The Missional Church
Post Christian Good News?
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Following up on my previous post about Jon Meacham’s Newsweek article, “The Decline and Fall of Christian America,” I call your attention to Jim Wallis: “A Christian Mistake.” Wallis argues that the shift Meacham describes may be good news. The “mistake” is this (quoting Wallis):
“The Religious Right was a Christian mistake. It was a movement that sought to implement a “Christian agenda” by tying the faithful to one political option — the right wing of the Republican Party. The politicizing of faith in such a partisan way is always a theological mistake. But the rapid decline of the Religious Right now offers us a new opportunity to re-think the role of faith in American public life.”
What Wallis does not address is the rise of an enraged minority, many of its members still firmly rooted in the Christian Political Right, smaller and less politically influential than the Religious Right has been, but perhaps more dangerous for being violent. Some of us would like to rethink the role of faith in American public life (or reclaim a role we have long thought it should have); a significant remnant wants that Old Time Religion back in Washington. How far are they willing to go?
Michele Bachmann has described the opposition as “armed and dangerous.” That’s not good news for the rethinking of the role of faith in American life.
The No Ecstasy Zone
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I read a lengthy article the other day by Jon Meacham, the editor of Newsweek, who happens to be an Episcopalian and respected historian. Titled “The End of Christian America,” the article explores the meaning of certain demographic shifts in the religious landscape, particularly the decline in the percentage of self-identified Christians (people who affiliate with a church).
For R. Albert Mohler, Jr., president of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, the most alarming aspect of this trend is that the 2008 American Religious Identification Survey reported, as Meachem writes, that “the number of Americans who claim no religious affiliation has nearly doubled since 1990, rising from 8 to 15 percent. Then came the point he [Mohler] could not get out of his mind: while the unaffiliated have historically been concentrated in the Pacific Northwest, the report said, ‘this pattern has now changed, and the Northeast emerged in 2008 as the new stronghold of the religiously unidentified.’ As Mohler saw it, the historic foundation of America’s religious culture was cracking.”
The Pacific Northwest has been described as the “None Zone” in recognition of our aversion to formal religious affiliation (although we are fond of spiritual retreat centers and nature). The expansion of the Zone is like the hole in the ozone over the poles: it keeps growing and threatens the souls below exposed to deadly cosmic rays.
On the same weekend I read an article in the New York Times Magazine about the Redeemed Christian Church of God, a flourishing new pentecostal movement coming out of Nigeria that portends a “new awakening” in the United States.
We in the US are subject to occasional revivals, sudden re-awakenings that are charismatic and grass-roots, often sparked by ecstatic preaching.
One thing we can say about the mainstream church, so evidently in decline, is that there is little ecstasy to be found there. Our theology also tends to be as rational as our worship. We are seldom “slain in the spirit” and never speak in tongues (unless you count certain proclamations by church authorities). We talk a lot in our churches, explaining as we go through worship what we are doing as we do it, even when a bulletin in front of us tells us what comes next. Charismatics talk a lot too, but their talk is not meant to persuade so much as move.
What makes the charismatic experience so attractive is its capacity to move people–to joy, to tears, to action. It is less common for worshipers in the mainstream churches to be moved–or to want to be moved. And I think that is one of the primary reasons the mainstream churches are losing members: we get hung up on terminology, modes of management, issues of doctrinal differences, explanations of the inexplicable. Our faith is in our heads and in our organizational charts.
The Redeemed Christian Church gives me the willies–make no mistake. Its leaders feel like snake-oil salesmen. And mindless babble is not the same thing as faithful living. But surely we in the dying churches can bestir ourselves enough to perform the occasional miracle, fall weeping to our knees, or begin laughing uncontrollably at the most solemn moment of our solemn worship?
I understand that a UCC Church here in Portland gave paper butterflies to children to release from the church balcony on Easter morning. If kids could do that in church, more of them would come. And if adults were regularly dosed with butterflies–well, imagine what miracles we might perform!
On Not Filling the Pews
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Located in a working class suburb, the church was ordinary–a brick structure from about 1950, its back toward the street. I drove in with a sense of foreboding. The parking lot was virtually empty. Lately, I had visited too many churches that were in crisis, losing members, dull, spiritless, and I thought, “Here’s another one.”
But when I walked in, a small group of older women seated in the narthex chirped “hello, welcome.” And a man shook my hand. “Glad to see you.”
“Make him sign the book,” one of the women said. I signed. “And give us your social security number,” the man said.
By the front door was a white board on which events of the day and week were written. There was information everywhere, a signup sheet for prayers, busy bulletin boards, an open library space with up-to-date information and books and DVDs. The pastor greeted me warmly. “We’ll talk after church,” he said.
The church was slow to fill and in the end there were only about 50 people present, many of them over 60. One woman told me she was 93. A few younger people arrived and a couple of children. Not promising, I thought. But the worship was spirited and warm. The people were not bored. The choir was small but good and sat with the congregation, wearing every-day clothes. No performance here.
When I spoke with the pastor, he said that the congregation was self-supporting (in fact, had built a small endowment and mission fund!) and engaged in vigorous ministry in the area. The parish was about to open a jobs resource center, operated a day-care center, and fed the hungry.
“I don’t care if we fill the church,” the pastor said. “What I want to do is let the community know what we’re doing, whether they join us or not. My assistant meets with students at the college for pizza and beer every couple of weeks to talk about the Bible. Maybe one will show up here. That’s ok. It’s not about filling this church. It’s about building the kingdom.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Help us get our story out,” he said.
And I could see what he meant. His congregation was doing something very right, something important. It was living out its ministry but in a kind of secret space. The goal was to serve more people not bring more people in.
As I left, I looked at the somewhat dated brick building with new respect. This was the first real missional church I’d visited, the first that understood what it means to be healthy, to give itself away, to live the gospel for the gospel’s sake not for its own aggrandizement.
Preaching with Mannequin
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My sermon that morning was on the story in Mark 9, in which the disciples are unable to cast out a spirit torturing a young man. Of course, Jesus is able to heal the boy, who is possessed by a particularly virulent spirit. The parish I was serving at the time was also a theater. The altar was set up each Sunday on whatever set was on stage. Backstage were props of various sorts. Before the morning service began, I was backstage and spotted a mannequin torso–upper body, arms, head–and thought it would make a great prop for my sermon.
I put the mannequin the floor beside my chair and, when it came time to preach, carried it with me. I stood in front of the congregation, not behind a pulpit and, before I said a word, dropped the mannequin. It broke apart, as I expected, so that there were body parts on the floor. I picked up an arm and said something like, “How can I put this body back together again?”
As I explored the challenge of healing, I held the arm in my right hand, waving it about, pouring my heart and soul into a sermon that felt inspired. The seats in the worship space, which was also the theater space, rose in front of the stage so that I was looking directly into the faces of the congregation. As I spoke I began to notice that there were smirks on their faces; I heard a couple of outright giggles. What I was saying was not funny. I began to get annoyed. What was the matter? Could they not hear how serious my message was? How important it is to have faith in our interactions with people if we expect to help them? That healing is about relationship?
Then, I looked at the mannequin arm I was holding and understood. When I dropped it, all of the fingers but one had broken off of the hand. The one that remained was the middle finger.
As I preached, I was giving the congregation “the finger.”
I paused and gazed at the hand, then smiled, then laughed. We all laughed. It was an example of how impromptu sermon props can run off with the message. But, more importantly, it was an example of how the prop is not the message. The humor of the moment is what people will remember long after whatever I said is forgotten. And in the humor is the message of healing. When we let go of whatever pretensions we have, when we get rid of the props that we think we need, what’s left is the moment of recognition in which we see each other clearly.
I could push the point by explaining how often the church confuses its props with its message, but that would be redundant.
Whose Church Is It?
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A few years ago, the parish I was serving began to experiment with new forms of worship. We had a newly renovated space and needed to fill it with new and spirited people. Not that those of us in the congregation were not filled with spirit. We were. But we were also shrinking in size; the core community was like a family that stayed in every night and played cards by the fire. We all had a good time but no one wanted to join us in our solitary entertainments.
So we played with the forms of worship, and things got a little chaotic. Some of us felt that was a good thing. Something else happened: new people showed up. The space was filled–and that hadn’t happened in a long time. The new worship was aimed at a younger group of mostly theater people. We featured livelier music and dialed back the formalities. Since this was an Episcopal Church, there was a lot of formality to release.
One Sunday, members of the choir, who had been displaced as the center of parts of worship, began to boycott the service. Congregational singing had replaced choir performance (not entirely, but to a great extent). An earlier service was more traditional, and the choir performed in it, but it was also shrinking as people gravitated toward the new service. And so, as members of the choir sat outside muttering imprecations, the priest in charge of the parish began to get nervous.
The climactic meeting of the Vestry during which the “traditionalists” demanded that the new service be scrapped was memorable for its seething resentments. There was obviously more to the choir boycott than met the eye: this was not just about the new form of worship. It was about the loss of control over a parish that had been in the hands of one group for years.
One member of the Vestry stormed out of the meeting, crying, “I want my church back!”
And the priest gave it back. The services were cancelled. The choir returned to its place. The new members went away.
What I have learned over the years is that many church communities do not want to grow, even though the members may say they want to bring in new people. When church communities grow, the old leadership can often feel resentful, left out. The change in the parish that led to the rebellion of the choir came too quickly; the traditional leadership was not engaged, was not prepared. Threatened, it struck back at the people who were in charge of the new worship planning. And, along with the new people who had begun to attend, they left the parish, angry and confused. If the traditional leadership did not want growth, what did they want?
If the church is “mine,” it is not a church. It’s a shrine to me. But when we make changes, we have to make sure we understand who is losing something and bring them along. We also need to bear in mind that sometimes you cannot bring along those who resist change. “My” church sometimes has to die for the church to go on.
Looking In, Looking Out
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Lent is a time of reflection, and mostly we think of it as a time to take a personal inventory. As a publisher, I am aware that Lent is a good season for the sale of books, better even than Christmas. Congregations will often select a book to discuss during Lent, perhaps one about spiritual disciplines or prayer.
In Lent we also seek to deny ourselves in some way, often by giving up treats like chocolate or wine. Eating or drinking less also clears the mind so that the spirit has some room to move around. The desert fathers fasted and, during Lent, we are also encouraged to fast on occasion or even on Fridays.
But I think that Lent is also a time for congregations to examine themselves, to undergo a period of self-denial. The spiritual health of our communities is theatened these days by the economic crisis, which affects our budgets, our “programs,” our administrative staff, our very existence. What will become of a small congregation when the money runs out? What if the church can no longer afford to pay the pastor or the heating bill? When the roof leaks, where will the money to fix it come from?
Self-denial comes unbidden to us. This Lent a congregation would do well to examine its collective spiritual health, imagine what it would be like to walk away from certain expenses, experiment with different visions of their corporate life. Could this church still be a church if we no longer had a building? What would our lives be like if we did not have a professional member of the clergy on payroll? Suppose members did not give money to support a building and staff but only to care for each other?
While a congregation looks at its inner life in this way, it might also spend time during this Lent looking outward. What does the community in which it is located need? What can this church do to supply that need–and what might it have to give up to do that?
A congregation in Lent might send out a message of hope by turning to those in need, not to tell them to give up something or to beat their breasts in sorrow for sin, but rather to offer them encouragement, a place to eat or sleep, support in times of anxiety, defense against injustice. Suppose a congregation in Lent saw its role as one of mission, acting as if God has called its members not to observe the holy Lent of one’s own navel but the holy need of one’s neighbor?
As you walk out of church on Ash Wednesday with a smudge of ash on your forehead (if your church practices that ritual–if not, with a metaphorical smudge of repentence), recall that everyone you meet, whether Christian or not is feeling the certainty of returning to dust, sometimes even at the moment you meet them on the street. Every day for so many now is a kind of dying. Every congregation is called to offer life, if necessary by giving up its own.
Signs of the Times
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One Sunday some years ago, when I was Director of Communications for a large Episcopal diocese, I visited a parish interested in learning more about how to communicate with its community. Located in a suburb, surrounded by houses, set back from the street, the church building told me a lot as I parked on the street. There was no obvious entrance to the church worship space; two or three options presented themselves. No sign directed me. On the spacious lawn was a small traditional sign–black background with small white letters–announcing the name of the parish, the hours of worship, the names of the clergy, and the title of the day’s sermon. Anyone driving by would have had difficulty absorbing much of the information. Next to the church sign was a colorful, large sign about the day-care center operated in the church building by another organization. Looking at the two signs, it was obvious which organization was the more vital of the two.
We see these dreary black signs with (usually) crooked white letters on urban church buildings. Their message is: we’re too tired to come up with something interesting–or, if you are not a member here we are not especially interested in your coming in. The names of clergy are not especially helpful, since they are generally unknown. The titles of the sermons are frequently lame efforts to be clever: “Don’t Kiss That Leper!” Often these signs are replaced by the churchy equivalent of billboards and are, if anything, worse for being more noticeable. 
What’s a hip church to do?
One problem here is the notion that the point of the sign is to attract people into the church, to encourage them to worship with the congregation and, presumably, become paying members. The big signs are simply more garish versions of the dreary signs. They offer fast-food religion.
The missional church does not need a sign, other than one announcing, “Church Community Here.” Perhaps a colorful banner would help. Most important is the visible presence of people–at the door, on the front porch, in the yard. These people are doing something worth noticing or are themselves interesting. They might speak to people passing by.
One church here in Portland has a wonderful front portico and on Sundays members of the church are on the porch greeting those who stop or come in. There are often groups standing around talking, if the weather is nice. But whatever the weather, there are people in front of the church. But only on Sundays. As with most Protestant churches, the building is locked on the other days of the week.
Imagine a church building that is full of activity all the time–and not just “churchy” meeting activity or AA gatherings or choir practice. Suppose poets gathered there to read their poems or farmers brought produce to sell. Suppose the church building functioned not as an intake mechanism for membership–and a once-weekly place of ho-hum worship–but as a vital center for community life? In our society, such centers are few. Churches used to offer themselves to communities in that way. What happened?
What Am I Doing Here?
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The Missional Church is a new website set up by Ken Arnold, a retired deacon in the Episcopal Church. (You can read more about me under “About” in the sidebar.) As someone who has worked in the church in one capacity or another for the past thirty years–and as a publisher and professional communicator in and out of the church–I have a unique set of skills to offer the contemporary congregation or church administrator trying to figure out how to live out the gospel in a post-modern society.
So, I am here to sell consulting services. No need to beat around that bush. What I know about the church in modern society comes in part from having been a Director of Communications for the Episcopal diocese in Boston and from serving as publisher for the Episcopal Church USA. But I also know the church as a community of believers trying to live out its baptismal vows in daily life.
I live in Portland, Oregon, where something in the neighborhood of ten percent of the population is active in a church community. That is the lowest percentage in the nation. But that does not mean that the people of Portland are lacking in spiritual need or awareness. What might it take to make Portland churches more visible or more necessary to the people who live here? The same question is being asked by churches around the country that are losing members, perhaps feel that they have lost their sense of mission and purpose, that are uncertain about their response to the economic crisis around them.
Does the church have a future in this society, which is increasingly disconnected from the kind of community represented by the church? Again, the issue is not whether people have spiritual lives; it is whether the church offers answers to their questions and gives hope to their lives.
Tags: church, communications, Episcopal Church, mission, Portland Oregon
