I took a “church Planter’s Assessment” test a while back and failed. But I didn’t like the way some of the questions were worded, and so I decided the problem was with the test, not with me. So I took a different assessment, and failed that one too. But again, my complaint was that the questions seemed to be…weighted in a particular direction.

For example, on both “tests” many of the questions seemed to be geared toward leading lots of people, raising lots of funds, and getting lots of conversions. It seemed to me that the creators of the test were only testing for one certain kind of church – the rapidly growing megachurch.

So I did some research into how the tests were developed. It turns out they interviewed and sent personality inventories to some of the pastors of the fastest growing megachurches in the country. Then, based on the results, tests were created to help find people who had similar traits and characteristics as these megachurch pastors.

Does anyone else see a problem with this?

How about the fact that fewer and fewer people are finding spiritual fulfillment in the “megachurch experience”?

How about the fact that the megachurch model is, for the most part, does an incredibly poor job of helping people come to faith in Jesus (most megachurch numerical growth is transfer growth from smaller churches).  

How about the fact that the megachurch model generally does a rather poor job of helping people develop close, interpersonal relationships, and leading them down the path of discipleship?

How about the fact that the megachurch model is primarily a western, 20th century, logical-extreme c0nsequence of the “church growth movement” experiment, which was itself based on business models and Christendom-style thinking?

How about the fact that the vast majority of mega-church pastors have Type-A personalities, who–while good at leading large organizations, and generating a lot of excitement and publicity–are not so good at many of the “shepherding” aspects of pastoral ministry such as interpersonal relationships, tenderness, compassion, humility and patience?

I could go on (and on). I am not trying to bash megachurches or their pastors. I think that both are accomplishing some good things for the kingdom of God, and both have helped a lot of people. The only thing I am tired of is this idea that the megachurch mentality, structure, and systems are the only right way to “do church” (whatever that means). I am tired of being told that unless I can raise $100,000 to blow through in a year on radio ads, billboards, and door hangers, I can’t plant a church.

Somebody needs to write a book called “How to Plant a Church on less than $100 a Month.” I know it can be done, because I am beginning to do it. Are you ever going to hear about this church? Probably not – I’m planning on not even naming it. (When and why did we start naming churches, anyway?) Will I ever get a book deal out of it? If I did, who would read it? Will President Obama invite me to the White House for a luncheon? Not a chance. Will I get asked to speak at a church growth conference? The idea is laughable.

But I think Jesus is pleased with the direction I am headed, and that’s all that matters–even if I did fail two “church Planter’s Assessments.”

I read the following blog post on the Doable Evangelism blog today. I think in the past week or so, I have had this exact same conversation with various coworkers about a dozen times. None of them have “believed in Jesus” yet, but that’s okay. I’m just developing relationships and trying to show them that Christians – even former pastors – can be normal.

It’s been 3 months since I left my “church” job to take a “secular” job.  I’ve developed a nice friendship with one of my coworkers, Joey (age 27). Joey and I have been sharing stories about our lives and past as we work side by side. I have lots of colorful stories since I am 25 years older than him.  We laugh a lot.  He cusses a lot. He is pretty honest with me about stuff.

The other day, another gal at work told him that I was a minister. You should have seen his face when he heard. He looked at me and said, “Are you sh****** me? How could you be a minister?  You are so NORMAL!” Then he had that look on his face. I could tell he was trying to remember everything he ever said to me.  He said, “How?  We talked sh**!  I don’t know if I can ever talk to you again. I mean like I see you in an entirely different light. Are you going to try to convince me to go to church now?” I felt bad and tried to convince him that I really am normal, and the image he had of ministers is not who I am.

He didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day, but I knew he had to work things out in his head.  The next day I was working next to him and he says, “I told my dad about you last night.” “What did you tell him?” I asked.  “I told him about all the lies and deception,” Joey replied. I asked, “What lies and deception?”  He said, “I told him how you act all cool and normal, but really you are a minister.”  I laughed, but I really knew that in the past Joey had probably experienced the super holy, judgmental Christians (and clergy) who feel the need to accomplish their goals rather than listen to the heart of God and love people.

The story gets better.  Two days later, Joey came to me first thing in the morning and told me that he “got saved last night.”  I thought someone put him up to it….you know….tell me this so that he can have a laugh on me.  Well, it was true.  Joey said that a preacher showed up on his doorstep and told him about what Jesus did for him.  Joey said, “I listened to him because I kept picturing your face and thinking that this must be what you do and what you tell people. I listened to him and then he made me pray.”  “He MADE you pray?” I asked? “Well, he didn’t make me pray, I wanted to.”

I could hardly believe that Joey was telling me this story. I thought for sure that he was shi***** ME! I asked him if I could take my break with him and spend a few minutes summing up what the preacher said to him last night.  Joey and I went to break together and I got to explain the love of God to him.

I believe that my friendship with Joey and me being my normal self at work, somehow helped Joey to open his heart to the words of the preacher and the love and forgiveness of God.

I love being in on what God is doing in peoples’ lives.  I was created for this.

-Margaret

That last line is exactly what I told my wife last night after my latest conversation with a coworker: “I was created for this.” Thank you Margaret (and thank you Randy) for sharing this story.

I rarely laugh myself to tears, but this customer complaint letter is about the funniest thing I have ever read. So read this post if you need a good start to your weekend. I found this letter at one of the blogs I read: Parables of a Prodigal World

This letter was an email sent to Sir Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Atlantic Airways, by an unnamed comedy genius.

Dear Mr Branson:

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [link to image 1].

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: [link to image 2].

I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn’t custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [link to image 3].

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation: [link to image 4].

It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.

Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [link to image 5].

I apologize for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [link to image 6].

Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [link to image 7].

Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.

Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly
XXXX