But It Doesn’t Work For Me: 10 Ways to Make Sure New Folks Feel Unwelcome at Your Church

We in the church are often older than the average population.  Many of us have been coming to church since we were infants.  And we know how things ought to be.  Just ask us.  But here’s the thing we forget: the people before us made way for us, as evidenced by the fact that we’re still here.  If they hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here.  It really is that simple.  So too must we make way for those to come after.  Or they will not come.

So – you say you want young folk.  And they aren’t here.  And you wonder why.

This list is not intended to say that we never get it right.  We know when we get it right.  It’s obvious.  What is not obvious is when we get it wrong.  Hence this list.

1. Insist that things remain as they have always been.  This was
the error of the Roman Catholic church at the time of the Reformation – to insist that nothing change is to lose those for whom change is essential to their participation. . . it is to fail to recognize that the new voice may just be the voice of God come with a new or renewing message to the faithful . . . Jesus did not come as a statue at a frozen moment in time . . . he came as a living, breathing, change-bringing human being . . .

2. Resent the change new folks bring with them.  The fact is that whenever a new person walks in, things change – literally, the identity of the group is changed whenever a single part of that group is changed . . . so with the loss of some and the addition of others.  Change thus understood, is inevitable.  Sensing this do many resent rather than embrace new folk, understanding the change their very presence brings as a threat rather than an opportunity.

3. Complain . . . a lot . . . insist that words to the hymns never be changed (treat the hymns as if they’re scripture) . . . voice your confusion when familiar tunes are put with different words (refusing to learn – learning, studies show, is actually promoted by changing things up a bit) . . . treat your customary seat as if it has your name engraved upon it . . . frown whenever someone new missteps on your (unknown to them) sacred cow of how things are “supposed to be” . . . snarl when young children fuss, or better, tell young parents how your children never acted that way in church . . . bitch and kvetch instead of offering solutions to new things being tried (such as recorded music because you can’t understand the words – rather than suggesting we might include the lyrics to help those who don’t hear so well anymore) . . . Whine about missing the choir, refusing to see that there aren’t enough voices to sustain a regular choir anymore and that this preacher is not a musician.  And absolutely do not volunteer to organize one yourself.

4. Blame others for your own changing limitations.  You don’t hear as well as you used to.  Standing and sitting are not easily done.  Sometimes you may find yourself more irritable, especially in those pews, which are not user-friendly to your aging body.  When that happens, be sure to blame your discomfort or limitation on the preacher (why does she make us stand so often?  Why doesn’t she leave the words to the songs alone?  Why is the sermon so long?), the new folks with kids (I can’t hear what’s being said over that child), the bulletin (squinting at the regular-sized order rather than taking one of the large-print ones lest someone know you can’t see as well as you once did and think you weak, less than), and so forth.

5. Refuse to learn anything new.  When a new song is introduced, refuse to sing it; refuse to even look at the words; revert to #3 and let the complaining begin.  When the preacher starts a blog, refuse to read it because you do not read blogs (declared as if you were announcing that you, a vegetarian, do not eat meat or you, a law-abider, do not break into other people’s homes).  When a new service is introduced, never attend, because it’s not your cup of tea.

6. Misremember your own past.  You were change to another generation at one time in your life.  Refuse to remember that.  Refuse to recall how others before you made space for you and your ideas and new ways.  Or how it made you feel when they didn’t.

7. Insist that church is your house (my house, my rules).  Actually, church is God’s house and we are all the guests.  The rules are God’s too.  Pews are not bible-mandated (read it – if we wanted to be biblical and literal about it, Sunday would have me as the preacher sitting rather than standing and the rest of you sitting on the floor or standing around me as I taught).  Participation and ownership are not the same thing.  One is inclusive; the other is not.  Isn’t it time at this point in your life that you understood that?

8. Insist that children are interruptions, better seen than heard.  Here’s the test to know if this is you: when an old folk makes a remark from the pew during the sermon, do you laugh?  (We do at my church).  Or do you complain that she should be quiet?  Of course you don’t.  Well, if she is able to ‘participate’ from the pew, why cannot the babies and little ones?  Jesus reserved a special anger for those who would keep the children away (presumably being the ‘distractions’ that they often are).  If it displeased Jesus, why would we think it would be all right for us to do it?  More importantly, why would we think the only message we’re to get on Sunday would come from the front?  (And remember, I’m the preacher in these scenarios).  Why would we not understand that maybe, just maybe, the ‘interruption’ was the real reason we were there?  That the child had something of God to teach us?

9. Insist that one’s apparel is the measure of one’s dedication to God  The testimony of a man I heard years ago at my home church makes the point better than I ever could: John (I can’t remember his name, so we’ll call him John) had a great epiphany when young, making his own profession of faith in a family member’s home just after he had sat in his van on their lawn with beer and joint in hand.  A brand-new Christian, he decided to come to church the next day.  Still having what he called a rebellious spirit, he came wearing his dirtiest clothes and no shoes.  He mentioned the clothes and one of the elders of the church shouted out to remind him that he was barefoot too (yes, people noticed).  Laughingly, he said, “you’re right – I’d forgotten that.”  Then he went on to say how everyone in that church made him feel welcome and made no comment on his appearance and how much difference that made – their loving him (or if you prefer, loving him anyway) – to his walk.  Some folks don’t have anything but work clothes.  Some are simply indifferent to their physical appearance.  Some are wearing their Sunday best and it just happens not to be quite as good (in our eyes) as our Sunday best.    And some are testing us, to see if we really live what we proclaim.  The whole idea of dressing up for church probably stems from rituals of purity (such as washing one’s hands or feet) before entering the house of the Lord.  But Christians have, by and large, not retained such rituals, understanding Jesus the Christ and his death on the cross to have achieved for us our ‘cleanliness’ before God.  So if it’s veneration for The Holy One you want, you might be better off to put a washing sink outside the sanctuary than to insist that men wear ties and women wear hats.

10. Always insist that worship is about you.  Forget that you have already had a lifetime of wonderful worship experiences.  Overlook that you have the skills to experience worship walking down the street.  In other words, refuse to make way for worship geared to those less sure in the faith than you.  Don’t participate in that worship.  Do not lend your support to it.  Make it always and only be about you and your needs, wants, desires.  Do not share.  Henri Nouwen, in his book The Return of the Prodigal Son, challenges us older Christians to remember that the parable has three main characters and that we are not to remain prodigals or older brothers, but rather are called out by God to become the father in the story (that’s right – we are to move towards taking on the role of God) – to become the one who runs out in greeting, the one who kills the fatted calf and celebrates the long-awaited return, the one who explains to the resentful older brother why it should be thus.  It is an important reminder: we begin our journey as prodigals or older brothers or even sometimes as both.  But we are not to remain there.  As we progress in our walk, we are called out to become the very face of God to all the other prodigals and older brothers, to understand that it isn’t all about us and live out that redemptive love and in so doing, change a world.  Or not.

Sermon Cliff Note: What to do with Uncle Zac?

SCRIPTURE: Luke 19.1-10

Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham.

Zacchaeus too, is family.  But which family?

Maybe he’s the rich uncle everybody loves for the lavish presents he brings, but don’t want to see out in public because of all the suspicions about exactly how he has all that money – the guy we love as kids but cringe to know as adults.

He’s the one who never comes to church with us when he visits, always vaguely saying maybe some other time . . . I’ve really got to be going now . . .

Good ol’ Uncle Zac knows even more than we do as to why the likes of him should never darken the doors of the church . . . he already knows why he won’t be welcome there.

Yeah, he’s that guy.  His gospel is not good news.  It’s no gospel at all.  And no wonder, for he is who he is. . . and we are not.

So it is that the family crowd gathers on the streets leaving Uncle Zac behind sitting alone in the living room, no one bothering to explain to him all the fuss . . . but he’s listening – Uncle Zac always hears . . . and he wants to see as much as we do.

He runs outside, but forgetting him, we press in tighter together, leaving no room for Uncle Zac.

So he does a strange thing – something he’s never done before – something he probably can’t even explain to himself – he climbs a tree so that he too can see.

This grown man, known to us all our lives, climbs a tree and still we do not see him.

But Jesus does.

And in seeing Uncle Zac, Jesus changes him.

Uncle Zac didn’t get sorry to climb that tree – he got curious.  Even his meager curiosity was enough for Jesus, who takes the slightest crumb of our being and changes us into something spectacular:  he makes us beloved . . . he makes us welcome.

Jesus went to Zaccheaus’ house to stay – it’s worth remembering that hospitality is as much about receiving as it is about giving – we do no favors to another by having them to our home when we refuse to enter theirs.

Jesus was known not for who he invited to supper, but who invited him.  He makes them special simply by saying yes.  Accepting their invitations, he accepts them.

They are exactly who we think they are.  Uncle Zac was everything we thought he was.

But he was something else too: he was a child of Abraham.  Family matters.  He didn’t stop being family because he was bad, but we treated him as if he wasn’t family anymore.  We treated him like a stranger – like someone you have to be nice to because hospitality requires it.  We grudgingly let him come to our house, but we would never, never, never, darken the door of his.

Jesus’ answer to that kind of piety is the unspoken but sure reprimand:  shame on you.

Jesus is in the eye-opening business.

All he’s ever wanted from his followers when it comes to others is for us to see them as the family they are – beloved children . . .  just like us.

Is that so much to ask?

Uncle Zac, come on down now.  Let’s go to your house, okay?  Let’s hang out there on the porch.  Maybe that Jesus fellow will come and join us.  What do you say, Uncle Zac?  Won’t you come down, now?

The Good News: You're Welcome Here

A woman new to these mountains shares with a neighbor, one of my flock, about being ousted from a church because she has tattoos.

He calls me with a question: Do churches really do that?

Me Sadly, yes.

Him Why?  Who does that?

Me People for whom the rules are really important, I suppose.  And there is a reference in Jeremiah to the avoidance of designs on our bodies (tattoos).

Him But why?

Me I don’t know.  All I know is I’ve got a tattoo.  So maybe you could tell her that so she’ll know she’s welcome here.

Him I’ll do that.  And I’ll take her some cucumbers.

Fresh garden cucumbers are a fine accompaniment to the good news, don’t you think?  Eddie and his cucumbers make fine evangelists.

And isn’t you’re welcome here the good news at its heart?  I know it was for me.

Belching, Scratching and Farting Our Way to Jesus

I’m betting all those folks Jesus hung out with – you know: the sinners, the NOKP*, the dirty and unkempt ones, the mean ones and the sly ones, the showing-too-much-in-that-dress ones – yeah, those folks – well, I’m betting that even when they came into the ‘fold’ by following Jesus, they were still who they were before in many ways.

I’m betting they still belched and scratched and farted at the dinner table.

I’m betting they still got told that ‘we don’t wear that kind of dress here, dear.’

I’m betting they still drank too much from time to time.

I’m betting that all in all, they remained a pretty ragtag profane bunch.  And I’m betting that some, if not most, folks who considered themselves part of the in crowd still cringed when they saw them coming.

Why am I so sure?

Well, the truth is I’m a pretty profane gal, all things considered.  I still laugh too loud and get too mad and point my finger and want to, even if I don’t, wear that slutty dress.  And every now and then, under the robes, I still belch and fart and scratch.

But now I know Jesus.  I may not know you, but I know Jesus.  And yes, that has made me a better person than I was, but that’s almost beside the point, except to the extent that it helps or hurts you to know Jesus too, because while I’m better, I am far, far, far, from perfect.  And I’m okay with that.

So to all of you who think you might like to get to know Jesus too and that maybe you could do that in a church, but aren’t sure (or more sadly, are sure) of the welcome you’ll receive there, all I can tell you is this: come belching and scratching and farting and drinking and laughing too loud and wearing your favorite slutty dress . . . and . . . and . . . and be kind enough in your coming to realize that if you get dirty looks from some, that’s just our way of belching or farting a greeting your way.  And try not to mind too much – we just don’t know any better.








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*For those who don’t recognize the acronym, Not Our Kind of People

Locking the Church Doors

Blessed are those who throw the church doors open wide.  –Kathleen Norris

Last Sunday I headed to church in Girvan.  I remembered that it began at an unusually early hour, but I was still late, dawdling the morning away.  I kept dithering about whether to even go or not, as I well knew the doors would most likely be locked when I arrived 5-10 minutes late, depending on my walking pace.

Photo by Dennis Behm at Creative Commons

But I went.  And sure enough, the front doors were locked tight.  I could hear singing inside, so I knocked, hoping to be heard, but alas, I was not.

I went around back and found the door to the choir room and the youth room in the separate building both open, both empty.  I went into the choir room and sat down.  I went back around front and tried the door again, thinking that perhaps it was unlocked but heavy to open – wrong.  I went back to the choir room.  I thought about leaving.  I stayed, knowing that the children would come out after the children’s sermon for Sunday School and this was their only route of escape.

A few minutes later, the Beadle came out with the kids following and with his reassurance that all was well, I scooted in to a side pew and joined the worship.

But as I had wandered about trying to get in to the worship space, I was, as I always am, struck by how difficult it can be to actually get inside a church.

This time, however, I vacillate between Kathleen Norris’ benedictory command to fling the doors open wide and wondering whether it might not be better somehow to have to struggle to gain access.  But even as I ponder, that doesn’t feel right.

I am lucky enough to ‘belong’ in the sense that as a minister, church buildings are innately familiar territory to me – going in back doors might feel a bit intrusive, but I’ve no compunction, really, about doing it.  I’ll wander in the kitchens, stand in the pulpits, look under, over and around things as if I have a right to.  I think we all do, but familiarity of landscape makes it a lot easier for me.

Which brings me full circle in my ruminations that particular Sunday: I was wrong to be late.  But many of us come late to God’s party one way or another.  Now there may come a time when it is too late, as the parable of the bride’s maids suggests.  But that is for God, and not for the likes of me, to decide.

In the meantime, I feel blessed for all the church doors I’ve come across, those closed tight and those open wide; but I have to admit – I see the arms of God in the church more clearly when the doors are flung open into the morning sun.

Gasping or Grasping

On the ferry to Liberty Island from Battery Park in New York City, I listened and watched as folks were seeing Lady Liberty come into view, for many, perhaps, for the first time.

A Spanish-speaking woman standing near me gasped when she saw her – “Ohhhhh”, she exclaimed in delight.  Others were similarly moved by the sight.

The thought, unbidden, in my head in that moment: “It’s their story now.”  Somehow, it seemed fitting that this should be so, that the ones already here move over to make room for the next generations coming to these shores, that they might weave their stories into this tapestry of a nation.

Later, sitting and people watching again, a random snatch of words from the mouth of a born-in-the-USA-beautiful-blonde woman float by me.  All I hear is “our liberty”.

And I think to myself that by its very nature, liberty ‘belongs’ to no one and that as we (whoever the we may be) do not confer it, ‘it’ isn’t ours to take or take back.

I really don’t know what the born-in-the-USA woman was talking about, but random snatches of liberty afloat around me made the air sweeter while the possessive ‘our’ made it heavier.

I wonder what new stories will be written by those coming to these shores, seeking their own destinies.  I’m guessing that in another hundred years, some will still be gasping in wonder as others are grasping in fear.  I hope I’m wrong about the second part.