Happy Priestiversary to Me!

When I started the process of becoming Episcopalian, I knew very little about how any of this worked. From 2019 to 2021, I paid close attention to what my Episcopal colleagues around the country were doing. I felt like most of them were academically lightyears ahead of me. This is me calling the majority of my colleagues NEERRRDS!
But I tried to learn everything by the book.
Chiefly because (I wanted to say “Priestly” but I don’t think that’s the word in this context) I was entering a tradition that wasn’t mine yet, and I wanted to respect it. But also, if you’re going to break a rule, you should probably know what the rule is first.

People who don’t care what a collect is. (Again, COLL-ect, not cuh-LECT. The Episcopal Church welcomes you but we may silently judge your pronunciation.)

People who have been hurt by churches.

People who haven’t been inside a church in twenty years.

People who are curious about Jesus but deeply suspicious of Christianity.

People who might be willing to walk through the door, but aren’t looking for another institution to join.

One of the tensions I’ve been wrestling with lately is sermon series.
I asked for permission to occasionally step outside the Revised Common Lectionary during certain parts of the year to preach a sermon series, specifically that Mosaic receive permission to do a sermon series during Lent, Advent, and stewardship. The rest would follow the lectionary.

I wanted to do Lent and Advent so that we can do an all-church study during those seasons. Down the road, when we have enough small groups, I think it could be helpful for the Bible studies, Sunday school lessons, small group sessions, and sermon to all cover the same material. Everyone attending Mosaic during Lent and Advent would be hearing and studying the same thing.

Then for stewardship, let’s spend 3-4 Sundays on why stewardship is important so that we don’t get the very lame and uninspiring pitch of: “We can’t make ends meet, so if you want the lights to stay on, up your pledge.”
I wrote more about that here.

I was told no. (Oh, btw, we have to seek permission to deviate from the lectionary.)
And, look, I hope you can hear (read) that I get it; I understand the reasoning. And I respect the bishop’s decision.
The lectionary connects us to the larger Church. On any given Sunday, Episcopalians all over the country, along with Christians from many other traditions, are hearing and wrestling with many of the same passages.
It also forces preachers to encounter texts we wouldn’t necessarily choose for ourselves. There is something healthy about not getting to choose every text you preach. But I also think it’s possible to plan a sermon series responsibly.

At one of our recent diocesan conventions, our diocesan bishop, the Bishop Andy Doyle, talked about the importance of evangelism.
I’m with him 100%. But I also think we 100% need to reclaim this word. Because when Bishop Doyle and I talk about evangelism, we don’t mean cornering somebody at your local coffee shop asking, “Haaaavee you met Jesus? Because if you haven’t, you’re going to hell.”
Or holding people hostage when they’re already held hostage on a plane by standing up and preaching to everyone.
Man, sit me next to the babbling drunkard and the shrieking baby so I don’t have to listen to that sh… tuff.

I mean the much less terrifying version:
Come and see.
Come experience this community.
Come ask your questions.
Come encounter Jesus with us.
But one of the things we didn’t talk about (or, uh, if I’m honest, there’s a very good chance that Bishop Doyle addressed this and I wasn’t paying attention) is:
What exactly are we inviting people to?

When we invite somebody somewhere, there’s usually a reason.
“Come try this restaurant with me. Their food is incredible.”
“Come over Friday. We’ll open some wine and figure this thing out.”
“Come see this band with us.”
There’s something on the other side of the invitation.

But when it comes to church, we often say:
“Come to church with me.”
Okay. For what?
That invitation may work for someone already interested in attending a church.
I’m increasingly unconvinced that it works for everyone else. Especially now. Trust in churches isn’t exactly at an all-time high. (Thanks, Obama. Is that joke still relevant?)

There are people who might be curious about Jesus while having absolutely no interest in “going to church.” And that’s where I look at some of my Methodist and other non-Episcopal colleagues and realize they have a leg up on me. Their church members have something specific to invite their friends and loved ones to.

At a friend’s church plant, they were doing a sermon series on anxiety and worry and what we do with it. A lot of their church members had an in. He told me that a few of his folks came up to him and said, “My friend/coworker/family member is struggling with this. This is a great time to invite them to church.”
Sure enough, that first Sunday, a lot of newcomers came because they wanted to know how to navigate anxiety and worry as Christians in the world we live in today.

Do you see how much easier that invite gets?
Because let’s face it: inviting people to church is awkward to begin with.
It’s even more awkward for the pastor because our invitation is literally this:
“Hey, come watch me work for an hour and meet a bunch of my friends while they all watch me work.”
Instead of saying, “You should come to church sometime,”
We can now say, “Hey, my church is talking about anxiety and worry this month. You were telling me the other day how hard things have been. Want to come with me Sunday?”
That’s a different invitation.
Or:
“We’re talking about forgiveness.”
“We’re doing a series about faith and politics.” (Actually, maybe not this one. Although in 2028, you can do a sermon series on something like Jesus for President and break down what it means to follow Jesus during election season or whatever.)
“We’re spending the next month asking what Christians actually mean when we talk about loving our enemies.”

Suddenly there is something to invite someone to.
I’m not saying our people will automatically invite more people, OR that people will accept the invitation, but we’ve at least given them something to work with.

One of the bishop’s suggestions to my request was that instead of using these topics for sermon series, we could explore them during Christian formation.
That’s a great suggestion. If we want to spend four weeks talking about something like anxiety, forgiveness, or whatever else, there’s nothing stopping us from creating a class or small group around it.

But that brings me back to the same question: Who are we trying to reach?
And yes, we absolutely can create Christian formation classes around those things.
We can create small groups.
We can create additional programs.
But I’m not convinced that’s always the answer either.|People don’t attend church with the regularity they once did. According to Barna, even people who do attend church average only 1.6 Sundays a month. So then why would I follow the good old church tradition of creating more programs that aren’t necessary?
I don’t think the solution to the tension I’m feeling is: Let’s create another thing for them to attend.Besides, for someone who doesn’t know us at all, a small group can actually be a much bigger ask.
“Would you like to come sit with eight Christians you’ve never met and discuss your spiritual life?”
Would you go to something like this? More power to you if you would. As for me and my family (well, not really. Don’t wanna speak on behalf of my family. I just wanted to use Joshua’s quote): Yeah, no. Hard pass.

Corporate worship offers something a small group can’t.
You can come through the door and sit in the back.
You can sing or not sing.
You can receive Communion or stay in your seat.
You can believe everything we’re saying, believe none of it, or still be trying to figure out what you believe.
You can participate without immediately belonging.
There’s room to gauge whether this is a safe place for you before making any sort of commitment.
There’s room to be anonymous.
There’s room to be curious.
There’s room to leave.
That’s one reason I still believe corporate worship is one of our most important doorways into discipleship. And a sermon series can be an entry point to that doorway.

That’s the tension I’ve been sitting with.
We’re telling churches to evangelize.
We’re telling church plants to reach people who aren’t already part of churches.
We’re telling our people to invite their friends and neighbors.

Church planting (especially in the Christian nationalism era) is not easy work; it’s like climbing a steep mountain.
I just sometimes feel like I’m being asked to climb it wearing Crocs with no grip. And I’m speaking from experience. Not climbing a mountain (with or without Crocs. I ain’t no Mother Abbess or Maria. I ain’t climbing every mountain or any mountain, for that matter). I meant the slippery Crocs.

The day I was leaving for Ohio for a conference, I was picking up some plane snacks at my local grocery store. As I was crossing the parking lot to get to my car, my Crocs completely gave way on the freshly rained-on ground. I ate it. But I fell slowly. Like, I took a few steps in place while falling. It happened while I was passing by a car, and I hoped that car had a dash cam and that someone would post my fall on the interwebs. The way I fell, I think it would’ve gone viral.

Five years ago, I was trying desperately to learn how to be Episcopal.
I wanted to know the liturgy.
The polity.
The theology.
The rules. The reasons behind the rules.
And I still care about all of those things.
Probably more than I did five years ago.
I love the Episcopal Church.
I’ve come to love and deeply appreciate our liturgy.
I love the lectionary, even when it gives me a Gospel reading I would happily throw directly into the sun.
I love being connected to something bigger than whatever happens to be going on at Mosaic on a particular Sunday.

But five years of priesthood, and seven years of planting this church, have taught me that sometimes the rules and structures that make perfect sense for an established church don’t make the same sense for a church plant.
That doesn’t mean tradition doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean every church planter should get to do whatever the hell they want.
It just means I think we should be able to ask whether the tools we’ve inherited are always the right tools for the work we’re being asked to do.

Because there are actual people on the other side of all of this.
People we’re trying to reach.
People we’re trying to invite.
People we’re hoping might encounter Jesus.

Sermon series are just one tool. They won’t work everywhere, and they won’t reach everyone. But neither will small groups. Neither will Christian formation. Neither will any single thing we try. That’s why I think church planters need access to as many tools as possible as we try to figure out what helps us connect with people who aren’t already connected to a church.

Because ultimately, I don’t care if that connection happens through a sermon series, a small group, a friend, seeing my ugly mug pop up on their screen, or because somebody promised them free food. I just want us to keep finding ways to connect with people who have no reason to connect with us. Because maybe that connection becomes an invitation. Maybe that invitation becomes community. Maybe that community becomes a safe place to ask questions.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, they encounter Jesus.