life is fully birthed in some people’s lives.

- Obedience can be rooted in pure emotion for others, producing good times and spiritual goose bumps, but withers when the rosy glow is roasted away in the heat of a trial.

- Money and sensual pleasure and worry drain the life out of a life once committed to obeying God.

A glorious “but” came at the end of His explanation. “But the seed on good soil stands for those with a noble and good heart, who hear the word, retain it, and by persevering produce a crop” (Luke 8:15). Soil is productive both because it is a hospitable environment for the seed and because it can sustain growth through to harvest time.

Though Jesus’ story ends with the finality of the way the four kinds of soil will be evaluated at the end-of-all-things harvest, there is a preamble to this parable.

Watch the Sower’s labor of love in the story and you’ll see what I mean.

Imagine that

Just when you think you can imagine how things are going to work in your life...

...your child brings home a flea-bitten stray dog.

...the doorbell rings at 2:30 a.m.

...you discover a hidden stash in your son's sock drawer

...you open the envelope

...you lose your balance

...words jump off the page and upend your thinking

...the doctor walks into the room holding your file open

...you overhear a conversation you weren't meant to hear

...your husband leaves

...or wants to come home

...a miracle occurs

...or heaven seems silent

...you get an offer you can't refuse

The last one on the list happened to me a week ago. Next Tuesday, I begin my new job as the interim Director of Worship Arts at Trinity International University, producing 5 chapel services a week, mentoring students, and more. Prayer, worship, learning, life together...

I'm humbled, in a new place of dependence, and the bearer of an unquenchable longing to honor God in all things.

I'd sure value your prayers.

Let's play!

I have a lot to learn about play. Again.

When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me to go outside and play. Before I could come up with a reason why I couldn't, she'd shove me out the door and lock it behind me. Literally. I was the kid who would have gladly spent my summer vacation holed up in my room, reading. The most joyous moments of my elementary-school playtime were spent working my way through the entire late 1940's-vintage World Books on our family bookshelf, as well as the children's classics that came in the mail every month. This literary diet was supplemented with the Redbook and Ladies Home Journal magazines to which my mom subscribed.

Reading was playing. Or, if I got tired of reading, I loved doing craft projects or watching TV. Playing with the neighborhood kids was work for me. My favorite playground was my mind...until I had kids. They enrolled me in the remedial course in play.

When we had 3 babies in 36 months, I tried to remember a little piece of super-true doggerel found on too many cheesy plaques (next to the Footprints collection) at places like the Cracker Barrel:

"Cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow

For children grow up we've learned to our sorrow

So quiet down cobwebs, Dust go to sleep!

My baby needs rocking and babies won't keep!"

Though plaques aren't usually a source of wisdom in my life, I knew these words were true - and that the last line extended far beyond the newborn-rocking phase to be there, present and fully-engaged with my little ones at each step of their development when I was used to living in my head. I know I succumbed to the temptation more than I should have to replace "cleaning" and "scrubbing" in the verse above with other verbs: "reading", "helping other people", "writing". But that little verse ended up being God's goad in my life, driving me out of my head and my agenda and to the beach to build sandcastles, to the table to color WITH ALL 64 CRAYONS, and to pull the blanket out of the closet to make dozens of forts.

When we moved 4 years ago, I found a ticket for a magic show given to my husband and I. (Our kids often put on various shows for us after dinner each night: magic, obstacle course, theater, music.) I put the kid-made ticket in my daytimer, an odd oxymoron - a piece of childhood ephemera stuck into the pages of a decidedly adult tool. That little ticket is more than just a reminder of the sweetest moments of our kids' childhood. It is something I still need to redeem now, today, in my life.

Now that my kids are young adults themselves, I need to learn how to play...again. Bill and I and our amazing friends Scott and Karen went and had a day of adult playtime yesterday: a winery visit, a lot of wandering around, and theater under the stars at the American Players Theater in Spring Green, WI. It was a delightful day, but I have to admit - this recreation stuff still doesn't come naturally to me.

The things I've discovered about play (get my nose out of the book, stay in the moment, and redeem those invitations to attend magic shows put on by 9 year-olds) are the ones I need now more than ever.

You too?

What's in YOUR wallet?

I went to the bank yesterday to deposit the check representing the money I inherited from my mom. People take checks to the bank all the time - or, if they're like me, to the drive-up cash machine, filling out an envelope while using their steering wheel as a desk. But this check was different, and not just because I actually went and handled the transaction with a human instead of a colorful machine.

I held in my hand a paper representing a lifetime of my parents' hard work. I remembered my dad coming home with road salt smudges all over his pants because he'd been crawling around junk yards, taking pictures of cars that had been in accidents. (He was an insurance adjuster.) I remembered the place my mom worked throughout the second half of my childhood - the gritty office of a plastic bag factory. We used to joke that her job was to test each bag to make sure there were no holes in them. They invested and saved and planned and met with their accountant and financial guy to ensure they'd have a comfortable retirement, and to make sure that my sister and I would have something after they were gone.

And here it was, in my hand. Neither of them lived long enough to have the retirement they'd dreamed of. All of that work and effort and love for my sister and I was now a piece of paper with some numbers on it. I am grateful for it, but it is not a joyful gift. It is sad and sobering.

The bard John Lennon observed, "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans." It occurs to me that death happens the in much the same way.

Jesus paired his parable about what had consumed a rich man's life with some very pointed teaching about the choices we make about how to best invest our lives. (You can find the passage here.) And I'm asking today because this passage has become 3-D in my life in a new way because of the soul-sadness I felt as I held the check in my hand: What does investing in eternity look like here? Now? My words and confession of faith proclaim one thing, but my checkbook and datebook say something else.

One-question church ministry staff survey

Here's the question:

If you are a pastor, worship leader or staff member who receives a paycheck for your service to your congregation, would you try to find a way to do your job if the paycheck evaporated?

There are some of you who've planted churches or started ministries, and you know what it like to do ministry AND be a barista. There are others who've been a part of churches who've experienced internal problems, and the offering doesn't cover the cost of your rented elementary school gymnasium, much less this month's apartment rent. You guys don't have to answer the question. You already have.

When the rest of us who aren't employed by a church have a boss who is unable to pay us, we pack up our desk, head over to the unemployment office, and slap a resume on monster.com as fast as we can. But the rules are completely different when it comes to ministry positions.

Or are they? Would you do what the church is paying you to do for free?

Elmer's tent

Even my overactive imagination could not invent this story. This is my version of abundant life - a fun true story to celebrate the first day of summer arriving at last:

I've only been camping once, and I didn't even make it through an entire night under the stars. My friend Michele (one "L", so you can tell us apart) suggested that we take our kids camping, just us two moms. Our husbands were busy working, and our respective summers had hit that part in late July where the days move as slowly as hound dogs sleeping under the porch in Alabama. Camping would be a great adventure.

The campground was about 2 hours from home. Since I come from non-camping stock, I had a little cooler and some sleeping bags. Michele had the rest of the goods, and told me she was going to use this trip as an excuse to purchase a nice big tent. Some man named Elmer was selling his late 1940's-vintage Sears tent for a song. (The song was "I've Been Held Hostage In Elmer's Damp Basement Since He Bought Me in 1948".)

It was in the low 90's that day, with soup-thick humidity levels. We pulled the tent out of the box only to discover that (surprise!) - it had a bit of dry rot, and some of the pieces didn't quite fit together like the yellowed directions said they would. We piled the kids into the car and headed to the nearest town to buy some duct tape. This little trip turned out to be a good thing, as we would be driving the route again a few hours later under vastly different conditions.

The duct tape did the trick, and Elmer's tent stood majestically in the pines, enjoying what might have been its maiden voyage in the great outdoors. We went for a hike, and it was about then that some of the kids (OK, they were mine) began to melt down. It was hot and buggy, and everyone was a little ragged from the mystery and creativity it took to erect Elmer's tent. We headed back to the campground as the sky turned that florescent gray-green of a fierce summer thunderstorm. The eight of us headed into the tent to wait it out.

Then the tornado sirens sounded. There was an announcement over a distant loudspeaker telling us to evacuate the campground, but we couldn't understand where we were supposed to go.

So we got back into the car and headed into...

(wait for it)

(wait for it)

...the path of the oncoming tornado. It reminded me of that part in the The Wizard of Oz where all sorts of stuff flew past Dorothy after she got bonked on the head, just before she landed on the green chick. We made it to town, and found a diner with open doors just up the street from the hardware store where we'd purchased the duct tape. There was a handful of people sitting in the dark, listening to a battery-powered radio and waiting for the storm to pass. We joined them.

When an "all-clear" sounded, we walked outside to see downed tree limbs and roof shingles...and roofs themselves...all over the place. The town was a mess. We drove around, saying "Whoa" a lot, then headed back to the campground.

You guessed it.

Elmer's tent was still standing.

Good bye, my friend

I wrote about her last October. Judie lived a beautiful, abundant life. Her dying desires were the same desires that had defined her life: She longed for her children to walk with Christ, and for the rest of us to love one another the way Christ loves us.

She passed away last night. Please pray for her husband, her eight teen and young adult kids, family and large community of friends.

She was my hero.

72 and counting

It was a one hundred percent success rate. Seventy-two followers had gone out at Christ's instruction as ambassadors of the kingdom. All seventy-two returned telling Jesus they'd done the stuff they'd seen Him do - all of it! - and that demons submitted to them in His name.

All seventy-two of them. No spiritual gift inventory was administered to them before they were sent. There was no organizational analysis of their group. There was no extended time of training for ministry, save for what they'd experienced as they followed Jesus around, watching what he did and being immersed in His love for them. If anything, the instructions he gave them prior to unleashing them were pretty skimpy:
- Travel light; you don't need your stuff
- Travel wisely; you lambs are going to encounter wolves on the roads
- Accept the hospitality offered you and bless your hosts with your ministry and presence
- Heal sick people and tell everyone the kingdom is near
- If you get kicked out of town, you have my permission to curse it. Your curse will bring judgement to that place
- I am giving you my authority. Go!

And they did. When they came back, Jesus told them He'd seen Satan fall like lightning as a result of their kingdom words and works. And He told them that this amazing empowerment wasn't their primary cause for rejoicing, but that their names were written in heaven.

And then, these verbal fireworks, a celebration:

"At that time Jesus, full of joy through the Holy Spirit, said, "I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure" (Luke 10:21).

Stop for a moment and listen to the Trinity's celebratory embrace of one another and of these seventy-two who'd lived their character and experienced heaven on earth in these words. There's music and laughter and pure joy.

This obedience, this simplicity, this living the kingdom, this victory is what He wants from and for each one of us.

I'm a dirty rotten...

...sinner.

Yup.

And every single week, I say it loud and say it proud.

We've been attending an Anglican church since last fall, which means that our worship is offered through liturgy. Midway through the service, after lots of unadorned, proclaimed Scripture readings and a sermon, there is a time for confession. We confess our faith, and we confess our moral skunky-ness. This is my favorite part of the service next to communion. Listen to these words:

Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against You
in thought, word, and deed,
by what we have done,
and by what we have left undone.
We have not loved You with our whole heart;
we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.
We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.
For the sake of Your Son Jesus Christ,
have mercy on us and forgive us;
that we may delight in Your will,
and walk in Your ways,
to the glory of Your Name. Amen.

It is completely possible to say these words on autopilot. I haven't been able to do it yet. I hope I never do.

Oh, if only I could unplug my synapses

It's 11:39 PM on a Monday night. My body is tired, but my brain is ready for important musings and oddly random thoughts. Be very afraid:

(1) On the food-as-theater show America's Iron Chef the "secret ingredient" the dueling chefs must use to create 5 dishes ranges from terrifying fish that look like they could chew through your jugular to the more prosaic garlic. My husband and I thought it would be more realistic if the secret ingredient was Cool Whip or Cream of Mushroom soup. Or maybe you have some yummy ideas. Share them in a comment below.

(2) In other food-related news, Aldi is now running TV commercials. Aldi stores don't even have phone numbers. (Go ahead and try looking it up. See?) What conclusion are we to draw from this?

(3) I recently read a provocative statement that suggests that Boomers embraced adulthood because it meant freedom and independence - and that our children are terrified of adulthood because it means the end of their freedom and independence. Do you agree or disagree?

(4) When we went to our first homeschool convention in 1990 (could have been 1989), there was a small vendor booth from the Fellowship of St. James in Chicago. We attended the convention for years afterward, but these folks never returned. My husband Bill grabbed a sample of their St. James Daily Devotional Guide that year and has been using it ever since. I've been using it for the last several years as well. This Bible-reading plan follows the Christian year, gives you several Psalms to pray through/worship with each day, and at the same time taking you systematically through Scripture at a comfortable pace. And the occasional notes (think Biblical or church history done with a devotional slant) are thoughtful illuminations on one of the day's texts. If you're looking for something a little different than the "Through The Bible In A Year" you've attempted the last few years, you might want to check this out.

(5) When you think of "home", where is it? Why? (And saying "heaven" in a second-grade Sunday School voice is not an acceptable answer.) I have been meditating on the concept of home recently, and some surprising thoughts have been forming. Stay tuned.

Church as an advertisement for the church

Mega-church Willow Creek has been drawing a lot of attention from bloggers passionate about the church as they've rolled out the Reveal study, as well as the changes they're trying to implement throughout their institution as a result. The study (so far) has basically quantified what a lot of us who care about the church already suspected: the deeper you grow spiritually, the less impact church services and programs seem to have on your life in God.

Although I don't resonate with the marketing they're doing with this information (pay to bring your church leadership/staff team to an Event so you can have a conversation about it), I admire the Reveal team for choosing to wrestle with the issue of what the church is - and isn't - supposed to be doing.

Focusing on the "why" strips away the obsessive focus on organizational/instititutional management that characterizes staff discussions at a lot of churches. Because promoting, managing and funding the institution becomes a focus, the church sometimes becomes nothing more than an advertisement for the church. If you drill deep enough in these places, you will likely find life - but you have to buy what the ad is selling, then perhaps hunt like crazy through the institution to find the (real deal, big C) Church in action. (Note: small groups in a big church are not the de facto place where you're guaranteed to discover the Church. If you've ever been in a terrible, false small group, you know what I'm talking about.)

However, this is not a slam against Big Box guys. Small congregations are just as easily tempted to focus on building and selling their own corner of the kingdom and claiming its something its not.

I have seen the Church at her most beautiful. She is radiant, hopeful, generous and completely love-struck as she waits for her Bridegroom. She lives like this as she waits:

"They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved." - Acts 2:42-47

In fact, she lives like this because she waits. She knows Who she is waiting for.

You don't need to market and continuously massage your institution to in order to sell people church.

The Church gives herself away - to God, to one another, and to everyone around them.

Ding! You have mail!

If I had a nickel for every time I checked my e-mail in a typical day, I'd have enough shekels in my pocket so I could fill my gas tank.

If I drove an 18-wheeler from New York to LA.

When I first started writing, I used to run to the mailbox to look for the return of the self-addressed, stamped envelopes (SASEs) I'd sent along with my article or script submissions to editors. These SASE's contained the editor's verdict on my work: a fat envelope meant they were returning my manuscript to me with a rejection letter; a thin envelope contained a contract. Once a day, I would stand at the mailbox, grope the SASE, and, whether the envelope was fat or skinny, take a big, big breath before I tore into it.

Even though the fat envelope meant rejection, the rejection letters kept improving over the years. At first, they were almost always form letter rejections. Eventually, more of them carried revision suggestions or notes of encouragement about my writing skills. And the thin ones were always a party!

But e-mail has changed the rules of the waiting game for writers. E-mail means that an editor may reply to my query, article or book proposal at any hour of the day or night. (And they have!) This any-hours launching capability means the recipient gets that e-mail durn near instantly into my inbox. Which means that I can check my e-mail at 6:57 a.m., 7:19 a.m., 7:21 a.m., 7:40 a.m., 7:41 a.m, 7:49 a.m., 7:53 a.m. and so on. And some days, I do.

The ability to do so is not always a gift. It is a time-waster, and says much about my own pitiful lack of discipline. Business efficiency experts suggest checking e-mail only during specific times of the day. This is a good idea, and will require me to slowly break some really bad, almost compulsive habits.

What is in me that allowed these addictive habits to shape my writing time so easily? E-mail is a way to connect with another human being somehow. Writing can be a very solitary pursuit. Even though e-mail is a far cry from a flesh-and-blood relationship, it is a small marker I'm not alone; I'm worth someone's response. (I am also worth being marketed to - diet aids, porn, people from Nigeria looking for help procuring their dead aunt's inheritance.) Just often enough to reward my bad behavior, I get a response. It keeps me going back for more.

Too much of my writing career has felt like I'm standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, whispering my longing for God's Life into a fierce wind. During seasons of discouragement (I'm kind of in one now), the sound of that wind mutes the sound of my whispered words. An e-mail tells me that maybe someone is listening.

And I forget. And remember.

He is.

Pray for Rachel's little boy

Our daughter Rachel is expecting baby number 2. We learned he's a little boy.

We also learned there's a potential complication with his umbilical cord Instead of 2 arteries and a vein, he only has one of each. This condition, called SUA , could be a sign of an array of serious things - or he could be just fine. If you have any experience with SUA, Id' love to hear from you.

The baby is about 20 weeks along. Halfway there...

Rachel and Carlos are very, very concerned, as are we. Please pray for them, as they're not really going to be able to relax much until after the baby is born. If you click on the "called SUA" link above, you'll discover why. This family is living on the razor's edge as it is. They've experienced more drama and hardship in 5 years than most of us experience in a lifetime. They need God's strength and wisdom to walk through this time in their lives...and in the life of this little baby.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." - Psalm 139:13-16

Ratio, O Ratio, Wherefore Art Thou, Ratio?

In the most recent issue of Rev magazine, church growth dude Charles Arn spun out some interesting ratios featuring the word "should":

5:100 - Your church, according to Arn, should average 5 visitors for every 100 in attendance.

1:4 - 1 of every 4 visitors should be a regular attendee within a year of his/her first visit.

1:7 - Every one of your members should have at least 7 friends in the church.

7:100 - Your church should have 7 groups for every 100 members-plus-regular-attenders

6:10 - For every 10 members-plus-reg-attenders, your church should have 6 role/task positions

Arn suggests that these ratios are a pretty reliable measure of a healthy church, no matter what size the congregation is. Though these figures are rooted in social science and organizational dynamics, these numbers resonate with me. (Amazing, because I'm not generally a fan of numbers.)

In recent years, Bill and I have spent too much time being church visitors. Frankly, it is almost always a miserable experience. We have visited churches that were horribly unwelcoming. They might as well have put a security guard at the door and called the building a clubhouse at the 19th hole.

We have visited churches that appeared to be friendly, only to discover that there was no room for us in the social constellation of the church, another way of saying the place was terribly cliquey and self-congratulatory. Other church leaders informed us that there would be a place for us to serve, and that place was the nursery. (Which is OK, because God loves babies, but it's not OK, because they never really wanted to know who we were, but only wanted us to plug a hole in their schedule.)

And we've visited churches that offer us a bunch of spiritual coworkers, but are too busy to nurture discipleship-type friendships.

The church isn't called to have the relational dynamics of an elementary-school playground, high school cafeteria, or a Michael Scott-managed office.

I think Arn is right.

Beyond Arn's number crunching, I believe Scripture calls us to be counter-cultural in some socially-profound, agape love ways. I am contending in prayer for this, in my own life and in the life of the church. It is not an ideal. It is in our DNA as members of the bride.

Agree? Disagree? Let me have it.