Church is For Women

The door jingled as I walked inside Blessings, hopeful to find the new Donald Miller book. Soft music filtered from the speakers. On the left a number of tables had been set up, filled with little figurines of Jesus and cherubim and small plaques. I strolled through the nearly empty store and said hello to the older lady working behind the counter. Two other women, who looked to be in their mid-thirties, were whispering softly as they glanced through the books. Every time I entered a Christian bookstore I had a strange sense that I was walking into a women’s section of the library. It hadn’t bothered me in the past, as I was more at home in quiet bookstore than I was in a garage. Lately, however, I’d started to notice things. Mainly, I’d come to notice just how feminine the church had become.

I headed to the men’s section. I browsed through the titles, and went to another aisle before realizing that the men’s titles were all located on just the one shelf. Ah. Slim pickings. As usual. It wasn’t the publisher’s fault. Every Christian writer knew that women purchased more than 85% of any books sold through Christian retail. No wonder they tailored their stores – with the soft music and rose colored walls – towards women. Still, it made me shake my head. When I finished my shopping and headed out a few minutes later, I wondered what the chances were of one of my friends actually walking into a store like this.

I pulled my jacket up as I headed back to my car, the cold wind slicing through my clothes and whipping up the bottom of my leather coat. I jumped in my car and rubbed my hands together, urging the heat to kick in. Lately I’d been doing a fair bit of reading about the church, in particular the place of men within the church, and lately I’d begun to notice some discrepancies, discrepancies that had me and many others worried. Particularly the lack of men, especially ‘manly men’, in the church. I’d never really noticed it before, but there was a reason for that.

The car had warmed enough and I put it in gear and headed to Starbucks to do some work. The statistics for church attendance were alarming. George Barna had found a gender gap of over 13 million (more women attending church) in the U. S. As well, twenty to twenty-five per cent of married women in the church were going alone. Any one who had worked in a church understood this. I remembered my time as a pastor. I remembered the women who came alone, and I remembered how much we (the pastoral staff) leaned on the women to run the programs. Except for the deacons, it was hard to find men consistently in the building. Perhaps one of the greatest misperceptions of the modern church was the idea that it was patriarchal. More like a frosted cake, below the frosting of ministers and clergy, still predominantly men, most of the church's programs were run by and for women.

I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot right near the entrance. I hustled into the café, and then promptly chided myself for being such a wimp. A bit of a cold spell and suddenly I was a girl. I ordered my coffee, and found a spot at the study table, watching the people pass as my 1987 laptop ‘warmed’ up. This whole idea about men ‘missing’ in the church was something of a revelation to me, understandable I suppose for the fact that I related to the men and women who attended church quite well. I was artistic. I liked small conversations. I liked teaching. I also enjoyed singing and music and learning. Unfortunately, most men just weren't built that way. I decided that the next Sunday I would step back and take a closer look at the Sunday service, which so many authors seemed to suggest had only become increasingly feminine.

It was snowing. I pulled my car carefully through the parking lot, past the entrance, and waved to a few of my friends. It was mild enough, but I hustled towards the front anyway, reminding myself that today I was going to try and see from an outsider's perspective. A 'manly' man’s perspective.

The first thing that struck me was how NICE-ly everything was arranged, how NICE the people were, and how it fit with the elevator style music softly leaking over the sound system. I hung up my jacket and strolled into the sanctuary, greeting people along the way. By the time the service started, I’d already had about ten small conversations filled with warm fluff and lots of smiles. After brief announcements, we started singing. We sang for a good thirty minutes before one of our pastors and some others delivered some more announcements, all of which were presented in soft, smiling voices. Our senior pastor finally rose to speak, and after a short prayer, delivered a forty-five minute teaching that was both interesting and long. I say ‘long’, because as I imagined myself as a non-artistic man in the congregation, I wondered how good it felt to be back in school for an hour and a half every Sunday morning. Not only school, but taking a feminist course on relationships and submission and passive interaction.

When I finally left, after saying goodbye to half a dozen people, I began to understand what the writers were talking about. Sunday service was nothing more than adult school. Most of my teenage friends had despised high school. And then there was the soft music, the emphasis on relationships and small talk, the almost desperate longing for people to be NICE. And through it all, if you listened closely enough, you could almost hear the unconscious murmur... Don't rock the boat. We're all safe here. What was dangerous and manly about that? Where was the adventure and pulsing life that men longed for?

I decided to head home after service and write down some of my thoughts. By the time I walked into my apartment, I felt a strange sadness come over me. Sad because I truly understood why so many men did not like church, why they felt so emasculated every time they walked through the doors. It was easy to judge men who didn’t want to go on Sunday, but the reality was that church -- as we practiced it in North America -- had not been designed for them. At any level. Church, for whatever reason, had become an exercise for women and artists and passive types who relished security over risk, who longed for relationship over greatness, programs over projects. Something had happened between now and that daring New Testament church that was filled with ‘manly men’, risk takers and adventurous types who understood that becoming a Christian did not mean more tea and crumpets. I wasn’t sure what we could do about it, but it was something I needed to think about, because the more we excluded men from our churches, the more feminine they would become...

-Steve

Where Have All the Men Gone

For the past six months I've been reading a variety of books and studies dealing with the absence of men in churches. The statistics are staggering. Many of you know women whose husbands and boyfriends refuse to come to church, and women complain that many man in the church are 'soft' men.

Where have all the 'manly' men gone? Where are the risk taking, adventurous, dangerous men?

Over the next month I'll be writing about this, but I'd love to hear your input. Why do you think men have left the building? What can we do to attract more men? And women, I'd especially like to hear your views on this.

Are the men in church soft? Is the church too feminine?

I'll give you my thoughts, of course, but first I'd love to hear yours...

Steve

Without This, We Die (A Letter)

Note: I thought at first it was simply a dream. But when I awoke yesterday morning, I found this letter resting on my coffee table. I have been thinking about it ever since...

A letter from an Old Man.

To all who have ever struggled upon the sadness of life.


Dear Friends,

I hope this letter finds you well. Sadly, I know that for many of you it does not. Despite all of our advances in technology and science and education, pain and despair have made steady their increase on this world. And upon you. Even those of you who will not admit it.

Believe me, I know about pain. My joints ache constantly, and my family, oh how I miss them. A man should not have to bury his children. I-Well, they're all gone now. And yet, despite their loss, more than anytime in my life I feel alive, even as I look to my 91st year upon this earth. Alive! And before I leave, I'd like to share with you my story...


It was to be like any other day. The endless nights and weeks of a life endured was about to end, and I was glad for it. Something happened however, and that day I finally discovered that which had been missing for so many years, the day my life changed. Yes, I know it sounds dramatic, unreal even, but though I now sit here as an old man with little more than wisps of white to cover my head, I have breath for the first time. And life! Oh, wondrous, joyful, heart breaking life! I am writing you today because though I am not one of you anymore, I remember well my time with you, and wish to give you the answer you seek.

For many years, I was part of your group, a group that I joined unwillingly as a young man. I had heard of your numbers, yet I did not know that I belonged with you until slowly it dawned on me that I did. Most of us joined the same way. But by that time, it was too late.

We were a search party that did not know what it searched for. A rescue group without anyone to rescue but ourselves. We were lost, without understanding why. The one thing we shared, our bond, was the one thing we all lacked, an unknown vacuum in the places of our soul. And yet, we could not define what "it" was or how we knew something was missing. All we knew was that it was, and the graying skies seemed a shallow echo of the void in our hearts.

Even in those days when the pantry was filled with food, when the promise of work was secure, and when those around us brimmed with glad tidings of merriment, we could still feel its absence. We could feel it stalking us in the night, before we slept, and in the mornings when we awoke, arising before us, before we had time to set our daily escape. We were not willing for this, and we worked hard to keep even the merest thought of its lack from our lives, drowning ourselves in the shallow happiness of temporal criticism and daily successes. We pledged to all of the culture's ideals, and traveled in the newest sensations of all we had accomplished, but in the end it caught us.

And so we died.

Oh, we lived many years, and of our friends and acquaintances, there were but one or two that knew about our early demise. We ran, but never surrendered. We heard, but did not listen. We held to long occasions that stirred our emotions and our senses, but ignored our hearts.

I am writing this letter to you today because my time here is coming to an end. I remember what it is like to die and yet remain in my body. Only this past year I was rejuvenated, and for the first time since I was a young boy, I have known joy! And I have discovered the One Thing missing from my life, the unifying absence that defined our group and has killed so many.

And that one thing... is hope.

I chuckle even now as I read the sad smile on many of your faces. You thought my answer to be much longer, for old men are usually long winded, aren't we? You expected a verse of such great languor and artistry that you would stare at it for hours like an unknown jewel, a verse such as you could plumb its depths without ever finding its source.

I have no such words.

But I can tell you this, if there is one thing that our world is starved in, it is hope. This lack affects all of us. Every creed. Every race. Every class. Every continent. It knows no boundaries of time and space, of culture or language. It is universal in its necessity, and universal in its absence.

My hand fails me, even now, trembling like the old fool I am. I must cut this short, but before I do, please allow me to give you some words of advice.

Of this life without living, some of you know better than others what I am talking about. You hide your pain from the world around you. At night, before you sleep, you wish that you would not wake, and then feel guilty for your thoughts. For others, you have given up long ago, "melodrama" does not feed the family, nor does breath wasted on the fruitless pursuit of something greater. For some of you, you feel guilty about asking for more from this life. To all of you I say this. Be still! The years pass swiftly, and soon you will awake to find yourself even as I am, old and weathered by a life marked by its longing for escape.

But, you ask, what is hope? Where do I find it?

Hope is a vision of the future that allows us to live within the Present. A vision that gives us courage to stand when we wish to lie down, that gives us strength when our energy fails, that gives us will when today refuses to pass into tomorrow. But hope is not secured in wealth or power or security. It is not secured in anything that ties us to this world, for by definition, eternal longings can never be tied to temporal solutions.

This past year I have watched many more join your ranks, and the list grows. For some, they join because they must, because they do not know nor have even heard of what lies beyond your group. For others, they have chosen to ignore hope's voice in favour of the day that is today. And there are others who have been so broken by yesterday that they can no longer hear about tomorrow.

Of all in your group, I pity them the most.

However, and I my heart begs for you to hear this, there is an answer!

Stop running and be still! Embrace your life. Embrace your family and friends and the people who cross your path! Look to all that is good in this world, for though our world is broken, it yet holds the imprint of nobility.

Most importantly, remember that God loves you. Oh, how He loves us! His kingdom here is the reason you live. In the corner of your heart, It is His voice you hear. The whisper of His reassurances fills us in a way that only they can, even as the temporal things of our daily life fall apart. And, oh people, they will fall apart. It is our destiny that life is imperfect and unfair. Do not be surprised by it, but expect it, and in those moments, ask God to speak loudly so that you will hear His voice even in the midst of your pain, and so discover the well of joy. And in so doing, discover that which you have missed for so many years.

Well, I must go. My hip aches, and my hand cramps. I have so much to say, but it is for you to find. Be still, my friends, for hope lives! It lives, and you are closer than you realize to its majestic imprints on your life!

I love you all, even as God loves you and so desperately longs for your company. May you find that which I have found, and may your days be celebrated within the braced assurances of all that God has for you...

Sincerely,

Your Old Acquaintance


-Steve

Another Cup of Coffee

"Good morning, Lord."

The cold winter had seemingly disappeared again as I stood on my balcony, breathing in the spring like air that had melted most of the snow. It was one of those days, when the world slowed down a little bit, enough for you to see where you stood. Or if you were still standing. I'd been thinking about re-entering the ministry lately, more as the weeks and months progressed, but wasn't anxious to dive back in. I'd been there before. I remembered what it had done to my faith.

I took a sip from my morning coffee and listened to the birds chirping in the tall set of bushes alongside the building. I wondered if this weather confused them as much as it was confusing me, if the mild winter had upset their migration patterns or eating habits. The past week I'd felt... off at times, unable to explain it even as I thought about the future, about working in 'paid' ministry again. Maybe that's what got me thinking about the past.

When I'd first entered the ministry as young twenty year old with nothing less than dreams and goals of worldwide success, I'd been rudely chastened. I might have been working for the God of the universe, but nobody on this planet, especially the teens in my city, seemed to recognize that. It was frustrating. So I worked harder, combining Anthony Robbins with ultra-charismatic Theology. I confessed the greatness of my ministry, the success, claimed all the victories, and drew... about twenty or thirty kids every Friday night. It was so disheartening.

Eventually I resigned, started another ministry, and resigned after that. One of my difficulties about being involved in paid ministry was the expectation of success, measured of course, by attendance. The other issue, though more subtle, was the way Christianity so quickly evolved into a cause, something I worked for. And let's be honest, it's a great cause. The political and theological and emotional angles are all there. You can minister for the sake of Christianity without ever thinking about the relationship between God and man.

I leaned forward in my chair. Most winter mornings it was too cold to sit outside, but not this winter. I'd taken advantage of the mild spell to spend a little more time on the balcony, a personal quirk that somehow sensed God a little easier when I was outside. I started praying for my family and friends, but this morning I wavered halfway through my prayers.

"Hi ya, Lord. I hope you're doing okay."

It was a strange, nonsensical prayer in so many ways. Yes, I was praying to the ALpha and Omega, the King of Kings, the Creator and Master of the Universe. But these days, more than ever, I sensed a sadness in my prayer time when I thought about God as a cause or, on some days, more like a vending machine. I sensed a Person who longed to get to know me. And strange as it sounds, I had the power to say no. It was up to me whether I let Him into my house.

Finally I stood, the chair creaking beneath my weight, as even the mild winter air became uncomfortable. I wanted to reassure God that if I did go into ministry, that I wouldn't forget Him again, like I had the first time. I wanted to tell Him that He was the most important thing in my life. I wanted to pray a super-spiritual prayer filled with words from the Bible, one that conveyed just how serious I was about being a Christian and why God would never have to worry about me being anything less than a superlative servant.

Strange, though, that more than anything, I sensed a smile on God's face when I said "Good morning." I heard the echo of a heartbeat very similar to my own, the quiet stillness of a close friend listening to another, and the unrestrained joy of a parent's voice upon hearing their grown up child's news for the day.

I sipped my coffee and glanced up at the graying skies. I knew what to do, what was expected of me, and even what others did. But this morning, well, this morning was something different. God had taught me something new. I sat back in my chair, and with a flicker up at the gray skies, started talking.

"Well, I had a good day yesterday, Lord. I'm having my article published this year in Discipleship Journal, isn't that cool..."


Sometimes we don't treat God with the reverence He deserves. Other times we don't realize how easily He forgives. But often times, well, I think a lot of times He just wants to visit with us for a while, and have another cup of coffee...

Steve