2.24.13--Sermon on Genesis 15:1-12,17-18

When I was growing up, I was blessed to be surrounded by a community that seemed to be almost through and through Christian. Everyone belonged to a church—whether they attended regularly or not—and all of my friends were extremely involved in church activities. Now, there was a lot of cross-pollination occurring among the youth of the community; it was very rare for a junior high or senior high student to have only attended youth group at one of the many churches in town.

And let me tell you. There were a lot of churches.

Southern Baptist. American Baptist. Methodist. Lutheran. Episcopal. First Christian. Church of Christ. African Methodist Episcopal. Non-denominational. Churches of all denominations and from all walks of life littered this tiny town. In fact, my home town is in the Guinness Book of World Records because of its ample amount of churches: it is the only town in the world that can boast that it has four churches and jail all on one city block.

Now, I was a good Methodist, heavily involved in the United Methodist Youth Fellowship, or UMYF, that happened every Wednesday night and Sunday mornings at First United Methodist Church. But I was also known to show up on occasion to the youth events put on First Baptist. I also found out that some of the best food to be found on Wednesday nights was at the Church of Christ youth fellowship, so every once in a while I would head over there for a bite to eat and Bible study. Church at the Epicenter, a new extra-denominational church—which is just another fancy way of saying non-denominational—was just starting while I was finishing up high school. Their services were always spiritually filling and I loved sneaking in the back to join them in worship.

This ecclesial cross-pollination led to some very interesting conversations between people with different church backgrounds, but it also led to the forming of some absolutely amazing faith-based relationships. The minister the Church of Christ congregation is still a friend and mentor of mine, and some of the members of the First Baptist Church and Church at the Epicenter had faiths so strong that to this day they are still some of the examples to which I strive to emulate.

No matter where I went, though, whether it was my home congregation, the church across the street, or one of the many within walking distance to my house, I know that I could walk through the doors and be immediately greeted by people I knew and loved and who knew and loved me. I would see families with children as young as James, young men and women my age, and highly experienced men and women who looked like they could be my Papa’s parents; but everyone was glad to see me, and I was glad to see all of them.

It was a great time to be in the church, because it seemed like everyone was there.

Now, as all of you can see and as many of you have pointed out, I’m still a young’un. It hasn’t been a full decade since I graduated from high school. But it seems like a good bit has changed since I was in high school. When I went back to my hometown a few weeks ago, I got to go back to that church I grew up in. I got to see many of the people who had helped raise me in faith, and it was a wonderful, nostalgic time of fellowship and worship. But something had changed. Now, there were still people of all ages there, some of the ones in high school are the little brothers and sisters of my friends, which still trips me up because I think they should still be in second or third grade. The old friendly faces that I missed so dearly were still there, and there were a good many new faces alongside them.

But the attitude had changed. The atmosphere of the church was just a little different. Instead of that feeling like I was entering a celebration or large family gathering, I felt like I was walking into a bunker full of soldiers who knew they were fighting a losing battle. Now don’t get me wrong. The worship was wonderful. It was great to see all of my old friends and to spend time praising God with them. But something was off.

It wasn’t until after the service when I had a chance to talk to some of those people that I began to understand. You see, no matter whom I spoke to, I heard the same few statements from almost everyone:

“No one comes to church anymore.”

“We can’t compete with Sunday sports.”

“It’s not like it used to be. Everything’s changed.”

This church—still reaching a large number of people and still full of many of the individuals from my past—this church had seemingly forgotten who they serve. For whatever reason, and they could give you a laundry list of them, they had taken their eyes off of the true prize, the true reason for doing church.

They had lost sight of the promise. 

2.17.12--Sermon on Deuteronomy 26:1-11

When I was eight years old, my brother and I caught a kitten.

We were at the softball fields on Hickam AFB on Oahu, waiting for my dad to finish his game. Korey nudged my arm and pointed to this tiny ball of fluff that was cowering near the dugout, and we set off on a mission to capture the cat. Never once did we think that this might be a bad idea. Never once did we think that the poor animal was probably frightened out of its mind, that it might have rabies, that it might actually belong to someone.

We just saw a cute little kitty, and we wanted to play with it.

After about twenty minutes of running around, we finally cornered it against the fence. I picked it up, and it was the tiniest cat I’d ever seen. At eight years old, I could hold it in my hands and have room to spare. We brought it to my dad after the game and told him that we were going to keep it. I’m not sure how we got away with not asking, but we did, so that night, we brought this tiny cat home and he became part of our family.

We named him Pete the Barn Cat, because that was the name of a character in a line of children’s books that I was reading at the time.

Pete traveled from Hawaii to Texas with us, and at some point transitioned from being an indoor cat to an outdoor one. I always felt that I had a special bond with Pete, for even when I’d been gone for long periods of time, he would always run up to me and sit happily in my lap while I pet him. After I went to college, Pete kind of slipped from the forefront of my mind. When I would go home, I’d always try to spend a little bit of time with him, but that time continued to grow shorter and shorter.