I love my coaching work with progressive churches. It feels like coming home theologically. It does my soul good to know that there are congregations out there offering safe harbor for people who all too often face rejection in many corners of our culture, including church. I celebrate the changes these congregations are affecting in the world, grounded in their faith in a God that has created each one of us in the divine image.

Many of these churches have fewer than 100 active participants, and some are under 50. (Note: not all progressive churches are small, and not all small churches are progressive.) Maybe these congregations were once larger and have become smaller because of stands they have taken. Maybe they were always this size. Let me be clear that I don’t think attendance and membership numbers are helpful metrics. They do not reflect the impact churches have on their members or on their larger communities, which is often much larger than these numbers suggest. That said, we live in a world that tells us that this hard data is meaningful. As a result, members of progressive churches can wonder why more people haven’t joined them. They know their congregations have something that many people need: a center of welcome, meaning-making, and positive action. So why are these churches often on the small side?

The people for whom your congregation is a good fit have often been wounded by past church experiences. If your church is welcoming and affirming of LGTBQIA+ people, for example, there’s a good chance that those who need your kind of faith community have, unfortunately, been rejected elsewhere. This makes it so hard for them to walk through the doors of any church, even if it’s one that has taken pains to extend hospitality to those who have been marginalized. (And once folks work up the courage to attend church, even those of us with the best of intentions are prone to microaggressions that can be retraumatizing.)

Christianity has been weaponized. I am a Baptist who came of age during the height of the battle for control of the Southern Baptist Convention, which led immediately to the subjugation of women and eventually to other problems such as coverups of widespread abuse. But you don’t have to be Baptist to be affected by twisted religion. Just look at the current tangled mess of fundamentalist Christianity, ultra-Americanism, and white supremacy. The whole Church is blemished by what is essentially a grab for power in the culture wars.

Education about your iteration of church is needed. Because of both of the points above, many people who could find a home in your congregation will first need to know how and why you are different. That will take intentionally and consistently showing up and building relationships in the places these potential constituents occupy, both online and in person.

"Evangelism" is a concept with a lot of baggage. Many people with a more progressive theology hesitate to go out and recruit or even educate about their faith communities. We associate evangelism with strong-arming and condemning, with one-sided conversations and the sinner’s prayer. Let’s take back this term. Let’s think of it as showing up Christ-like in the world: taking a genuine interest in people and their stories, offering them our care and our time, and allowing ourselves to be changed by them just as they might be changed by us. (Yes, I believe Jesus was changed by his relationships. See his interaction with the Syrophoenician woman.)

Small church is an all-hands-on-deck situation. What this means is that there is usually a solo pastor, maybe with some very part-time staff, and a lot of leadership distributed across the laity. Sometimes we foist responsibility onto newcomers too soon, eager to share some of the work. These newcomers might need time to heal from past church experiences first, or they might be so new to church life that there’s a learning curve for stepping into lay leadership. Either way, we must be able to give them space to get to know the congregation, to grow some roots, and to discover organically how they might use their gifts in service to the church’s mission. If your church can’t offer that breathing period, newcomers will likely not stick around.

Small congregations sometimes feel self-conscious or apologetic about their size. What I want you to hear is that your church is very much needed. You are redeeming the Church’s reputation and practices. You are saving the theologies and sometimes the lives of the people in your midst. Small can be very, very mighty. And with the ways that you have expanded your reach during the pandemic, there is no limit to what God can do in and through you. Thanks be to God for who you are.

Photo by Hilda Trinidad on Unsplash.

Some churches that have long had a full-time pastor are beginning to imagine what it would look like to laser-focus the pastor’s time, energy, and responsibilities. If your congregation is in this space, check out this article I wrote for the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship blog about things to think about during this staffing model transition. And, spoiler alert, while this change might be challenging, really beautiful, faithful outcomes are possible.

Photo by Zachary Keimig on Unsplash.

The title of this posts reflects a growing reality among mainline Protestant churches in North America. So what do we do, especially given that this trend is likely to continue? I’m over at the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship blog today with my thoughts.

Photo by Nolan Kent on Unsplash.

If you have never met me, you might not know something important about me: I am 4’10” tall.

Many short people bemoan their size. I understand the inconvenience of it in certain situations. I had to sit on a pillow when I drove my first car. (I still require multiple pillows below and behind me when I drive a 15-passenger bus.) I need my Spidey skills to reach an item on the top shelf at Publix. I wasn’t meant to be a basketball star, as much as I love the game.

For the most part, though, I welcome being the smallest adult in the room. I connect well with children because they think I’m one of them. It’s easy to tell a new acquaintance how to find me in a crowd. Adults consider me non-threatening, which means they honor me by sharing more deeply about themselves. I also have the element of surprise when I say a firm or difficult word, because no one expects that from the lady who looks like a kid. And my height has been key to my parenting, because I could always join my son in what he was doing, whether he was sitting at a table in a tiny chair or climbing in a play place at a fast food restaurant.

My experiences as a short person have no doubt shaped my love for small churches. Megachurches hold no interest for me. Program-sized churches have a lot to offer, but they’re not where I choose to spend my time either. I want to be in and work with those churches that are tied to a specific neighborhood or that are thinking about going from a full-time to a part-time pastor or that create communities of belonging and service for those people who would never set foot in a big box church. These congregations are thinking every day about how to be faithful with what they have. At their best, they are nimble and innovative and have an impact far beyond their small size. They are not slowed down by bureaucracy but can more easily experiment, reflect, and make changes based on their learning. They understand the importance of bringing everyone along. They make things happen together, not just depend on the pastor to get it all done. They incorporate all ages into most ministries, because siloing children and youth is not an option or a desire in a small church.

Sure, most small churches would like to have more resources and people, and there is real struggle that comes with having less. But there is so much good in being small. Claim your advantages and use your gifts, and in the process you will honor God and grow in the ways that really matter.

I was seven years old when Daniel LaRusso landed the crane kick on Johnny Lawrence that felled martial arts powerhouse (and bully factory) Cobra Kai in the All Valley Tournament. The Karate Kid was the ultimate underdog story. Scrawny new kid in town, tormented by the Cobra Kai clique and their sadistic sensei, gets taken underwing by a wise karate master and wins his way to an unlikely championship despite injury.

Though there were later movies in the franchise, none matched the entertainment value or emotional impact of the first iteration. I was thus amused when YouTube dipped a toe into original programming with the development of Cobra Kai, a kind of “where are they now?” tv series based on the characters. Several weeks ago the first two seasons moved over to Netflix, and I was no longer amused. I was 100% sucked in. It hit all the right notes for fans of the original movie. Interestingly, though, it did so in completely different ways than the film.

The church has been in the pangs of change for a while, now accelerated by Covid-19 and the creativity the virus has demanded. I think Cobra Kai speaks to the ways in which the church can be in the process of taking tradition into account while becoming something new.

Strike a balance between nostalgia and innovation. The backstory of Cobra Kai is familiar, as are much of the soundtrack and many of the pop culture references. But instead of going heavy on the drama, Cobra Kai leans into the humor of two adult men reliving their teen rivalry. For the church to become something new, it will have to decide what essentials it wants to carry forward and what note it wants to strike, then be willing to experiment with everything else.

Look for ways to reach multiple generations. One of the reasons Cobra Kai works is because it’s a multi-generational story. The Daniel-Johnny storyline speaks to Gen Xers, while the budding conflict among their children and students is relatable for younger audiences. Churches can no longer cater primarily to a single generation just because they pay the bills.

Resist the temptation to make anyone one-dimensional. In The Karate Kid, the director clearly wanted audiences to root for Daniel. But in Cobra Kai, we hear Johnny’s interpretation of the conflict and see him interact compassionately (in his own way) with his proteges. We see how Daniel’s obsession with Cobra Kai negatively affects his marriage and his professional life. Neither character is easily categorized. In church we are too eager to pigeonhole people inside and outside the walls and limit the range of perspectives we’re willing to consider. That’s not just a turnoff for many (particularly younger) people, it’s also a denial of the grace that is key to our faith.

Don’t ignore the outside world. Johnny is a technophobe, but he (and the showrunners, who depend on streaming to reach audiences) gradually understands the need for smartphones and social media. Churches, put a hashbrown on your services and announcements and send them to the internet!

Don’t take yourself too seriously. I imagine the showrunners and actors wondered what reaction a comedic series based on a classic drama would garner. It could have backfired, but they made the gamble. Church leaders, spiritual growth is serious business. That doesn’t mean church has to be serious all the time. Take risks, and create space for joy in the process. People will notice and want to join you.

Make room for people’s growth. In the first episode of Cobra Kai, Johnny is a borderline alcoholic whose temper costs him his job. He spends his evenings watching Iron Eagle in a sparsely-furnished apartment with a six-pack of Coors Banquet. He cares for no one beyond himself, except for his son, whom he has pushed away with this absence. We see Johnny grow, though, as he builds up a dojo full of picked-on kids that he at first mocks but becomes protective of. The show doesn’t work without this arc. The church of tomorrow must support newcomers and long-timers in their development as disciples. Otherwise, what are we here for?

Don’t worry about what the other guy is doing. Daniel, Johnny, and their students’ constant tracking of what the opponent is doing and trying to one-up is what leads to the trainwreck at the end of season two. This despite the fact that the two dojos have very different approaches to martial arts and that there’s room in a big city for both. Church, you do you, not the congregation down the street with a totally different DNA.

Oh, and if you need a bit of self-comfort after this cruel summer, look for Cobra Kai on Netflix.

Photo by Charlein Gracia on Unsplash.

I have the joy of leading two cohorts of clergy either serving in interim ministry or contemplating making that plunge. At one of our online gatherings last week, the participants were considering the questions of what makes interim ministry distinct from settled ministry and why we find transitional work so engaging. One cohort member shared that he considers churches in pastoral transitions vulnerable in ways that congregations with installed clergy are not. He considers it a privilege to minister to churches experiencing that vulnerability, helping them feel their way to hope.

That word - “vulnerable” - put a descriptor to the privilege of being with churches in their liminal spaces. I’ve had three units of Clinical Pastoral Education, which is intensive training for pastoral care. I can make an adequate visit to a homebound church member. I can show up in a hospital room and pray. But care for an entire congregation moving through the grief and anxiety of losing a pastor is where I do some of my best work. I am moved by hearing churches talk about what their former minister meant to them, which almost always covers the full range of emotions. I get excited about crafting worship experiences and conversations that help church members re-connect with God now that the person who was often their conduit has departed. I love helping congregations, especially small or shrinking ones, acknowledge that they are loved and gifted by God. And I revel in accompanying churches as they discern their way into the next season of ministry.

If your congregation has had a long-tenured, beloved, AND/OR controversial pastor, please allow an interim minister to journey with you when that person leaves. You deserve to be cared for, and your well-being will only benefit the pastor search process, the clergyperson who is eventually called to your setting, and the mission you offer in service to God out of healing rather than hurt.

Nickels and noses are the two most common measurements of a congregation’s vitality. That’s because they are the easiest to track, not because they are the most useful metrics. Income as compared to expenses tells us whether we’ll be able to keep the lights on and make payroll each month, which is no small deal, but a simple spreadsheet of revenue and expenditures reveals little else. For example, how many giving units does our church have this year as compared to last year? Did repeat givers increase or decrease their contributions, and what are the pastoral care questions posed by these patterns? We don’t know. Similarly, average worship attendance is just that: a flat number with no nuance to it. How often are unique individuals coming? What patterns do we notice among newcomers? ASA doesn’t give us any of that.

There is another problem with the nickels and noses approach to metrics. What do those approaches to measurement say to our members? When we emphasize a strictly numbers-based view of budgeting, we tell givers that their relationship with the church is transactional. You come, you put some money in the plate, and we’ll give you a feel-good Jesus experience. There’s little theological reflection on how we’re using our finances or education around the spiritual impact of giving on the giver. When we make a big deal out of ASA, we imply that we don’t care who is coming, why, and how often – as long as there are butts in the pews. It’s no wonder that congregations and denominations who put a lot of stock in these metrics are hemorrhaging members and seeing a lot of transitions among pastors, who are told that their effectiveness depends on growing these “vitality” stats.

What, then, would it look like to develop measurements that are meaningful and useful? I suggest using the following factors to name metrics that truly assess vitality:

• The measurement must be, well, measurable. “Spiritual growth” is too vague to be quantifiable. The number of unique people who volunteer (as opposed to being voluntold) for leadership positions can be counted.

• The measurement must be within the church’s control. You have zero say in how many people actually come through your doors on Sunday morning. Your church members can control how many potential newcomers they personally invite.

• The measurement must give ownership to the members. Yes, the pastor needs to be accountable for her ministry. But the church is actually stewarded by the members, who were here before and will be here after the pastor leaves.

• The measurement must take impact into account. It does no good to track how many pairs of gently-used adult shoes your church donates to a local organization when said organization deals in providing formula and diapers to low-income families with newborns.

Metrics that measure the wrong things can send churches and pastors into shame spirals and anxiety about survival. Measurements that are meaningful for your setting can be a means of discernment and a way of encouraging your congregation and leadership, however. Take care to set your mileposts with intentionality.

In a recent podcast with pastor/author Jen Hatmaker, research professor Dr. Brene Brown shared an insightful nugget from her work: shame is the enemy of innovation. When we believe that we are not worthy – of love, of belonging, of joy, of dreaming – we cannot think beyond our current circumstances. We cannot brainstorm new ways of being and doing. We cannot envision a future much different from our present.

I have noted this truth for myself. When I feel bad about how I look, it seems like making new friends is out of reach. When my inbox is not dinging, I worry that I’ll never get another coaching or consulting client. When I don’t have expertise about the topic of discussion, I’m certain my conversation partner won’t take my input seriously. It becomes hard to put one foot in front of the other, mentally and emotionally.

It’s no secret that many of our churches are stuck. They try to strategically plan their way out of the mire, but those plans often involve more of what the congregation is currently doing, has done in the past, or has seen work in other contexts. They cannot imagine a different way of being church, only returning to a day when attendance was three times what it is now and children’s Sunday Schools were bursting at the seams.

I think corporate shame plays a role in this stuckness. We think, what is it about our church that makes people want to leave, or not even come in the first place? Why do our regulars only come once or twice a month now, when a decade ago they were here every week? Why would a new pastor accept a call to a dwindling congregation with a shrinking budget? How can we draw in newcomers when everyone in this community knows about “the incident” that happened here twenty years ago? How can we call ourselves a vibrant church when our educational wing is a ghost town?

These are all questions of worthiness. And yet, our value does not come from attendance patterns or the weekly offering. Just because something bad occurred in our past doesn’t mean our story is irredeemable. There’s no need to sound the death knell when one part of the physical plant is lying fallow. We don’t have to earn our place in the whole of Christ’s body. We have significance simply because we were created by God and gathered together in God’s name.

How, then, do we push against this collective shame that prevents us from moving into a fruitful future?

First, we must unearth it. With a group of leaders – or possibly with the congregation as a whole – pose some discussion prompts. What chapters of the church’s life or which former pastors do we not talk about, and why? How do we think others view our congregation? What are our biggest worries about the church’s present or future? How do these worries affect how we do ministry?

Second, we must address the three Ps. Psychologist Martin Seligman writes that personalization, pervasiveness, and permanence radically impact our self-perception. In personalization, congregations think “we are not good enough” rather than “those members who went elsewhere needed something we don’t offer.” In pervasiveness, an issue in one area is generalized to all of church life: “our youth group has hit a membership lull” becomes “the church is dying.” And permanence prompts us to think that we can’t get off whatever train we’re on: “if we’re in decline, there’s nowhere to go but down.” Those big, shame-inducing Ps have to be shrunk down to their proper place as lower-case ps that focus on actions and circumstances rather than unalterable character.

Third, we must broaden the narrative. What are the stories that demonstrate the congregation’s uniqueness? How has this church changed lives for the better? What are the gifts of our current circumstances? What can we do now that we couldn’t do before? What are the non-financial resources we haven’t yet tapped? For whom would this congregation and its mission be really good news?

God did not make us – as individuals or churches – for shame. God created us for love, connection, joy, and innovation. Let us do the hard work of exposing and eliminating the shame that keeps us from embracing the worthiness that comes from our kinship with Christ, thereby becoming free to live fully into the purposes God has for us.

Do you have a case of the shoulds? (I have a chronic condition that I struggle to keep in check.)

“I should finish this sermon before I go to bed.”

“I should visit my homebound member, even though I saw him two weeks ago.”

“I should count my calories more closely.”

“I really need to marinate on my response some more, but I should send this email reply now anyway because my board chair is expecting it.”

“I should go to that third evening meeting this week, regardless of whether I have much to add to the discussion.”

“I should tackle that pile of dirty clothes in the floor.”

I should…I should…I should. 

Now, there are a few worthwhile shoulds. I should eat more veggies. I should make an appointment with the dentist. I should be kind to everyone I meet. But in most cases, this is how I’d describe that big pile of should:

Originality: How do I know what I’m capable of if my life is ruled by shoulds?

Understanding: How will I grasp who I am, what my call is, and where others are coming from if I’m too busy doing shoulds?

Leisure: How will I ever get time to rest and re-center if I’m playing whack-a-mole with shoulds?

Deeper connections: How will I ever create time and space for knowing and being known by God and my loved ones if there’s always – and there is – one more should to check off the list?

Shoulds are loud, persistent, confidence-kicking tyrants. Next time a should pops into your head, ask:

Who says I should do this?

Why is it important to that person that 1) this get done and 2) that I do it?

What do my head, heart, and gut tell me about this should?

How will fulfilling this should help me be the minister, family member, friend, or person God has called me to be?

You are valuable, you are beloved, just as you are. You don’t have to earn it.

For four days in a row last week, my three-year-old caught me off guard with new things he said or did. He swam a few strokes completely submerged. He adopted perfect shooting form – without instruction – on his Little Tykes basketball goal and started sinking long balls. He looked me in the eye and recited my cell phone number, which I had been planning to teach him but hadn’t gotten around to yet. And he brought a leaf to me and told me it was from a Japanese Maple. (Ok, he was wrong on this last one, but I had no idea until my husband looked up a picture on the internet. I didn’t even know that was a kind of tree.)

I was delighted by and grateful for each of these moments, which were simultaneously ordinary and extraordinary. I replayed them in my head several times. My husband and I talked about them. We made sure our son knew that we had noticed his new feats and knowledge. It was family time worth savoring.

These mini celebrations made me think about the hidden lives of congregations, which are families of sorts. In a church ordinary-yet-extraordinary things happen all the time. Are we marking them? Delighting in them? Giving due thanks for them? Hopefully we are commissioning new leaders, consecrating pledges, and drawing on the gifts of the liturgical calendar. But what about a person’s first time taking communion, speaking in front of the congregation, or inviting a friend to church? Do we “graduate” participants of intensive Bible studies? Do we properly thank outgoing committee chairs and youth sponsors? These milestones are worth noting too. Calling attention to them is a way of saying that God is present among us, that God is pulling us forward in barely-perceptible ways, that we worship a God who offers us joy.

Many of the snapshots in the gospels are of ordinary-yet-extraordinary situations: temple services, conversations among friends, annual festivals. They take place in ordinary-yet-extraordinary places such as around dinner tables, on dusty roads, and in upper rooms. Jesus himself is ordinary-yet-extraordinary, completely one of us, yet completely not. If he is worthy of worship, then these small but significant moments in our corporate lives are surely worth celebrating.

What do you need to delight in this week as an act of worship? May you seek joy, and in doing so, find nurture for your soul and renewed strength for your leadership.

I cried at church on Sunday. It wasn’t the first time, though I’m not a particularly teary person. But I wasn’t reaching for the Kleenex because a parishioner shared a heavy burden or because I was having to say goodbye to a congregation I love or because conflict had flared up on the busiest morning of the week. I cried because I was a grateful mama.

My two-year-old spends his Sunday mornings moving between the nursery and the adjoining one-room Sunday School for the older children. He’s really into vehicles right now, and his first order of business when he gets to church each week is to pull out the three school buses in the baby room. One of the buses is designed to light up and make sounds, though its batteries probably died long before my husband was appointed to pastor this congregation in June. On Sunday morning a fourth grade boy told his parents he needed to take batteries to church so that L could play with a fully-functional bus. I was still in the children’s area when this sweet soul walked in with a Ziploc bag full of different sizes of batteries and headed straight for the nursery to get that bus ready to roll.

It wasn’t just the gesture but also the forethought that made me a little weepy. And yet, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I have seen this child go out of his way to welcome my preschooler. He’s not the only one reaching out, either. There’s a teenage girl who has taken it upon herself to look after L on Sunday mornings. Other kids engage L in games, sing with him, and read to him – without much (or any) prompting from the adults.

These children and youth have been deeply formed in their caring behaviors by the congregation as a whole. The adults check in with and help one another without reminders to do so. They can disagree and still love and minister alongside each other. They tell my son to stop running in the sanctuary with his sucker (thank you!) and follow that gentle instruction up with big hugs. Their prayer lives are deep and broad in scope.

This abundant care that is nurtured by the intimacy of a small congregation overflows into the community. The church works with the local elementary school to help families in need. It takes VBS to a nearby apartment complex. It actively invites neighbors to participate in on-campus fellowship experiences like trunk-or-treat and content events such as special speakers. It brings crocheted blankets to people who are hurting or homeless.

I have loved all of the faith communities I have been part of as a minister and spouse. But this place is definitely the place for us now. As a mama, I would not trade the congregation’s investment in my son’s spiritual and emotional development and the modeling of being responsible for and to other people – not for uber-modern facilities, not for a regular rotation of high-visibility events with bounce houses and snow cone trucks, not for age-divided or super-techie formation experiences.

So take heart, small churches. There’s no need to compare yourself to the big guys. Yes, they have much to offer. But so do you, and there’s no standard metric that can gauge the impact of heart.

One of my son’s favorite books is Mousetronaut: Based on a (Partially) True Story by Astronaut Mark Kelly. It is the story of Meteor, a diminutive mouse chosen for a spot on the space shuttle based on his hard work and confidence. Meteor is happy to be along for the ride, but he’s not sure what his role in the mission is supposed to be. When the key to the control panel drops into a crevice unreachable by the astronauts, though, Meteor uses his size to squeeze into the space and dislodge the key. For his efforts Meteor is heralded as a mousetronaut, and he relishes this new identity and proudly proclaims the power of small.

There’s a lot of focus on size in church life. How many people are in the pews on Sunday mornings? How big is the offering? These questions come internally when corporate self-esteem is based on nickels and noses or when the membership has reason to wonder if God has left the building. They also come from outside sources, such as judicatories that ask churches to keep score of professions of faith, membership transfers, and the exact number of sweet peas donated to the food bank each year.

This numbers emphasis could mislead us to believe that there is something wrong with small churches. Yes, congregations can remain small because they are cliquish or uninterested in discipleship and mission. But sometimes churches are small because that is the size they need to be to fulfill the task God has for them. A 75-member congregation can’t offer all the life groups, children’s programming, or worship time choices that a megachurch can. But it can throw open its doors to the community with less red tape, welcome people looking for a faith community without the intimidation factor, and build lasting relationships with service organizations since lay leader turnover is less frequent.

Sometimes impact is inversely proportional to size. If your church has earnestly discerned the mission God has for it and that assignment lends itself to a smaller membership, wear your corporate identity with pride. The goal, after all, is not nickels and noses. It’s going forth to share the love of God with people who need to hear it.