Sundays in the City #6
“All stories are, in some form, prayers.”
― Brian Doyle
Last Thanksgiving it happened. The ‘kids’ took up all the seats at the big table, relegating we parents to the wobbly square one boasting mismatched folding chairs. Somehow while I was boiling potatoes or baking a pie, the great holiday seating swap had snuck up on me. Plate in hand, I felt a catch in my throat and tried to take it all in, as thirty-one years of holiday snapshots raced through my brain. It was symbolic, it was sacred… it was something. Meanwhile those adult kids, their significant sweethearts and friends chattered and chortled and passed the yams like it was, well nothing.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot as I wondered what I should tell you about the month of Sundays I spent worshipping alongside millennial and Gen Z folks. I’d read about some churches reportedly finding traction among a demographic known to be wary of organized religion. Held in urban, non-traditional meeting places these churches all eschewed denominational affiliation while placing a no-holds barred emphasis on building both congregational and neighborhood communities of authenticity and impact.
From helpful signage and welcoming parking lot attendants to a rolling screen inviting text messaged prayer requests, these churches took ‘user friendly’ optimization to the next level. On each of those early Sunday mornings, cheerful conversations and strong coffee served up generously on the sidewalks cast a compact but inimitable glow on otherwise hushed and bedraggled Hollywoodish streets. Homeless folks and grocery carts made their way alongside hipsters with strollers into schools and storied theatres down dimly lit aisles. Hands up, bodies swaying, what by all appearances could have been an opening band in some LA underground music venue, was in actuality an invitation to hope and a recitation of truth. No matter how early I arrived, I had the feeling that worship had begun hours before; and, I suspect it had. Eerily nostalgic of my own Calvary Chapel (circa 1976) Friday night youth gatherings, the music set the stage for what became a burgeoning choir of communal testimony, or at the very least, a personal stake of claim in hopes of obtaining one.
I was particularly curious about sermon content, having read my fair share of “church abandonment” research. And though an “n” of one week (x 4) is statistically fragile, I found myself surprised at the mostly traditional reading and exposition of scripture, with one marked caveat.
In each case, an understanding of discipleship was meticulously spelled out not in terms of an agreed upon creed but rather a sort of reverent aggregated conservatorship. Three out of the four weeks, caretaking of one another, included specific references to the marginalized, the infirm, the trafficked and the addicted; as well as the whole earth itself. This was particularly noteworthy for me, having grown up in an era in which the disciple’s role was often subjugated to guarding oneself against the ever-escalating temptation to societal indulgence. This generation seems to find in Scripture and Spirit a clarion call to protect us all against an ever-escalating cascade of societal (and worse, church imbued) isolationism. The tract-informed “witnessing” mandate of my generation has been turned on its head so that disciples understand their calling to bear witness to a neighbor’s distress with not only verses, but as active expectant Spirit-empowered agents of healing.
About now, I am guessing you might be asking the same questions I did on my drive way home each week. These Questions like: Is the focus on authenticity as integral to spirituality nothing more than the byproduct of the barrage of social media, glossy filters and subversive algorithms millennials are forced to encounter on the daily? Is it simply a youthful posture to be idealistically preoccupied with civic transformation? Is the church just a safer place to network? Do they have to call home to Ohio and tell their parents that despite three auditions this week they still made it to church on Sunday?
Maybe. But perhaps this was a case of “you had to be there” to believe it. There was a palpable earnestness among the people who sat next to me and spoke with me afterward. There was a remarkable commitment to community service as evidenced by the myriad of small group offerings posted and promoted. Amidst an abundance of diversity there was unity.
I’m a scientist of a certain age, which means I have spent most of my life honing my observational skills. Not to mention the fact that I’m a cynic by nature, which means I’ve spent most of my adult life harboring my suspicions. To be perfectly honest I noted a couple of eye-roll worthy marketing ploys by leadership at two of the four churches; and yet, if Scripture teaches anything it is this: spiritual hunger brought to God’s table will never go unfed.
After a decade spent teaching the Bible and forty plus years of faith, I’ve grown really, really comfortable moving a great number of former spiritual ‘certainties’ into the mystery column. But this I would wager; that God joyfully, mercifully reveals more of Himself in every generation. Even mortals know that true love cannot help but display its breadth in greater measure over time. And so, maybe we mid-century folks would do well to lean into that love, pull up a folding chair and listen. Perhaps the One who is the same yesterday today and forever has bent low to add yet another leaf to the table.
