Church Essay #2: What?!

(To be fair, things have changed since this was written.)

I’m trying not to see this as hypocrisy. I’m trying to connect what’s being said with what’s being done. I’m trying, really trying.

But I’ve seen this before.

I told the planning committee to focus on Christ. Focus on worship.

“We are,” they said. “But we need a band, a good band, and band that would really rock this house for Jesus.”

I told the music leader to forget the band. I told him to play, not for the crowd, but for the King.
I told him to play for an audience of One.

He told me he was. He insisted he was. I stood blinded by the laser lights on the stage as he told me about fog machines for Jesus.

Yeah, yeah, worship. Check. But what we really need is a band. A band will bring people. A band will fill this place like the mega-churches that Jesus never preached at.

He gathers musicians. They look and sound like American Idol rejects. Yet, they play louder as though the neighbors not filling the pews are missing out. The cacophony rattles the stained glass.

Thirty come to hear the band play.

Twenty-five faithful souls.

Twenty willing to give them another chance.

The precious band draws a faithful dozen … sometimes.

Soon, only the pastor is clapping.

I told them to focus on worship, instead of the band.

They didn’t listen.

There isn’t a planning committee anymore.

That church is dead.

No one speaks of them, not even in whispers.

I’m seeing it happen again.

This time, the band can actually play. This time no one comes to throw shoes at the chorus of screeching cats. This time, people clap.

But the music is too loud. People stop coming for the ringing in their ears. People tell me they can’t hear themselves join in the song.

I voice my concerns.

“We’re reaching a younger generation with this service,” they tell me. “There are those who would complain we’re still too quiet.”

I look at them and shout over the ringing, “What?!”

They don’t hear me.

They don’t see the people leaving.

More speakers appear on the stage.

It’s this or the traditional service. If only I could stomach the sound of the organ. If only I could stomach worshipers who smile too much, or too little. If only I didn’t mind gray headed relay racers who won’t let go of the baton. I don’t belong in the traditional service.

I try to tell myself that I belong in this service because it’s the only other option, this service where everyone keeps saying the music is too loud. I can’t hear myself pray, or worship despite the songs I don’t know. Speakers compete with the still small voice.

They tell me to be seated as the band leaves the stage.

I shout, “What?!”

Earplugs are provided at the door.

Standing outside in the parking lot, I can identify the song being played.

I sing along as the sound man moves the master volume slide up.

The pastor says that worship is worship is worship. He says style doesn’t matter. He says rap, hymns, rock, country; worship is worship is worship.

Style doesn’t matter. He says it like a man so hurt by racism that everything becomes about race. “Style doesn’t matter,” he says, again and again and again.

I shout, “What?!”

No one is listening.

No one can hear me.

If they could, they would know I’m not talking about style. They would know I rather enjoy the band. They would know that worship is worship is worship, but I’m not worshiping.

I don’t see worship in the band’s faces either.

The music leader says, “We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”

The guitarist chews his gum, focused only on the next chord.

“We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”

The pristine notes of the base player thunder from the extra speakers. He’s playing the music, but his face doesn’t move.

There’s a look that comes with love songs. There’s a glow that overtakes the countenance when the singer voices in melody the most ardent cry of his heart. Worship is worship is worship. But what is worship if not a love song to the wild and passionate lover of our souls?

The band speaks of worship.

The pastor speaks of worship.

Worship I can neither see nor feel.

I raise my hands despite the absence of that radiance from the stage.

My heart and lips remain silent, a counter-balance to the assault on my ears.

In my head, I wonder if I’m not going crazy. I wonder if I’m not just being overly critical. I wonder if I haven’t allowed the Evil One to corrupt me, and block me from encountering Christ.

They tell me God is moving in the band, and I want to believe. I want to support what God is about.

Yet, I wonder if I’m the only one noticing the diminishing crowd.

I’ve seen this before.

I’ve seen a church forget that the world is turned around, and that the way that seems right often isn’t. Beware the yeast. Beware the decoy. Beware the theatrics of Hell.

Since when has church been about bringing people in the doors instead of sending them back out into the world refreshed? Since when did this spiritual gas station become a concert hall? Since when has music in the service been the focal point? When did we forget that we aren’t singing for our benefit, but for God’s?

Treat the root to treat the tree, not the leaves.

I long for a church that creates a place where Christ—not the band, not the style, not the target demographic—but Christ is the center of the service. Only then will He come to inhabit the praises of Hhis people.

I long for a church that teaches the discipline of being still and listening to God when He speaks, letting Him saturate our lives.

That would be a church where people would leave dreaming of returning next week.

That would be a church where our hunger for something real, something of substance could be satisfied.

That would be a church that doesn’t waste it’s time with laser lights and fog machines.

Focus on worship.

Focus on lifting the name of Jesus.

Focus on encountering Christ, and the rest will come.

They tell me they are focused on worship.

They tell me they are seeking the glorification of Christ.

I shout, “What?!”

The congregation applauds the band. At least I presume it’s the congregation. I’ve run for the door to find a place where I can hear my own thoughts. Five people are clapping near the sound board.

I leave church as exhausted as I was when I came.

I dream of not returning next week, of staying home with my guitar and playing a few hymns.

The neighbors in the unit above mine wouldn’t hear me worshiping. But God would. I’ve felt Him in my living room as I voiced in melody the most ardent cry of my heart.

Perhaps I’ve gone mad. Perhaps I’ve become a curmudgeon so stuck in his own ways that nothing anyone else does is good enough.

Or, perhaps I’m truly seeing church for what it was meant to be. And in that vision, I’m seeing church fall short of its true potential.

Self-diagnostic complete, yet inconclusive.

I’m still trying not to see this as hypocrisy.

Am I missing something?

I try to ask others for a second opinion as a sanity check on my perspective.

I try to voice my concerns and observations.

I try to say, in love, that I feel we’re going the wrong way.

I try to keep my church accountable in its claim of seeking Jesus above style or band or demographic.

They look at me and shout, “What?!”

I wonder why I even bother.