Real Life Christianity

(This week, I’m blogging from the Carolina Conference Camp Meeting, where I am the speaker for the youth division. )

 

With a sweet smile on her rosy-cheeked face, Marie* approached me after yesterday morning’s devotion.

“Can I ask you who’s in charge of the music?,” she asked.

Her request was so polite and her demeanor so sincere that I just presumed that she wanted to make a request or even ask to sing herself for the evening’s meeting.

“You know, I’m not really sure,” I told her. “Let’s ask Pastor Tim.”

After a few more consultations with staff, it soon became apparent that her inquiry wasn’t about becoming more involved at all. It was about the drums. And her discomfort.

Pastor Mike, who is in charge of the youth division, apologized and we all thanked her for her honesty. At our staff meeting later that day, however, the decision was unanimous that the youth band was great and we were making no amendments.

Then, the evening meeting started.

I somehow missed the organized protest of 20 youth who got up and walked out, but let me tell you, the other leaders did not. In fact, soliciting the attention of all but two of us (and one of us was preparing to preach at the time!), they continued to loudly complain about “the drums, the guitars, and the girls strutting their stuff up there [referring to the vocalists]” right outside of the meeting room. Their ringleader was a sixty something year old conservative Adventist who also managed to wrangle the conference president (who was conveniently walking by during “the protest”), the division leader, and a few other important people into the conversation.

For an hour after our evening meeting let out, the leaders discussed what the appropriate course of action should be. The division leader, Bill (the same one who invited me to speak), was adamant that not only was there nothing inappropriate about the current praise team, but that we were not about to amend our current program based on the complaint of one group. Also, the protesters have been complaining since their group of home schoolers was in the primary division (for ages 7-9).

As leaders, we made the unfortunate mistake of allowing the praise team to be present during the first half of our meeting. The ultimate resolution was, of course, to allow them to continue, but the hurt expressions on their faces revealed what we all knew: the protesters had missed the whole point of worship.

By focusing on the fact that a (muted!) drum was being played and two guitars were accompanying the piano, they failed to notice that almost 100% of the youth present were engaged in worship. They were singing loudly and were experiencing God. Outside of the worship meeting, while staging “the protest,” those twenty youth were not.

I had just returned from my sister’s place in Asheville before this meeting and was so rushed that I didn’t get a chance to change out of the black pants, casual top, and flip flops I was wearing. I am the child of a West Indian mother, so you can imagine the horror I experienced not preaching in a suit—much less in flip-flops! And, of course, it would be this night that Bill stopped by to hear me and then, had me sit next to him during the hour long staff meeting.  (I was blissfully ignorant of “the protest” while preaching, by the way. I noticed that the leaders only came in for the last ten minutes, but I didn’t know where they had been until afterwards.)

Worship is so much more than the way we express ourselves or the way that we look, though.

Tonight, after I was already dressed in one of the five suits I brought to preach in, I thought about why I felt compelled to wear it. I knew that not only did I have a better time preaching in flip-flops, but the only reason I really thought I should wear the suit was in case a conference official happened to walk by. Then, maybe I’d earn more credibility and get invited back—maybe even to do something bigger! Nobody else would really care. I mean, the kids are running around in shorts and t-shirts and so are the other leaders (including me, during the day!).

I wasn’t invited here based on the way I dress or anything I do in or of myself, though. I was invited on the merit of God working through me and absolutely nothing else. So, I hastily flung my suit onto my hotel room bed and changed into a pair of black slacks with a simple dressy shirt and heels. It was in this attire that I knew I was more approachable and that the focus was unmistakably on Jesus–not on me. Besides, even after the flip-flops, Bill was in attendance for the second consecutive night.

 

*Marie was not actually one of the “protesters.” I realized that was not clear after I finished writing this. She just happened to complain on the same day. Thankfully, she was a lot more tactful and appropriate. Also, names have been changed.

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The hallways of the Capital Memorial Church were brimming with church and community members when we arrived. The International Food Fair, I’m told, is one of their largest events of the year.

Dodging the rain and slipping in a side entrance, we were greeted with ethnic aromas emanating from nearly a half dozen rooms downstairs. Not knowing where to begin, my friend, Phil, and I solicited the advice of a kind faced woman wearing an embroidered tunic and a smile.

“You can start in any room (representing different regions),” she told us. “Just pace yourself! There’s a lot of food.”

Her advice would be valuable. The flavors were abundant, as were the samplings. So, after two hours of grazing and mingling, we were stuffed. I was still teasing the remainder of the vegan chocolate cake on my plate with a fork when I sat down next to a woman named Kathy on a couch in the fellowship hall.

“So, are you a member of this church?,” I asked, making small talk.

Like me, she wasn’t. She wasn’t an Adventist either. She simply lived in the area, as I did. She was raised a Jew and was now a practicing non-denominational Christian.

“Can I ask you what Adventists believe?,” she offered, after learning that I was one.

Such a request should have been expected, but I was still caught off guard.

1 Peter 3:15 flashed in my mind, as I started to answer. I mentioned the second coming as well as a seventh day Sabbath. I had briefly mentioned the state of the dead and health laws when Phil returned from another room. He started to explain the prominence of end time events.

“Hmm…that’s interesting,” she said. “I guess I’ve just never seen things that way.”

Of our entire conversation (which continued for several more minutes), it was this statement that I found most profound. Growing up as an Adventist, I found it impossible to see things any other way. Every Adventist child has a mental picture of when Jesus will come.

When my sister was three, she had a bag packed for heaven. My mom says it contained one of her favorite outfits and a washcloth. She would take it everywhere—just in case. Phil says he used to scoff at the idea of having to prepare for college, knowing that Jesus would come before he would ever have the opportunity. For me, I always thought I’d live to see adulthood, but I can’t picture any future children living on earth beyond early childhood. In my mind, Jesus is going to come before they hit puberty.

Yet, there are many for whom the idea of a second coming—much less signs that might be heralding it—is completely foreign. The diminishing morality of our culture and political, economic, and natural disasters are seen as simply results of an evolving planet and peoples. To think that the first time a person might hear of a second coming is from one of us (from me?!) is shocking. As the birth pains continue to intensify, it is only even more important that we have an answer ready for the faith that we have—as well as an explanation for someone who may have never heard of end time events. What would you want to know if you were in their position? What will you tell them?

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I wasn’t really in the mood to talk when his conversation bubble popped up in Facebook.  Feelings of congestion, head pain, and coughing were seducing me back into the embrace of my down comforter.  I had only logged in to quickly reply to a message.

“Hey, what’s going on?,” the white conversation bubble taunted me. 

Usually, we communicate by email.  He is, after all, a busy medical student whose replies are more easily facilitated at his leisure.  This was unusual.

“Not much.  Am sick.  How are you?,” I replied, forcing myself to engage his comment. 

He was never known for his brevity.  I knew this conversation would not be succinct.

We met in college, unified by our common Christian beliefs, and later, residence in South Florida.  Now, he was almost finished with his 2^nd year at the University of Florida School of Medicine.  He had been goading me since he found out I was applying to consider UF.  As a result, most of our conversations now revolved around such a prospect—with special attention given to discussing the program, the track record of residencies, and the strength of the academic preparation. 

The necessity of outlining my current activities, list of schools, and progress on MCAT studying were not unexpected.  I purposely chose to exclude, however, the preparation for a week long series of sermons being preached at the Carolina Conference Camp Meeting going on concomitantly.   I fly to North Carolina the day after I sit for my MCATs. 

Mention of such an activity has heralded varied responses—especially from my classmates–but they are usually never positive.  Even my mother questioned whether or not I was “taking on too much” and scolded the meager compensation I will be given for my efforts.  It is a common plight of ministry.  

Eventually, my friend asked what he could pray about.  It was then that everything came tumbling out.  How I need to focus on MCATs, but feel distracted by the immense planning of 14 messages.  How I am not completely finished with my application, but have so many other things vying for my time.  How I somehow got sick right after classes ended and have wasted four days nursing this awful virus, instead of studying.

Then, he said it. 

“Sometimes God purposely gives us more than we can handle in order to demonstrate His power.  Without Him, it would be impossible to succeed.”

I guess it could have been considered a twist on the adage that, “God never gives us more than we can handle,” or “With God, all things are possible.”  The way that he said it, however, was what I didn’t know I needed to hear. 

The fact that God is always trying to teach us about His character always seems to be forgotten when we are stressed, strained, or in my case, slightly delusional from our low grade fevers.  Yet, there is a reason for the popularity of pithy adages.  They are, after all, completely true.

I used to think that after my teenage years, the life lessons from God would (finally!) be over.  Day after day, I realize that He’s nowhere close to finished—with any of us.  And, no matter what I say, I am thankful for that.

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I was nineteen and on a medically related leave of absence from Johns Hopkins University when I went to talk to my pastor in Florida. I had moved back home for the year and although I usually never visit my pastors at their office (sorry Pastor Russell and Pastor Dehm!), I felt compelled to do so this particular day.

A few months earlier, a friend I had grown up with in the church had stopped attending—almost unnoticeably. His father was a deacon and his mother was a greeter. His cousin was my sister’s best friend and two years earlier, he had been my date to senior prom.

“I’m worried about Jason,” I told my pastor.

It was well-known that Jason’s disinterest didn’t lie with God, as much as his feeling that he lacked an identity within the church. As youth, the two of us skirted the edges of the “in” youth crowd, not attending the same school as the majority or being invited to Saturday night social events. After graduation, though, I left Florida and found a place to belong at Miracle Temple. Jason didn’t.

“Is there any way that we can like, go and visit him?,” I offered in my uncertain young adult voice. “I mean, someone should do something, right?”

I expected my pastor to applaud my efforts and enthusiastically agree that yes, we should pay Jason a visit just to check on him and let him know the church family still cared. Instead, he uttered a statement that I never forgot.

“Well, Shayna,” he said firmly. “You can’t save them all.”

That was his advice? That we couldn’t save them all? And who exactly was “them?” The church members? The children of the church members who left as a result of a lackadaisical church body led by an unfeeling pastor?

I left his office discouraged and depressed.

I disagreed with his opinion then and I still do now. Just because the reality is that not every person on earth will be saved, it does NOT mean that at some point, Christians are supposed to abandon hope and stop trying. In fact, 2 Peter 3:12 suggests the opposite by saying that we “ought to live holy and godly lives” in order to “speed [the day of God’s] coming.”

According to Pastor David Newman’s sermon last week (at New Hope SDA), we actually have a role in the second coming of Christ through our evangelism. You can read or watch more here.

As we, at Miracle Temple, prepare to embark on a city-wide evangelistic campaign, it’s important to think about the role that we each have as individuals in hastening the second coming. It’s true that we will not be able to save everyone, but what about the one person that you will save? There are plenty more Jasons in the world just waiting.

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