Like the devil tempted Jesus to turn stones into bread, the enemy tempts us to believe in flashy shortcuts.
This past Sunday, I took vacation. I love being a pastor, and I especially love leading worship and preaching, but there is also something wonderful once in a while about worshipping from a pew. I slept in, something I never do on Sunday mornings otherwise, and by the time I got ready and scraped off the ice I was surprised to see on my car (and tracked down an ice scraper in my parents' garage), I sat in my car and was afraid I would not be able to find a place to go to church. Even if I left right in that moment I was going to be late for the worship service at the large, downtown church I had planned on attending. Irritably, I consulted Google and the closest option I had a chance of making on time was at a small Episcopal church in a small town at the southern outskirts of the Kansas City area.
When I got there, I saw the deacon and acolyte, robed and prepared for a procession into the church service. My face flushed with embarrassment at being basically late. The deacon actually broke from the procession, shook my hand, and introduced himself. He handed me a bulletin, explained it would contain everything I needed, and gave directions for looking up hymns in the hymnal. Instantly I felt myself begin to relax, the embarrassment at my tardiness fading away.
The pews were sparsely populated, and nearly everyone I saw looked old enough to be my grandparents. As the service began, though, the people sang with loud enthusiasm, and just as the deacon said, all of the liturgy and directions for the service were clearly spelled out in the bulletin. The sermon was a short but lovely meditation on John 1:1-18, given by the priest, adorned in a golden chasuble and seated at a stool even with the first row of pews.
During the passing of the peace, people introduced themselves to me and asked me about myself. I slipped out, in need of the bathroom, and found the path to the bathroom clearly marked with an easel outside of the sanctuary announcing, "Restrooms down the hall to your left." The bathroom had lotion, tissues, and air freshener.
After the service ended, people continued introducing themselves and urging me to stay for coffee hour. I declined politely, since my mother was cooking brunch. But I was impressed with this little church's hospitality. They did not assume I knew anything about the bulletin or about looking up hymns, but offered assistance. They didn't just say hello, but asked me about myself and encouraged me to stay for coffee hour. They didn't assume I'd know my way to the bathroom, but provided a sign. It didn't look like a public bathroom, but like a guest bathroom at someone's house. All of it helped me feel welcomed and cared for. And if I were not a United Methodist pastor, and if I were looking for a church, I honestly think I would want to return to that little church. They didn't have people my own age, or lots of programming, or technology, or the best music I have heard. But they had hospitality. They had love.
Millennials are a highly sought after demographic by the church. Churches always say they want more young people. As a pastor, I certainly want to reach out to young people, too. But as a millennial myself, I believe hospitality and love are the most essential ingredients in reaching new millennials for Jesus. We grew up in a world where have been sold to our whole lives-- through television, and then in our adolescence, through the internet, smartphones, social media. We are used to sophisticated technology and marketing. When the church markets itself to us like another product, many of us say, No, having already been sold the promise of peace and happiness and wisdom and eternal life by Facebook, Apple, Google, clothing companies, makeup companies, car companies, etc., etc. But many people today, especially millennials, are lacking something that cannot be purchased-- community. A recent survey found half of Americans describe themselves as lonely, and millennials were the most likely to do so out of all the generations surveyed. Long work hours, busy schedules, economic struggles, and technology fray relationships. We have friends on Facebook, but struggle for real life connection.
The little Episcopal church reminded me of something important. The church-- any church-- can offer that kind of connection, by very intentionally and lovingly welcoming each person who walks through its doors. Not as a target or a customer, but as a friend. And when the church does that, it points to the welcome of Jesus Christ. Love costs no money, requires no technical skill, and can be done even by a little band of senior citizens. Don't get me wrong-- it's good to use technology, to preach good sermons, to construct good programs, to sing new songs, etc. But none of it means anything, especially not to this young generation, unless it is done in a spirit of Christlike hospitality, of love.
Writing has always been a kind of prayer for me, and there are times I can pray no other way. As I reflect on that Sunday of worship from the other side of the pulpit, it seems I hear God's reminder, to me and to God's whole church, "The greatest of all is love" (1 Corinthians 13:13).
