Sunday Lament

For my children to read when they’re adults (in case they ever wonder if churches have always met in gyms…)

Where is the old, white church? Where is the steeple that holds the clanging bell calling the town to worship? Where are the pews, saturated with that eclectic aroma of wax and incense and coffee and furniture polish?

Where’s the stained glass? The pyramid-shaped hymn-number holder? The ornate lights, throwing an amber glow onto the faithful congregation?
Where is that simple sign, the one that beckons with only the church’s name and service times?

Gone? Really, forever?

After visiting dozens of congregations over the past few months, our family has a good handle on where The Church is headed.

We’re out! Out to the community. Out to be missional. Out to do life with each other.

So, our churches look like any other building. A nice office. A fitness center. A Wal-Mart.

I’m glad we’re out and about in the community. I really am.

But, man, sometimes I miss the smell of an old church.




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