I'm Tired of New Churches

I once watched a video advertisement for a church I have never attended. The video was attractive, trendy, and humorous, and it presented its point very well. I felt as if I would be welcome as soon as I walked in the door. Simply put, it was an excellent advertisement. As I laughed at the witty catchphrases and clever imagery (I’m pretty sure they used a plastic Jesus figurine to get their point across somehow), I was hooked. At the end of the video, I remember thinking to myself I would love to go to that church. Those people are probably super chill. And funny. What was up with that plastic Jesus? Lololol.

It took a few months of this advertisement nagging the back of my brain for me to realize that I am sick and tired of new churches.

Where do I get the authority to make such a bold statement—and make it the title of this article? Well, realize that when I say “new,” I’m not talking about new church plants or “baby churches” (Dang it. Now this article isn’t nearly as controversial and interesting as you hoped. Sorry for leading you on.) No, when I say “new,” I mean different.

The gist of that advertisement I watched a few months ago was that the church it was advertising was different. “Tired of dressing up for church? Tired of traditional services and sitting in a sanctuary and listening to a pastor standing at a pulpit? Well, it’s your lucky day! _________ Church isn’t like them. We’re different.” What an attractive claim. I’m pretty sure most people don’t want to be shoved into a mold, so most people would fit into a church where fitting in means being yourself. Jesus tells us to come as we are, right? And I’m pretty sure He doesn’t want his church to be dominated by dead tradition. In that regard, ­­___________ Church is looking pretty awesome.

But _____________ Church’s advertisement is missing one crucial part of church: Jesus.

You see, I’m not so much tired of “new” churches as I am that these churches make their “hook” all about the fact that they are new. They get the masses interested in attending by playing on the fact that the masses are always looking for something radical to catch their eye. And instead of hitting them with the radical nature of Jesus and his grace, they bribe them with the newness of their operation. “Hey! Instead of boring normal church, we sit in circles on the floor and eat sandwiches while Brother Dude is led by the Spirit to play on his accordion. And, oh yeah, Jesus.” Or, “Are you tired of wearing ties or skirts to church? So are we! Come to our church because you can wear your swimsuit or whatever. Oh yeah, and Jesus.” Jesus is the afterthought, not the main attraction. He very well may be a focus in the services, but He is absent in the church’s list of Reasons Why You Should Go Here. Maybe these churches have given up on the power of the Gospel to draw people to their services, and now have to compete to have the most off-the-wall attention-grabbers to bring people in the doors.

Lest you think I am only targeting churches for hipsters or other similar establishments, I think fundamentalist churches are guilty of these tactics as well. For example, I attend college near a Baptist church. I grew up Baptist, so when I was looking to choose a church to attend while I am at school, that church ended up on my list. Driving by it on a Wawa run (if you don't know what that is, I pity your poor, deprived soul), I observed their building (normal) and read their sign. I decided right then and there that I wouldn't be attending their services--I kid you not, in bold letters following the name of their church came the words WE ARE OLD FASHIONED. While there is absolutely nothing wrong with an old-fashioned church, I now know nothing about this church except what they've advertised: they are Baptist, and they are old-fashioned. I do not know if they have a heart for missions, or discipling believers, or loving God.

Fundamentalist advertisements can sometimes look something like this: “We are FUNDAMENTAL. We haven’t been swayed to rock music or social drinking. Our services are biblically based—but only King James biblically based. Come to _______ Church; we’re a friendly, inviting place with traditional services. And oh yeah, Jesus.” No, they aren’t appealing to the radical or “hipster,” but they are appealing to the traditionalist—and Jesus is still an afterthought.

I don’t claim to be wise or overly experienced. But I am tired. Tired of people choosing churches simply because they are hooked by something other than Jesus. Maybe they’re attracted to the tradition, or to the conservative values; maybe they’re attracted to the contemporary style or to the laid-back atmosphere. Maybe they really, really have always wanted to wear their swimsuit to church. And I understand the church’s need to be culturally relevant. But while the conduct of services is an important factor in the decision to choose a church, the presence and prevalence of Jesus should be more important. If churches spend more money and time promoting their dress code or new house-church setup than they are spreading the Gospel and discipling believers, that’s a warning sign of a church that has misplaced their priorities and focus. Jesus has become just as plastic in their services as the figure I saw in that advertisement. That’s a church I don’t want to waste my time with. Because while churches who build on a foundation of tradition or culture will always change as culture does, churches that build on a foundation of the Word of God will never change—because Jesus never does.

So I beg you, American church scene, stop trying to be new. I’ve had enough of new. I just want Jesus.

Take a Step of Faith: Stop Walking

I thought I was good at taking steps of faith.

You see, I have somewhat of a go-getter personality. In high school, you would be hard-pressed to find something that I wasn't involved in: sports, music, academics, student government. I was the most comfortable when I was competing, or leading a group, or taking tests. I would never say "no" when someone asked me to get involved in yet another group or team, because being busy gave my life purpose. And, as a bonus, because most of the things I was involved in were directly connected to my Christian school or church, everything I was doing was for God, right? Steps of faith.

I recently realized, however, that when God calls me to take steps of faith, He wants me to stop walking.

Lately, when I've been looking ahead to my future--my schooling, my career, my friendships, my love life (or lack thereof)--I've come away from the time of contemplation with a sense of fear and uncertainty. To deal with the fear of the unknown, I've thrown myself into more and more of the familiar. Join more sports teams. Take more classes. Make more friends. Search and search for someone who could be a potential mate and invest myself fully into that person--and pick up the broken pieces of my heart when everything fell apart. I convinced myself that trying to pre-plan every aspect of my future would take away that fear that so consumed me and put in its place a sense of peace that God would provide for me--as long as I took the necessary steps to weave a safety net, just in case He fell through, too.

That safety net has robbed me of all my peace.

Every "step of faith" I've taken has been completely absent of faith, but powered by my own will, my own plan. Me. Even though where I'm comfortable is in busyness and overachievement, the steps I've taken have led me further and further away from the place where Jesus calls me to walk. That safety net I've created for myself has tangled about my feet, preventing me from taking a simple step of true faith. 

I'm reminded of Peter, when Jesus called him to take an ultimate step of faith: walk on water. When Peter left the boat and his gnarly fisherman's toes touched the stormy sea, the only thing keeping him from swimming with the fishes was his faith in Jesus. Jesus' power lasted only as long as Peter took steps of faith. But Peter, impetuous as always, began to take steps on his own. He had initiative. He was a go-getter, an overachiever. He was accomplishing something for God by walking towards Jesus and showing the other disciples how it's done. But none of those things were powerful enough to keep him above the waves.

And now, as I'm choking on the seawater of my own initiative, my own pride, I've decided that I'm going to stop walking.

I'm going to let Christ direct my steps. I'm going to let Christ calm the storm and give my feet the supernatural ability to walk on water, defying everything I could have planned for myself in order to teach me more about who He is.

Instead, I'm going to listen. Stop searching for love, stop trying to please everyone around me, stop burying myself in my schoolwork or sports to hide from my problems. Stop taking steps.

And listen.

Perhaps, once I quiet the sound of my pounding feet, running in the direction I've chosen, I can hear His still, small voice whisper, "Walk."

And by His grace, I will.

My Own Infinity: A Memoir

           Curiosity is, well, a curious thing. Curiosity is not a destination in and of itself, but a means to the discovery of new ideas, new emotions, even new worlds, as in my case. Curiosity does not passively expect others to introduce themselves; it does not sit and twiddle its thumbs at the bases of walls it could be scaling; it does not turn its back on a red light. Curiosity waits patiently, knowing that the light will certainly turn green. Curiosity does not merely observe: curiosity does. And this doing just might get you into trouble.

           The first time in my life that curiosity came into conflict with reality was at the age of five. At that point, I should have already joined the ranks of thousands of five-year-old girls with aspiring careers as Barbie fashion designers. I should have had every single Disney princess movie memorized, down to the dance sequences, dress choices, and soundtracks. Of course, these qualities would have described me accurately if I were indeed a stereotypical five-year-old girl. In truth, I more personified the stereotype of a middle-school nerd than that of a sparkly dress-obsessed child.

           On my first day of kindergarten, accompanied with tearful goodbyes, my parents released their firstborn child into the frightful world of ABC’s, crayons, and naptime that is elementary school. They probably held much more fear that morning than I. I possessed too much excitement to even give a passing thought to fear, for on that very day I would become an official “school kid”—the coolest title I could have ever imagined for myself. I wore that title and my ugly Christian school uniform with as much pride as my little five-year-old heart could muster. Walking into that big classroom covered in charts of every kind—weather, counting, alphabet, chores, even bathroom—was like awaking from a five-year dream. With so much newness to explore and learn, all thoughts of preschool (how childish!) were far behind me. I could already tell: here in kindergarten, things mattered. I mattered; I was a big kid now, after all.

            My eyes darted around the classroom, frantically searching for the one thing that would solidify my identity as a kindergartener. Then, I saw it. Down the row of desks, on the far side of the room, it lit up my eyes like it was actually glowing: my nametag. “Whitney Seidel” it read, in thick, block Sharpie-marker letters; I could read it from where I stood. I skipped (or scampered; at five, I’m not quite sure I had mastered the art of skipping) through the rows to my very own wooden desk—right next to the teacher’s desk, no less—complete with a miniature plastic blue chair. Gone were the days of plushy foam mats on the floor, my teacher towering over us, as if she was the only person in the preschool privileged enough to own her own chair.  Now, I owned a chair and a desk, with a laminated nametag to prove it. It was no matter to me that every other student in my class received the same treatment; I probably didn’t even notice this fact. All I knew is that that nametag made me one of a kind. Special.

            I don’t remember much else of what happened that day. Most likely, I was introduced to my teacher, became best friends with thirty other kindergarteners, and perhaps listened to a lesson on how we, the big kids, should behave in school. I don’t recall behaving badly or being reprimanded in any way; I must have been paying attention to the lesson on proper kindergarten conduct, at least.

           When I returned home, however, I realized that my perception of how well I had listened and acted that day was badly misconstrued.

           After a grand first-day-of-school dinner, I sat my parents and my younger sister and brother down for a talk about the finer points of kindergarten life. Somewhere in between snack time and naptime, the phone rang. My parents left to answer it; when they returned, the look on their faces was a curious mixture of disappointment and pride that I could not comprehend.

        “Whitney…” they began, and then paused. “Whitney, Mrs. Eppehimer just called us on the phone.” Not recalling any wrongdoing on my part, I just nodded my head and asked, “Why?”

           “Whitney…she called to tell us that you were reading things on her desk and not paying attention to the things she was saying. Do you remember doing that today?”

            Now, I remembered. And it was at that exact moment that I learned one of my hardest lessons growing up. You see, up until that moment, I didn’t know words had boundaries. The fact that the things on my teacher’s desk—lesson plans, teaching books, personal notes, even—were private and not for my eyes shattered my five-year-old perception of the world. I had learned to read as a very small child, a toddler; by the time I walked into that kindergarten classroom, I was reading on an upper-elementary level. My desire to explore and discover through literature was insatiable. So when I saw those words on my teacher’s desk, I was not thinking “private,” “keep away,” or “not for you.” Instead, I was thinking “New words! Words that have never been put together in this precise arrangement, an arrangement that I will most likely never lay eyes on ever again! I must take advantage of this opportunity!” Of course, the thoughts that ran through my little mind were probably not quite so profound; “Ooh! Words!” would justifiably sum up my reaction to what I saw. But now, though I was so young, reality had set in like a dam, an impassible edifice holding back the flood of all the wonderful stories I had ever discovered. Some words were not made for me to read. Some doors to new worlds had been slammed in my face and locked tightly, the key held just out of my childish reach. I stared forlornly at those closed doors: how could something so wonderful as words to read only belong to one person?

            When I returned to school the next day, I stayed away from the reading material on my teacher’s desk. I behaved as a perfect student should. I listened intently to everything about the alphabet that was taught—and couldn’t wait to return home to my books, where I could delight in that simple alphabet transformed into entities quite complex, into living and breathing and dancing stories.

            The next twelve years of school fell into this sad routine. I would be taught something I already knew or something I could learn very quickly; most of my school days would find me studying on my own or otherwise ignoring what the teacher had to say. I became bored and frustrated with the education system in which I was placed. I struggled to keep the curiosity that so characterized my childhood personality alive.

            So I turned back to my books; back to the stories I could quote word-for-word without even picking up the dog-eared pages; back to the characters I loved and considered my closest companions; back to the worlds I had explored even more than my own. It was no difference to me whether I was journeying through the woods with talking animals, becoming accustomed to life in middle school long before I arrived there, or traveling to foreign lands on the backs of dragons, for each and every new setting felt like home. I learned there, more than anything textbooks had dryly attempted. I learned how to laugh all the way down to my soul; I learned how to cry, tears falling because I felt something deep inside me break. I learned how to fall in love, and how to forgive when love itself fell. I learned how the world fit together from the perspectives of hundreds of authors and thousands of characters, each shaping my own perspective of how life is supposed to be really lived.

            And, as a five-year-old girl who cared more about the size of her library than the size of her dress collection grew into a college student passionately studying literature, I learned that curiosity, my own infinity, would eternally exist in the pages of my books.

The Power of the PSL: Part Two

A few weeks ago, I published an article about the joys of the Pumpkin Spice Latte and falling in love. But, like the dregs at the bottom of my red Holiday Starbucks cup, that love came to a bittersweet end, and I was forced to toss the cup and move on to better things.

I may have moved on from my heart's autumn escapades, but in a time of reflection, as I can almost feel the pumpkin-y steam from a fresh latte tickling my october-chilled face, I know that those whirlwind fall months changed me in ways that I may not have wanted, but certainly needed.

I learned how to fall in love after being hurt for so many years. And when love itself fell, I learned how to forgive. I learned that my person is not my personality, that my likes and dislikes, my passions, my accomplishments and rewards, my goals, my past, and my future compose, while important, only a part of me. I have depth. I am more than what I ever could see before.

Most importantly, I changed from a girl whose flaws lurked like monsters under the bed of her perfection, afraid that her value was as ethereal as the steam from her beloved coffee, to a woman whose value resides not in her past mistakes, or present successes, or projected perfection, or in the acceptance of others, but in everything beautiful God has handcrafted her to become.

A woman who has found true joy.

And I can face the coming months, cold and uncertain as they may lurk, with the confidence that in the end, everything really will work out for God's most beautiful good.

After all, it's Gingerbread Latte season.

Exposed: Inscription on my "Words To Live By" Notebook

Dear Reader,

I do not know where you are, where you've been, or where you're going.

I do not know if your path has been smooth; surrounded on both sides by wisping wheat fields and the smell of summer grass, the sun warm on your back, with only the occasional hill to climb at your leisure.

I do not know if your path has been rocky and barren; jagged cliffs rising above you as you drag yourself over the rough terrain, staring at yet another mountain you do not have the strength to climb.

I do not know if your path has been confusing; intersections with no signs or trail markers to give you the slightest clue of where you've been, or where your feet should fall next.

I do not know if your path has been lonely; a barren wasteland or a darkened forest that seems to swallow your spirit and block out the love of others, leaving you feeling utterly alone.

I do know that you are not alone.

Like you, I am a traveler. And though we are not called to travel the same path, I want to encourage you in your journey through life--encourage you to remember that, in your darkest and most suffocating moments, there is Someone--your Rock--who is always seeking and searching for you in the darkness, promising you firm ground on which to stand when all else falls away.

In this notebook, I've recorded the quotes, quips, and words of wisdom that I've picked up along the way and want to pass on to you. Some will make you laugh, others will make you cry, and some should simply make you think. All, however, are meant to inspire you and give you the refreshing perspective you need to take another step today. Because that's what life is about--the journey. You don't take a journey by immediately teleporting to your final destination. You take a journey by taking a first step--a first step that will lead to a destination unimaginable, as long as you take it.

And when taking that next step seems all but impossible, remember this final thing:

God's love is greater than the paths He has called us to walk.

And that, my friend, is what makes the journey worthwhile.

Godspeed.
Whitney

The Power of the PSL

I'd like to think of myself as a coffee connoisseur, but for the sake of sounding humble, you can call me a coffee snob. And I go crazy for this time of year. Why?

Pumpkin spice lattes.

If the current season is fall and you reside in the great United States of America, you, no doubt, have seen at least one coffee shop promote this coffee as the must-drink of the next few months. Every coffee shop and even fast food restaurant has come up with some variation of the seasonal beverage--and I've tried most. Some are much too cloyingly sweet, so half of the drink (can you even call it a drink if it has the viscosity of maple syrup? Yuck.) gets poured down the drain. Some PSLs have been grievously mishandled by an impostor barista who is obviously unaware that it is possible to burn coffee--a fairly normal occurrence in my coffee-ordering adventures that just makes me sad. But I live for the perfect PSL: really well-prepared, rich espresso (which is NOT pronounced "ex-presso", by the way. Gosh.) mixed with just the right amount of frothy milk, with a taste that can't help but remind you of falling leaves and all the wonderful things about the season: pumpkin, cinnamon, cloves, allspice. It's like an oversized man-sweater for your mouth. I've been drinking pumpkin spice lattes for years and I would be thrilled if a coffee place (I'm looking at you, Starbucks) would cater to my every whim and keep them on the menu year-round. Yes, you could say I've fallen in love with the PSL.

But lately, I've discovered that the pumpkin spice latte has a much closer connection to my heart that I had ever realized (Is this sounding creepy? Sorry. Just hear me out.). Because this fall, as I've gone to Starbucks to celebrate the season, I've fallen in love over the PSL.

Here at college, I've found people who love coffee just as much as I do. And as I've explored the local coffee bars with one person, each time ordering my beloved fall concoction, I've noticed that my trips have become less and less about the coffee I love so much and more and more about the person ordering coffee right next to me. Stories shared over my frothy espresso and his fresh-brewed exotic blend have made these times so enjoyable and genuinely the best parts of my week. I look forward to these "coffee breaks" for so much more than the coffee. It's like the PSL has infected my whole lifestyle; now I understand why the coffee shop has become such a integral part of American society. I get the connection over coffee, and I crave it just as much as I crave my beloved sweetly-spiced lattes.

So I salute thee, PSL. I've loved you and you've shown me love in return. You're my weakness, and I hope that you--and him--are a much cherished part of the brisk nights to come. Stay beautiful, my friend.

Because you are love, and love is a beautiful thing.

Journey

Past footprints-

Buried by pain,

Erased by tears,

Blown away by winds of change;

Seen by some,

Known by few,

Forgotten by all.

Gone.

No hope from the past,

No plan for the future.

The sands of time ahead

Are as harsh and empty

As those imprinted

By my forgotten footsteps.

My feet,

Bound in place by

Fear,

Are willing more to die

Than to take another

Painful step.

The world is blind

To my struggle,

But I cannot be hidden

from God.

He sees my path

He sees my future

And,

He sees my footsteps.

And,

Maybe,

That’s all that really matters.

I take another step.

#quotestoliveby

"In a world of words, anything is possible."

~Laura Wright LaRoche~

Ocean

I tire of being deep.

I drown in my own thoughts. I sink into my own lies. And I can barely tread the water of everything I've portrayed myself to be.

Do I drown you as well? Do I sweep you away into this vast expanse of who I am, at the expense of you never finding out who I am?

A Question

It was a question I had worn on my lips for days-like a loose thread on my favorite sweater I couldn't resist pulling-despite knowing that it could all unravel around me.

"Do you love me?" I ask.

In your hesitation, I found my answer.

~Lang Leav~

#quotestoliveby