Hey, Church…Stop me if you’ve ever heard this one

before. We need more young people! How can we

attract them? Why aren’t there more young adults in

our pews?

I’ve heard it. Back when I was young (many, many

years ago), looking for a new church to serve, I

noticed a trend among congregations seeking new

pastors. An assumption: If we call a young pastor,

they will bring young members. And (here’s the

unspoken part) we won’t have to do anything different

to attract them!

Now friends, just to be clear, saying we need more

young people…not a strategy. Neither, frankly, is

calling a young pastor.

When I served a congregation in Atlanta, we decided

we wanted to reach out to folks in their early twenties.

Recognizing we had to start somewhere, I contacted

several recent college graduates who had grown up

in the church and were living in the area again after

graduation. I met four of them for coffee together. I

knew all their parents and some of their grandparents

but had never met any of them. In conversation, they

expressed a real desire for deep, thick community.

They professed their love for the church and the

foundation it had provided them, a genuine interest in

growing in faith. When I asked them about roadblocks

to returning to church, they did not mince words.

Judgment. For starters, they didn’t necessarily want

to be associated with some of the labels placed

on “church people.” They had friends who had

experienced rejection and bitterness in church. And,

perhaps most personally, they were concerned about

the reception they would receive if they showed up.

I listened. But then, I encouraged them to come to

church anyway. They all agreed that they would

consider it. I had all but given up when, about a

month later, three of them walked into the back doors

of the sanctuary on a Sunday morning. I smiled,

perhaps a little too obviously. I might have even

waved awkwardly from the chancel. Look at that—

young people in the pews! I bet they’re glad they

called me as their pastor!

My soaring hopes came crashing down one hour later.

I was on my way, parting the crowd, to greet these

three prized worshipers, but a member of the church

had gotten to them first. And, as I approached, I heard

this woman (who had known these three young

adults their whole lives) say to the young man who

had first voiced his apprehension in the coffee shop,

“Well, well, well, well, well. I’m surprised the roof didn’t

collapse. It’s such a shock to see you here!”

I watched him. His shoulders slumped. His eyes made

contact with his shoes. His smile evaporated. And I

knew in that moment we’d never see him again. What

is it about us, we humans, that causes us to turn to

shame so quickly?

The church in Rome was located in the heart of

imperial power, and it was, by virtue of its location,

a diverse community. It included both Jews and

Gentiles who had little in common with each other

beyond their newfound faith in Jesus. Apparently, the

Apostle Paul, who did not found the church, had never

visited the church, has learned somehow that these

two groups were criticizing and judging each other for

their meal choices and their preferences on worship

schedule. Paul has a simple message: Stop it. You are

letting your disagreements undermine God’s call to

welcome. Stop judging each other.

Judgment. It was a problem then. It is a problem now.

Now, I want to be clear on this before the emails roll

in. The witness of scripture is not ambiguous about

human sinfulness. All of us fall short of God’s design.

All of us miss God’s intention for our lives. All of us

break God’s commandments. We fail to live in ways

that bring God joy. All of us. Often.

And I believe scripture is equally clear on this point:

it is not the role of humankind to occupy a place of

judgment over other broken and fallible people. Full

stop. In fact, that’s how the letter to the Romans

begins. Paul creatively and exhaustively catalogs a

list of particularly Gentile sins. It is as if Paul, standing

in front of the congregation, divides them in half and

then spends time highlighting the sins of one group in

front of the other. As the list grows, you can sense the

tension doing the same. Righteous pride on behalf of

some. Shame and anger from others. Paul continues

his list, naming only the sins that Gentiles commit,

for quite some time. And then, just when the tension

has reached its peak, he flips the script. Here’s what

he writes: therefore, you have no excuse, no matter

who you are, when you judge others; for in passing

judgment on another you condemn yourself. In other

words, the act of judging is deserving of judgment.

The Old Testament prophets deliver the same

message. Perhaps you remember Isaiah’s insistence

that God’s people stop pointing fingers and speaking

evil of each other. Judging others. Pointing fingers.

Speaking harshly. These are not grand acts of cruelty.

Certainly not crimes. Indeed, they have even been

normalized in our time. And yet Paul and the prophets

command us: stop it.

If you’ve ever experienced judgment, I would wager

you remember the feeling, the subtle way we can be

made to feel less than, out of place, unwelcome, not

enough. Well, well, well, well, well…

If you’ve ever participated in this kind of judgment or

exclusion, you know its enticement. It can feel so good

to be a part of the in-crowd, to pile on the criticism

of an individual or perhaps a whole group of people.

Our judgment tends to intensify as it accumulates.

Criticism creates contempt. Disagreement yields to

condemnation. Perhaps not grand acts of cruelty and

yet so deeply damaging to the bonds of trust and

connection that hold us together.

Whenever someone tells me that the Church is full

of hypocrites, my response is this: you are right,

and we’re always looking for one more! Now, that

flippant answer underscores a spiritual reality. Not

one of us is without sin. All of us have fallen short.

And in the Church, one of the ways we fall short is by

judging others’ shortcomings. If you intend to build

a community completely free of hypocrites, you are

likely to end up lonely.

At our best, we’re trying to do better in here. At our

best, we keep showing up, week after week, trying to

love God and all our neighbors knowing that we will

fail, and yet committing to try again. At our best, we

name and acknowledge the ways we get it wrong. We

confess our shortcomings, and we seek reconciliation

with those whom we have wronged. At our best,

we’re trying to be real. In a world that teaches us to

hide what is broken or painful or difficult, to deflect

our weakness by fixating on the flaws of somebody

else, we’re trying to do it differently. Not aiming for

perfection, but faithfulness.

A couple of weeks ago, Perry Bacon Jr. wrote an

essay that got my attention. His title was, “I left the

Church—and now I long for a ‘church of the nones.’”

Bacon describes how he grew up in Louisville where

his father served as the assistant pastor for their

small congregation. His family never missed a Sunday

service, and when Perry was accepted into college,

the congregation passed the plate. They took up a

collection to support him. In the years since, Bacon

has felt increasingly alienated by the extremist voices

claiming to speak for all Christians and the political

divisions in the church. He has fallen away from active

involvement as a young adult. He names activities

that provide some of what he’s missing, things like

weekly farmers markets and professional happy

hours—these consistent gatherings with people who

share values and interests.

And yet, Bacon confesses to feeling an absence, what

he describes in the piece as a “church-sized hole” in

his life. He concludes, “Many Americans, including

me, were once part of churches that were an

essential part of our lives. It seems strange to me that

America…is abandoning this institution as opposed to

reinventing [it]…”

What I want to tell the author is that he’d be welcome

here. Not because we will get it right, but because

we’ll be real. And what I want to tell you is this:

there are many people here today, and many others

who will hear these words, for whom Church is not

easy. Statistics tell us that many have simply slipped

away, and that is on us. At least partially. We’ve got

to stop the subtle shaming, the judgment in all its

insidious forms. We’ve got to stop giving our major

attention to minor issues. We’ve got to stop allowing

disagreement to be a cause for division.

Church, we can do better. We can be real, sharing our

lives as broken and beautiful as they are, in ways that

open us to growth and meaning. Here’s the truth Paul

passionately proclaimed:

We all belong to God.

So, why do you pass judgment on someone else’s servant?

We all belong to each other.

So, why do you pass judgement on your own sibling?

God’s children. No exceptions. No space for shame.

Oh, by the way. The sanctuary roof did not collapse

that Sunday. You probably knew that. But here’s the

surprise. It was not the last time that young man came

to church. He stuck with us. We started that group

for people in their early twenties, and not long after,

he brought a friend to one of our monthly meetings.

The group grew in numbers and in depth. The two of

them kept showing up, month after month, week after

week. In fact, the last time I was in that sanctuary—in

July of 2018—I was there to officiate their wedding. A

dozen members of our young adult group were there

too. We took a picture together. You know who else

was there? The woman who had been worried about

the roof. Just a few months later, she placed her hand

on his shoulder on the morning of his ordination as an

elder in the church. In that sanctuary, still standing,

roof still intact.

Now I know it doesn’t always go like that. But,

Church, we need to hear and tell these stories. Better

yet, we need to write them in the way we live and the

community we build together. Amen.