And yet I go.  I still have my ideas.  Some days I have plans.  But most days I go knowing that my plans and my ideas are secondary to what the Holy Spirit may have in mind on that particular day.  I go because it isn't necessarily my job to tell these other men how to be and what to do, even if I think I have better ideas on those subjects.  My job is to go and - regardless of what the others do or don't do - to try and hear the Holy Spirit leading in and through them.  I go because it's as important to be there for one another, as it is to be there for our own purposes and designs.  Christian community is a beautiful thing in theory.  In reality it often seems far cheaper and weaker and inferior.  Not because God hasn't shown up, but because we have.  That's humbling.

I had the opportunity to listen to the podcast sermon of another pastor - someone not from my denominational tradition.  I don't generally do this, but I was asked to.  I heard in this wise man's words the yearnings of most pastors I know.  Impassioned, fired up people.  People who show up, and in showing up, begin to grow and stretch and mature in their faith in amazing ways.  Ways that get people's attention.  Ways that make differences not just in their lives but in the lives of the family and colleagues and peers and friends.  Who doesn't want that for their parishioners?

I was surprised to hear something else in this wise pastor's words.  Myself.  Or at least the me of 20 years ago - or more likely 10 years ago.  20 years ago I was a smarmy Lutheran who understood all too well and not nearly well enough that it wasn't what I did that mattered, but what God did.  And as such, I needn't be overly concerned about what I did or didn't do in terms of church involvement.  This was handy theological spin when asked to lead a prayer or engage in some study I wasn't interested in.  But it was all undone whenever I wanted anyone else to come to a study that I was leading, or show interest or appreciation for work I had prepared for that week.

Ten years ago the smarminess was gone, and I was furious with the apathy of most Christians I encountered.  Where was the fire?  Where was the zeal?  How could these people truly call themselves Christians without any real zest for their Lord?  How could they really consider themselves Christians if they didn't bother coming to church all the time, or if they didn't bother to come to the midweek Bible studies I had prepared?  Or if they weren't very attentive during the house church meetings I led?  These people needed to be slapped around, needed to be challenged.  Needed to be shown how dull and sluggish they were, and how the flames of hell might even be licking at their heels if they didn't perk up and show some fervor.

What would that have looked like?  Well, it might have looked a lot like what I heard this wise pastor preaching about.  It would have looked like a larger turn out for midweek Bible studies.  It would have looked like greater interest in other offerings of the church.  It would have looked like a willingness to serve on the church Council or any number of other very good and necessary functions.  And it would have sounded a lot like law.  You have to do these things.  You must do these things.  You are wrong and bad if you don't do these things.  You deserve to languish away until your church closes if you don't do these things.

All things that I'm still tempted to say to people upon occasion.  Some folks do need to hear that.  But I've learned a lot in a short time about the quietness with which faith often expresses itself.  That what I interpret as boredom and sluggishness is sometimes the slow and steady faithful pursuit of the crown of glory that we never grasp this side of Christ.  I've learned that faith shows itself in small ways - ways that don't necessarily benefit me personally.  They don't necessarily make my job easier, or help me feel more elated or appreciated - as though people's faith somehow was a matter of my personal benefit.  But sometimes, we're all tempted to make that mistake.

I've learned to appreciate the quiet testimony of the cancer fighter who can't stop talking about the sense of peace she has from her Savior, and how she's even been able to share about that peace with others in her predicament, when she never would have thought she could have done that just a few years ago.  I've learned to respect the quiet faithfulness that shows up and does what needs to be done and doesn't make a fuss about it.  The faithfulness that washes the dishes and cleans up after others have left but balks if you try to give them a little public acknowledgment.  The faithfulness that prays for people they don't know as well as people they do know.  The faithfulness that continues to give whether they have been blessed with a large and steady income or are trying to make due on a shrinking pension and Social Security benefits.  

I think I've learned that just because someone doesn't shout out the words to the hymn doesn't mean that those words aren't reverberating in their heart.  That just because someone is content never to pray aloud doesn't mean that they ever quit praying silently.  That, in short, faith is remarkably difficult to discern from the outside, and that the markers we tend to judge it by are fickle and unpredictable, easily falsified.  

I have my ideas about what I think people should be like in their faith lives.  I have my ideas about what I'd like a Sunday morning worship to be like.  But it's not my ideas that matter.  It's my insistence - even when it is inconvenient - that none of these ideas matter, none of these responses matter, because all that really matters is what has been done for us, what Jesus Christ has done on our behalf and in our stead.  And when push comes to shove, that's a very difficult thing to preach and mean  - particularly for a pastor.  Because it means that while I think you should come to my Bible study, your faith isn't necessarily dependent on it, and your presence or absence isn't a reliable indicator about where your heart is.  I believe that every Christian should be in worship regularly, but there certainly isn't a law that this is what has to happen - even though my job depends on that level of consistency to a certain degree.

We got into a discussion about this during our circuit meeting this morning.  One of my brothers was lamenting about families that opt for organized sports rather than worship on Sunday mornings.  I lament this too - or at least I would/will when I'm faced with that problem.  But the other thing that struck me is that we place a heavy emphasis on Sunday mornings as though they're somehow sacred, somehow commanded.  But they aren't.  Participation in Christian community is - but when and how that occurs is a matter of tradition.  What does that mean for pastors and congregations in an age when Sunday morning is no longer sacred, and that time is actively being courted - and engaged - by other interests?  

We could get angry at our people and tell them that they're poor Christians - and there are more than a few of us tempted to say that.  But how much of our insistence on Sunday mornings for worship is a matter of our own convenience, because this is how we've always done it, because this is how we choose to structure our week and our ministry?  How do we rightly avoid the temptation of turning worship into a law, rather than the response to God's grace and forgiveness that it rightly is?  

I don't know how to discern that line.  Not yet, at least.  But I know to beware of simply saying that because people aren't approaching it the way I am, that they're somehow worse Christians than I am.  That's a dangerous line to take - not necessarily one that is always unwarranted, but one that is always fraught with danger because it originates too easily from within me.  The New Testament is remarkably sparse in terms of what it tells us we have to do, or how we have to do it.  It's remarkably strong on grace and forgiveness and mercy and gratitude and our response to these gifts - none of which make it easier to plan a ministry or maintain a facility or do any of the other things we assume are part of being the Church.  

I'm grateful for the many opportunities I'm presented to talk with people on this subject.  It's hugely important, and seems to grow more so as church attendance grows sparser around the country.  What does the Church have a right to insist on from it's members?  Does it have a right to insist on a particular expression of faith?  A particular time of worship?  We have a lot of tradition behind us, but is tradition alone adequate to make demands?  St. Paul didn't seem to think so, and he had about as long of a tradition behind his former way of life as we have behind ours.  At the very least, I think it ought to make us humble as we talk about these things.  Because even if our ideas are really, really good, that doesn't make them the same as the Holy Spirit's leading.