Flipping the Litmus Test

One of the symptoms of my evolving faith journey appears as a smirk. I smirk a lot when I defend concepts that I used to attack. Unlike the apostle Paul, I’ve not gone from killing believers to discipling them; but I’ve switched fence sides on a large handful of things.
One of these smirk-worthy conversations traveled by phone between me and a pastor friend— a passionate, devout guy trying to convince me back to my former side of the fence. The topic: Sunday night church.
See, the last three churches I’ve regularly attended (since August of 2002) held no Sunday night meeting. In the 90’s, I would have told you that was a slippery slope, as it would appear that I’m trying to weasel my way out of God time. In the last millennium, I would have judged you for not attending on Sunday night or for choosing a church that let you off the hook. But in these 00’s, I ask the questions that would’ve frustrated 90’s me.
“Where’s Sunday night church in the Bible?” I asked into the phone.
“You know, when the young man fell off the balcony, asleep while Paul was teaching. That was on a Sunday night.”
“Seriously? That’s your mandate?”
“Well, Hebrews [10:25] says not to forsake the assembling of ourselves together.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t say that has to be Sunday night. In fact, in Acts, it says the early church met every day. Why don’t you meet every day?”
“That wouldn’t be practical. People have jobs and lives.”
“So, then you’re setting an arbitrary standard that isn’t in the Bible? If it’s okay to be arbitrary with less than biblical precedent, what’s the problem with a church choosing not to do Sunday night [service]?”
“Because Sunday is the Lord’s day. It should all be about him.”
“Who’s to say it isn’t?”
Before this post becomes a transcription, I’ll answer that last question for you: legalists. I was one (and struggle not to revert); so, I know. Pharisees are the kings of arbitrary. Then they pretend their invention was there from the beginning, finding random Bible verses to use for ammo in fortifying their position. They keep tradition so well, they forget the root idea. What was the original point?
Community! God lives in community. He built us to need it, to be fulfilled in it. He uses it to hone us, to grow us, to support us.
Ironically, most traditional church services are only loosely communal. Sure, you might meet and greet in the atrium or the children’s wing; you might even shake hands before the offering or pray with the deacons in the church office. But most of the time you don’t face each other; you don’t interact with each other; you don’t build into each other’s spiritual journeys. It’s not much different than going to a movie as a group, really, or going to a college lecture.
So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to flip your litmus test.
Does your church have small groups? Do you participate in environments where you share your personal, spiritual journey—your junk and your triumphs? Do you meet with people who ask you where you are with God this week? what God is doing in your life right now? what’s changing in you? Does your local assembly make it conducive to confess your faults to each other, to get vulnerable with some of your doubts? Do you “do life” with anyone during the week in your weekday clothes? Does your church pray off a list or confront one need at a time, with prayer-heavy hands on your shoulders?
One of my spiritual mentors likes to say that the best distance to affect spiritual formation in another is three feet or less. Spiritual community thrives within an arm’s reach, often with an arm reach.
See, the early New Testament church met in houses more than they did in worship centers. They sat on pillows, not pews. They talked over meals, in circles, around tables, on roads as they walked. They took the church with them to each other. They were spiritual equals at different stages in their journeys, drawing from the journeys of each other—not just a solitary pastor or group of pastors.
Sunday worship shouldn’t be just a feeding time. It’s the celebration venue for what God has been doing all week. It’s the message that smaller, quieter groups—maybe as small as two or three believers over coffee—will digest throughout the week. It’s a fortifying event that builds on unified cells.
If that’s not your Sunday morning experience, you might want to take the service out of the other gatherings of your week. Whether that’s Sunday night and Wednesday evening or some other combination of regular convergence, your whole-body congregating will crescendo higher on the heart beat of constructive, cellular intimacy.
Until community trumps conformity, you’ll be battling the perfunctory. Until the original intention is bigger than what it became, you’ll still be fighting the wiggles on Sunday night. Until every day becomes the Lord’s day, your blue laws will frame your worship.
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