Tag: Church

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I Won’t Go Back to This Church

Several years ago, Carol and I visited a church in California. It was the largest church in town with four weekend services: one Saturday evening and three on Sunday. I was really looking forward to hearing the pastor to see what was drawing the people.

One of the Sunday services was designated for the youth, and one parishioner said, “You don’t want to visit that one – it’s the loudest kid’s service in this part of the state!”

Well, that explained one drawing card. It’s too bad that neither the kids nor the church staff understand the destructive effect that high decibel levels have on our physical bodies – including our heart and nervous system.

Here is some information regarding noise levels measured in decibels (db).

Calm conversation level between 2-3 people is around 50 db.

60 db is 10 times louder than 50.

70 is 100 times louder than 50.

80 is 1,000 times louder than 50.

90 is 10,000 times louder than 50.

100 is 100,000 times louder than 50.

And so on.

Hearing damage starts at a continuous 80 decibels.

We hear about 85 dbs from locomotives going 45 mph about 100 feet away.

Motorcycles produce about 95-100 dbs.

Chainsaws produce about 105 dbs.

Many churches try to stay between 95–115 dbs during their music.

Clubs and concerts try for 105-125 dbs.

Jet engine at takeoff is about 140 dbs.

150 db can burst the eardrums.

185 db can kill a person.

Hearing degrades dramatically after only two minutes of exposure of 110 dbs without ear protection,

I also found that the church has many weekly and monthly games and activities for kids; various support groups for people; outings for men, women, and senior’s groups; and a school. The church is serving as an overall social organization for a large part of the community with some of the kids’ activities mirroring those provided by the non-Christian world. At least some hurting folks are receiving help, and that’s good.

We discovered something else interesting about that church. The pastor openly proclaimed in his message that we do not need to believe the Bible; we don’t need to live by any moral rules – either health or Biblical; and we don’t need to adhere to Bible doctrine. We don’t need any of that in order to go to heaven. How we live – be it as a prostitute, liar, whatever – has no bearing on our relationship with God.

I communicated with the pastor by email later that week to learn more of his point of view. He informed me that we can live any way we want to, by any code of ethics we choose, participate in any activity we want – be it evil or holy – and believe anything – Biblical or not – that we want to. It won’t make any difference in whether or not God will accept us, because God has already chosen us for heaven or chosen us for hell. Period. And there is nothing we can do about it.

I asked him if we should believe what Jesus taught in Scripture, and he said we don’t have to.

He asserted that it doesn’t matter whether or not people repent and turn from their sin and live a holy life, because if God didn’t choose them, they would go to hell anyway. Obeying the Lord and living for the Lord is not necessary.

I will state emphatically: That is not the God I find in the Bible. And that pastor does not represent Jesus who died for us. John 14:21 says, “Those who accept my commandments and obey them are the ones who love me. And because they love me, my Father will love them. And I will love them and reveal myself to each of them.”

John 3:16 says, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

2 Peter 3:9b says, “…But God is being patient with you. He does not want anyone to be lost, but he wants all people to change their hearts and lives.”

I believe that pastor is confused and is defrauding the people. It’s a large social club, and I am concerned for the people attending those social clubs.

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The Donkey Spoke

In the year 2000, I filled in as interim pastor for a couple of months in a small New Mexico town while the leadership searched for a new pastor. Then in December, the elders surprised me by asking me to be their pastor. I said “No.”

The church had a history of ups-and-downs with a poor reputation, and it couldn’t afford to give me a salary. It was 200 miles from where I lived, and I was already working 60-hour-per week; so you might understand why I didn’t want to accept the call. Part time at that distance was okay, but I didn’t want to commit to full-time.

The elders and I discussed the logistics, and they eventually offered a parsonage we could use; agreeing that I would keep the current employment.

But a 400-mile round-trip every weekend? Huh-uh!

They asked me to pray about it. Now I was trapped. Christians, especially pastors, can’t refuse to pray – that’s against the rules.

I found out that God must have a sense of humor, because after praying about it, it seemed like the Lord was prompting me to accept. So on January 7, 2001, I hesitantly accepted the call.

Now my attitude was different. Why? Instead of merely filling the position while they were supposed to be looking elsewhere for a pastor, my new objective was to find out why the church was having ongoing problems. Maybe I should have already known, but I had decided to let the next pastor figure it out. Now I was that next pastor.

However, as I did my pastoral homework, it didn’t take long to discover the problems. To put it mildly: a lack of Christian love ruled the roost. The owner of the local grocery store told me the church was known as “the Fighting Church.” That didn’t make me feel any better.

Part of the problem was, as is common in many local churches, poor communications and unwillingness to compromise on small issues in order to make headway on larger concerns. How was I going to turn it around?

Did I mention that God has a sense of humor? Keep reading.

After the service one Sunday morning, two of the elders and I were discussing an idea that I thought would help the church. They didn’t agree, so I invited them outside the church building to look at the situation. I hoped that by looking at the problem, it might help them understand my point of view.

Reminding me that they disagreed, they politely listened anyway.

The church building was in the countryside, and a ranch was across the fence. Choosing my words carefully, I laid out my thoughts, and I was convinced I had won them over. But at the very moment I said my last word, the donkey in the adjacent field spoke!

I haven’t heard a donkey bray that loudly before in my life! Of course, the elders and I began to laugh at the timing of the interruption. But to make matters worse, my lead elder said as loudly as the donkey, “My Sympathies, Exactly!”

The three of us broke out in an uproarious laughter. We had been friends for over a year and disagreements never hurt us. But that event brought us even closer together.

When I muttered, “Dumb donkey!” the other elder said, “He’s not dumb. He spoke his mind quite clearly.” More laughter ensued, and we went back into the building to get some coffee—mine with cream and sugar.

Then Romans 12:3b came to mind. “Don’t think you are better than you really are. Be honest in your evaluation of yourselves, measuring yourselves by the faith God has given us” (NLT).

Over coffee, I asked them to state their opinion—again—and I would listen carefully. In the next half-hour, I realized they were right, and we worked out an alternate plan.

That incident did more than settle a disagreement. As word got around to the church members that they now had a pastor who was willing to listen, they began to trust me.

Still working on the other problems, I preached on forgiveness four times a year for three years—that’s what it took to settle the other personnel issues. And when I eventually resigned as pastor, that same groceryman told me, “Your church has a new name in town: the Loving Church.”

I thanked God for prompting the donkey to speak.

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Memories of Dad

I was five years old, we lived in El Cajon, California, and the church building dad and the deacons built was completed. I was allowed to run in and around the building during certain phases of construction; but after completion, running in church was not allowed.

But I didn’t always obey my parents.

Reddy was my best friend, and when daddy wasn’t watching, we liked to run up the long flight of stairs on one side of the sanctuary, race in the upstairs hallway, and run down the stairs on the other side.

Dad warned me with, “I’ll tan your hide if you don’t obey me.” But for some reason, I did it anyway. I also went into his church office whenever I wanted to. After all, I was the pastor’s kid.

One Sunday morning dad had a personnel issue to handle, and told me to stay out of his office. I could obey that order. Until …

I told Reddy that Daddy was busy so we could run. “Goody!” Reddy almost shouted.

Up one side we ran, down the hall we raced, and ran down the steps on the other side. But getting ready to run down the steps on the second round, I tripped on the top step.

I tumbled head-over-heels all the way down. Miraculously, not a bone was broken and I wasn’t even bleeding anywhere. But my breathing mechanism had totally shut down!

In that situation, there was only one thing to do – Go See Daddy!

Not breathing, I burst into his office. Dad turned and was about to order me back out but saw that my face was turning blue and my mouth was wide open.

“Oh, my Lord!” I remember hearing dad say.

He quickly placed me over his knee, gave me a hard whack on the back which restarted my breathing, and said, “That’ll take care of you ‘til we get home!”

Now I had a different problem.

Back home after the church meeting, dad asked me what had happened. Fearfully, I admitted that I disobeyed him and tumbled down the stairs as I was running. (The picture is dad holding my sister, Sharon.)

I was amazed – and relieved – when dad pronounced, “Tumbling down the stairs was your punishment – this time.” Then pulling me to himself and wrapping his arms around me, he gently said, “Eugene, that fall was a hard lesson. Do you think you can remember not to run in church?”

There was only one answer: “Yes, daddy. I won’t run in church again.”

And I never did.

Three years later, we lived in Baldwin Park, California, and dad was in his final year of preparation to re-enter the US Navy as a chaplain. His schedule of seminary classes, being a pastor-husband-father, and sneaking in a few hours of sleep whenever possible, was quite full.

One Friday when I was sitting at the kitchen table with dad as he was finalizing his sermon for the coming Sunday, mom told me it was time for bed.

“Can I stay up with Daddy for a while?”

“No; it’s time for bed. Come on.”

“Can I PLEASE stay up for a little while? I don’t get to see Daddy very much.”

Dad looked up and said, “Eugene, if you want to stay up with me, you need to be very quiet. Don’t make a sound.”

“I’ll be quiet.” I never said something that fast before in my life.

Mom gave me a pencil (no pens back then), and dad gave me some paper. I was in heaven for another hour with my daddy. I have no idea what I wrote, scribbled, or doodled that night, but I remember the extreme joy of being with my daddy. And the well-worn Bible that dad was using that night is now in my office.

Dad is in heaven and our communication is over until I get there. But I do have the extreme joy of spending time with God – my eternal Father in heaven. He enjoys my visits.

God has an open-door policy, and continually invites us into His presence. Have you visited Him lately?