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I told them we’re tired of the culture wars, tired of Christianity getting entangled with party politics and power. Millennials want to be known by what we’re for, I said, not just what we’re against. We don’t want to choose between science and religion or between our intellectual integrity and our faith. Instead, we long for our churches to be safe places to doubt, to ask questions, and to tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. We want to talk about the tough stuff—biblical interpretation, religious pluralism, sexuality, racial reconciliation, and social justice—but without
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Millennials aren’t looking for a hipper Christianity, I said. We’re looking for a truer Christianity, a more authentic Christianity. Like every generation before ours and every generation after, we’re looking for Jesus—the same Jesus who can be found in the strange places he’s always been found: in bread, in wine, in baptism, in the Word, in suffering, in community, and among the least of these.
Where are you today, Jesus?
Even when I don’t believe in church, I believe in resurrection. I believe in the hope of Sunday morning.
Me too!
Not more about God. More God.”
The church tells us we are beloved (baptism). The church tells us we are broken (confession). The church tells us we are commissioned (holy orders). The church feeds us (communion). The church welcomes us (confirmation).
The church anoints us (anointing of the sick). The church unites us (marriage).
“In baptism,” writes Will Willimon, “the recipient of baptism is just that—recipient. You cannot very well do your own baptism. It is done to you, for you.”7 It’s an adoption, not an interview.
Baptism quote
“Identity. It’s always God’s first move.”9
So, too, it is with us. In baptism, we are identified as beloved children of God, and our adoption into the sprawling, beautiful, dysfunctional family of the church is celebrated by whoever happens to be standing on the shoreline with a hair dryer and deviled eggs. This is why the baptism font is typically located near the entrance of a church. The central aisle represents the Christian’s journey through life toward God, a journey that begins with baptism.
What is baptism about? Identity!
In the ritual of baptism, our ancestors acted out the bizarre truth of the Christian identity: We are people who stand totally exposed before evil and death and declare them powerless against love.
“It’s not my job to change people,” Brian told me when I pestered him about it, “just love people.”
Our job is to love each other!
Philip got out of God’s way. He remembered that what makes the gospel offensive isn’t who it keeps out, but who it lets in. Nothing could prevent the eunuch from being baptized, for the mountains of obstruction had been plowed down, the rocky hills had been made smooth, and God had cleared a path. There was holy water everywhere.
“By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken,” God told the man. “For dust you are and to dust you will return” (Genesis 3:19).
“Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.” It’s the only thing we know for sure: we will die.
We will all die
But a long time ago, a promise was made. A prophet called Isaiah said a messenger would come to proclaim good news to the poor and brokenhearted, “to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” Those who once repented in dust and ashes “will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor” (Isaiah 61:3).
We could not become like God, so God became like us. God showed us how to heal instead of kill, how to mend instead of destroy, how to love instead of hate, how to live instead of long for more. When we nailed God to a tree, God forgave. And when we buried God in the ground, God got up.
no one really teaches you how to grieve the loss of your faith. You’re on your own for that.
Churches should be the most honest place in town, not the happiest place in town.
Churches should be honest and open
I’ve heard many recovering alcoholics say they’ve never found a church quite like Alcoholics Anonymous. They’ve never found a community of people so honest with one another about their pain, so united in their shared brokenness.
Many months would pass before I understood that people bond more deeply over shared brokenness than they do over shared beliefs.”18
“I’m a Christian,” I said, “because Christianity names and addresses sin. It acknowledges the reality that the evil we observe in the world is also present within ourselves. It tells the truth about the human condition—that we’re not okay.”
At its best, the church functions much like a recovery group, a safe place where a bunch of struggling,
The church is like AA, confessing our shortcomings and sins
imperfect people come together to speak difficult truths to one another.
Sometimes the truth is we’re just hurting, and we’re not even sure why.
The practice of confession gives us the chance to admit to one another that we’re not okay, and then to seek healing and reconciliation together,
They give us permission to start telling one another the truth,
So we fake it. We pretend we don’t need help and we act like we aren’t afraid, even though no decent AA meeting ever began with, “Hi, my name is Rachel, and I totally have my act together.”
Refuge,
Imagine if every church became a place where everyone is safe, but no one is comfortable. Imagine if every church became a place where we told one another the truth. We might just create sanctuary.
If church was a sanctuary!
So many of our sins begin with fear—fear of disappointment, fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of death, fear of obscurity.
Our sins come from FEAR!
Billy Graham once said, “It is the Holy Spirit’s job to convict, God’s job to judge, and my job to love.”
No one ever said the fruit of the Spirit is relevance or impact or even revival. The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—the sort of stuff that, let’s face it, doesn’t always sell.
Church is a moment in time when the kingdom of God draws near, when a meal, a
story, a song, an apology, and even a failure is made holy by the presence of Jesus among us and within us.
“My brothers and sisters,” he pleaded, “when you gather to eat, you should all eat together
Remember how God became one of us? Remember how God ate with us and drank with us, laughed with us and cried with us? Remember how God suffered for us, and died for us, and gave his life for the life of the world? Remember? Remember?
‘I see Christ at this table; I see him when we sit down together and eat.’ ”44
Like Gallagher, on the days when I contemplate leaving Christianity, I have wondered what I would do without communion. Certainly nonbelievers can care for one another and make one another food. But it is Christians who recognize this act as sacrament, as holy. It is Christians who believe bread can satisfy not only physical hunger, but spiritual and emotional hunger, too, and whose collective memory brings Jesus back to life in every breaking of the bread and pouring of the wine, in all the tastes, smells, and sounds God himself loves.
Communion doesn’t answer every question, nor does it keep my stomach from rumbling from time to time, but I have found that it is enough. It is always and ever enough.
“Faith,” she says, “is a catch-and-release sport. And standing at the altar receiving the bread and wine is the release part.”47 But I’m no
You are loved, someone said. Take that and eat it. —Mary Karr
Not surprisingly, Sara advocates for what’s called an open table, the practice of inviting all who are physically or spiritually hungry to participate in communion, regardless of religious background or status.
It’s Christ’s table.
But the gospel doesn’t need a coalition devoted to keeping the wrong people out. It needs a family of sinners, saved by grace, committed to tearing down the walls, throwing open the doors, and shouting, “Welcome! There’s bread and wine. Come eat with us and talk.” This isn’t a kingdom for the worthy; it’s a kingdom for the hungry.
Sometimes the most radical act of Christian obedience is to share a meal with someone new.
But the table can transform even our enemies into companions. The table reminds us that, as brothers and sisters adopted into God’s family and invited to God’s banquet, we’re stuck with each other; we’re family. We might as well make peace. The table teaches us that faith isn’t about being right or good or in agreement. Faith is about feeding and being fed.
Faith is about feeding and being fed!
The church is God saying: “I’m throwing a banquet, and all these mismatched, messed-up people are invited. Here, have some wine.”
“God does not meet us outside of life in an esoteric manner. Rather, he meets us through life incidents, and particularly through the sacraments of the church. Sacrament, then, is a way of encountering the mystery.”56
Indeed, the word sacrament is derived from a Latin phrase which means “to make holy.” When hit with the glint of love’s light, even ordinary things become holy. And when received with open hands in the spirit of eucharisteo, the signs and wonders of Jesus never cease. The 150-plus gallons of wine at Cana point to a generous God, a God who never runs out of holy things. This is the God who, much to the chagrin of Jonah, saved the rebellious city of Nineveh, the God who turned five loaves of bread and a couple of fish into a lunch to feed five thousand with baskets of leftovers to spare. This
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Jesus said, “Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.” And with that he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.
