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Have you ever started something and then wondered why you ever started it? After my second post on the emerging church topic, I began to wonder.  However, I hate to leave projects unfinished, so let me attempt to wrap this up with this post and then move on.

During my freshman year at college, I discovered a great church. A fellow college student discovered a tiny church of only 50 or so souls tucked away in one of the older, poorer parts of town. Within months, word of mouth had spread about this tiny church. Soon it was overwhelmed with beaming college students—and I was one of them.

This was certainly not like any church I had witnessed. Here’s why:

• An offering was never taken, nor did I ever a sermon on tithing. If you desired to give, there was simply a small box at the back of the church where you drop a check or cash.
• There was never a call for volunteering for anything, no programs to get you “plugged in.”
• There was no membership. If you wanted to come, you just came.
• There was no dress code, which at the time was very unusual
• There was no real order of service. It was organized, but the pastor frequently changed the service.

Now, none of the above were marketing gimmicks. I recently heard of a church with a clever slogan, “Hate church? So do we.”  It’s a marketing slogan—and it works. But there were no such marketing strategies in this small church.

Actually the church was rather unattractive, being an old school building built at the turn of the 20^th century.  The outside looked like the rest of the neighborhood, tired and worn out, much like the week-old meatloaf sitting in our refrigerator right now.

But while you may shout a Hallelujah to all of the above, these were merely the surface issues. There was more to it than just a change in tradition. One of the pillars of the emerging church is authenticity. I believe this was a big part of what drew us college kids to this small church. We came not because of guilt, but because we saw something that we didn’t have.  And we wanted more of it.

The pastor was a large, burly man of Irish ancestry. In his late 40’s, his bald head and large frame made him look more like a professional wrestler than a pastor. And strong—we once had to move one of those heavy upright pianos, and while three of us skinny college guys got on one end, he picked up the other end as easily as taking out a bag of garbage.

I found him highly intelligent. But he lived his everyday life by the simplicity of the gospel, that spiritual gravity that draws men and women of all ranks and status to it—from the ditch digger to the mayor, from the humble servant to the hardened cynic. He was the kind of pastor that noticed my car was not going anywhere after a Sunday morning and asked me what was wrong. I told him my poor car wouldn’t start and that I’d have to call a wrecker. He would have none of that and crawled under the car and fixed it. No pastor had ever done that for me. That simple act changed my life.

Or, there were the times when he helped street people, often inviting them into his own house to eat with he and his wife. Now, I wouldn’t do that, no way. But he did. Or there was Delbert (not his real name). We had learned that Delbert had graduated from college with a 4.0, but somewhere along the line Delbert developed psychological problems—not severe enough to be committed, but strong enough to create havoc in the community when not on his medication. In his dark times, he would target churches in the area and disrupt services, never violently, but would often stand up in the middle of a service and started talking in a load voice. Many churches called the police on him. It was rumored that he once slipped into the local Catholic Church and began taking confessions before being chased off.

I still remember one weekday night when we had asked the pastor to teach us a Bible study and Delbert came crashing through the backdoor of the church and thumped down in the front pew. Apparently, he had created a fuss in a sister church and they had called the police. Within seconds from the time Delbert entered the church, we heard the screech of tires and two policemen rushed through the front door—only to stop dead in their tracks when they saw a Bible study was in progress. They quietly moved to a back pew and sat patiently for the end of the service (which thinking back, was very interesting they did that). Of course, you had a room full of amazed, walleyed college kids not knowing what was going on. The minute the pastor started his service-ending prayer and all heads were bowed, Delbert took off, running out the back door with the police right behind. I still don’t know the outcome.

But the pastor of our little church put up with Delbert. It wasn’t a mushy, do-whatever-you-want attitude. He was firm with Delbert. And when Delbert tried to raise cane in a service, the pastor seemed very effective—but he did so with dignity. I guess that’s what impressed me the most. He treated Delbert with dignity when no one else did. That changed my life, too.

As I look back at the churches in my life, that small, tiny church in a poor part of town did more for me than any other church before or since. What I saw and what I heard created a hunger for God like I’d never felt before. It was as if I knew of a large, beautiful painting, but I possessed only one small corner of it. I wanted so much more.  

Many years have now passed since my last Sunday at that small church. I attended it for a number of years even after college, but it began to change. It was bound to happen. I’m not sure whether the church is still there, or any of the people are still there. When my wife and I moved to another city, I thought we could find another church like it. But, no such luck. We attend a very nice church now—and yes, I support it. I believe that’s important. But I still carry that hunger I knew so long ago. I walk and run early every morning before the sun comes up. It’s my time to walk with God and maybe see a little more of that beautiful painting.

So where am I going with all of this? Well, one of the great things about a blog it that you don’t have to come to any big conclusions.  I thought I’d be able to come up with a clever, insightful ending, but I haven’t. These are some thoughts that have been rolling around in my head of late, so do with them as you see fit. If I awake one night with some final brilliant insight, I’ll be glad to pass it on—humbly, of course. But for now, I think I’ll leave it as-is, for what it is.