This summer, I’ve been washing lots of sheets and towels. (Wait . . . I promise, this blog is not about my personal hygiene.) With our children all in college and beyond, our house is less their “home” and more their “home base.” Between family and friends, this summer we have had an additional 8 people sleeping in various beds at various times. This flux of people in and out of our house has been fun, and it has also meant that I’ve been washing sheets and towels with great frequency. Along the way, I have learned something: It is much easier to put clean sheets on a bed right after a guest leaves than to wait until a new guest is arriving. Being prepared for a guest at all times means that it is okay when I wake up in the morning and find an extra body in a bed that wasn’t there the night before.
One of the most important things a church can do is be prepared for guests at all times. I received an email this morning that broke my heart. A first-time visitor took the time to write me an email, describing why her first visit to our church would be her last visit. She did NOT mention the greeters, the coffee and donuts, the worship service, or the sermon. The thing that will keep her from coming back is the behavior of those persons sitting near her. They talked to each other (apparently, a whole lot) and not to her. It was not only that their conversation disrupted her ability to worship, but that she felt ignored after a polite comment to them. There is not a sermon in the world that is powerful enough to overcome that type of personal hurt.
The most dangerous thing that a church can be is “The Friendliest Church in the World . . . to Each Other.” I understand the temptation. I love church people, and I love seeing my church friends. It is definitely my preference to talk to people I know and like and haven’t seen for a week. Strangers can be, well, strange. And yet . . . I serve an institution that has a peculiar mission. We don’t exist for our members, but we exist for the people who do not know who we are. We exist for the people who walk in our doors and don’t know a soul. We exist for the people who drive past our building daily and aren’t sure why they’re feeling a glimpse of hope. We exist for the people who think that they wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.
I feel confident that the author of this email will be fine. If she feels invested enough in her search for a church home that she took the time to seek out my email address and compose a thoughtful message to me about her experience, she will persevere until she finds the right church for her. I am saddened, though, that we as a church failed to be ready for company. Our mission, while peculiar, is too important to ignore.
