A Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (or, a Presbyterian in the megachurch)

I couldn't shake the thought as I walked away—

this is not a persecuted church.

It didn’t help that I had just been reading a book about the persecuted church in the USSR and Eastern Europe under communism. A man had traveled to these countries after the shock and godlessness of Somalia in the 90s. He went to find answers, lessons, survival tips for the people of God under attack in a hostile world. What he found was an aging generation who recounted unbelievable opposition to the spread of the gospel. A man who began family worship, which spread to neighborhood worship, and flourished into a church. Authorities realized the threat, sensed the danger posed by God’s people meeting together for the preached Word and prayer and song. It was deadly, so they threw the “pastor” in prison, where he was tortured within an inch of his life. For the sake of the gathering of the church.

Another story told of an underground meeting of youth in Russia. Someone had realized the power of fellowship to encourage young believers. So they hosted a conference at massive risk to all attending. Hundreds gathered. Someone began to realize how much scripture these teenagers and young adults had imbibed in their homes and churches, and to experiment, they split the gathering into groups, and collected the passages and chapters committed to memory, plus hymns. What they found was staggering: “the young people. . . recreated all of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, with only a half-dozen mistakes [as well as] the lyrics of more than twelve hundred songs, choruses, and hymns of the faith. . .”

Impressive, we think. Reminiscent of Old Testament times, perhaps. But no guards lurk our streets, no alarms sound when people knock on our doors; we don’t count our copies of the scriptures—we don’t even hide them. Persecution is a far off tale, even a myth to our experience. This man who traveled to Russia, he thought of this too. He decided to meet with the current generation of Russian youth—the children and grandchildren of those who had given their lives and their comfort for the sake of the kingdom.

“I asked the grandchildren of the men who had so proudly told me how much Scripture and how many lyrics the young people in the house churches had been able to reproduce back in the 1950’s: ‘Tell me, how much of the Bible do the young people in your churches know today?’

“They looked at each other and rather sheepishly admitted, ‘Not much.’

“I didn’t want to put them on the spot or embarrass them by asking how much of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John they might be able to quote. So I asked them how many different stories from the Gospels they could think of and list. They came up with a handful.

‘How many books of the Bible can you name?’ I asked.

‘Only a few,’ they said.

“I don’t know if those young people were embarrassed by their responses to my questions. I did see, however, what the Russian church had lost in its first decade of ‘freedom.’ Under communism, the church had found a way to survive and often thrive. Scripture and holy song was its lifeblood. Now, in a much freer day for the church, Scripture and holy song did not seem nearly as important.”

I didn’t start the morning on this key. After an hour in the Word alone on the porch—Hosea, prophecies, the glory of enjoyed fulfillment, faith realized, promises consummated, fullness anticipated—we drove to the church of a man our family respects a great deal. We’ve been encouraged, challenged, pointed to Christ by this pastor.

It wasn’t exactly a cappella, but that was okay. We enjoy contemporary Christian music, and the artist was someone who has also blessed and enriched our family. Christ was honored (and we didn’t sing the same line 100x over—okay, maybe 10, but still).

So no, I knew I would have serious qualms about attending this church regularly, and it was a billion miles away from my home church of 150 people, a piano, and a Reformed pastor. But that was okay. It really was. These were the people of God gathering to worship our great King, and there might be differences, but we held more in common than otherwise. Yesterday we crossed about a dozen states, and we knew not one person in the congregation, but this was family. All around us were brothers and sisters with whom we shared the greatest hope in the world, and with whom we will enjoy the presence of God for all eternity.

Perhaps it’s shocking to some, but TRs can be chameleons sometimes. I may have closed my eyes, may or may not have raised a hand in praise. Because those things are natural human responses to awe, to glory, to joy, and that’s been true for centuries. There was a worship band, but the people were singing, and you could hear them. I couldn’t hear myself singing, but sometimes getting lost in something bigger than you is okay.

I didn’t totally go for the clapping after songs, but I didn’t miss the palpable excitement. Yes, these people were full of anticipation to worship God. Undoubtedly, there were other factors. But among the things I learned down in Florida was this, that sometimes the people I’m most tempted to judge are those from whom I can learn the most. That I am never wary enough of my pride, and the formulas I create in my mind. All truth is God’s truth, and that’s not to say there is no real truth, but rather that truth can be found in unlikely places and we’re not the sole distributors. The wisdom of heaven is not gnostic—secret, letting in a few select participants. God’s grace is expansive, rich, and free. We’re not all right—no, we’re constantly learning about how depraved we are, and how much we get wrong.

When the pastor began to speak, he told of his joy in watching the people of God stream across several blocks as they walked past the full parking lot to the church. It brought him joy to think of the witness this presented to the surrounding neighborhood as they curiously watched, wondered. His heart for outreach was evident, and a pastor’s strengths inevitably become those of His people.

The stands selling CDs out in the lobby, the excessive lights, the very present drum beat—they might not have been my preference, or even consistent with my convictions, but ultimately they were peripheral. God was central, and the pastor made sure of that. After speaking of hope given to God’s people, light in the darkest of times, he brought it home. This was not about the music (though it might give pause that he had to say that to begin with), or the worship leader, or any number of other things. This was about entering into the presence of the living God. Hebrews 12, right there. Yes, united to Christ we’re brought into the heavenlies, made to enjoy fellowship with the divine. His blood makes us holy, and therefore we can delight in the presence of a holy God. Nec tamen consumabatur. God, he declared to His people, was high and lifted up.

A few more songs, then the pastor again—and a sermon. But no. The next ten minutes were spent with him speaking of the power of music to bring us to God, and his great respect for the artist. It grew uncomfortable, this rambling in God’s house. It became a downright fight to fix my eyes on God, to hone my heart in meditation on the gospel. And there would be no sermon. God’s Word was to be proclaimed through song, and that was just as valuable as an exposition on the Word. The song man was equal to the pastor. It felt like the pastor was trying to convince his congregation. Honestly, it felt devastating. I felt deprived, starved, by a man who was supposed to feed the people of God.

God sends His people out into a dangerous, exhausting world, but He doesn’t send us out without nourishment. He gives His own the means of grace—Word and Sacrament, and He commissions men to administer these to His people. God makes His people hungry for the Word of God. Yes, as he said, God desires to meet with His people, but this cannot be thwarted by us “not opening our hearts” to this pursuit. God is not tame, and He breaks past our barriers and storms past our resistance. When He wants to meet with a man, nothing can prevent Him. It felt backwards.

Biblical Theology 101 last semester opened a world of glory, a window on worship from the perspective of God. He summons His people, calls them up the mountain to meet with Him. Without an invitation, ascent is pertinent, sacrilegious, downright dangerous. We depend on an invitation from the mighty King. He’s free with His invitations to the wedding feast, but the guests arrive by invitation nonetheless.

Worship is meant to be an exchange, a conversation if you like. No, not in a charismatic sense. It can be so clear, so obvious that we miss it. It’s His Word. He calls, we respond—that’s the pattern. The reading, proclamation, exposition on the Word forms the backbone of worship. For the persecuted church in particular, this is lifeblood. Oftentimes without the Word during the week, they hunger for it on this one day in seven. They crave it, delight in it, memorize it so they are not without it in prison. God gives His people His best. He lavishes the richness of grace on those He loves, those upon whom His pleasure rests in Christ. It’s only sin that truncates and impoverishes mankind. It began with the fall, and we inherit the patterns of heredity and headship. In Adam we bought the lie that anything other than our Creator would satisfy our deepest needs and desires. We place our love on things other than the One who loved us first, most, extravagantly. We’re far too easily pleased, Lewis was right (though I’ve nothing against mud).

Presbyterians are just as prone to become wrapped up in themselves—I’m one of them, I know. But their liturgy cultivates awe and the Word stands as the unquestioned centerpiece, the glory and life of Sunday mornings. When the Word is not proclaimed faithfully, joyfully, truthfully, it’s immediately evident, because there’s not a lot else to notice. That’s not an accident. At least Luther didn’t think so. 

They leave with His benediction, His blessing, again, given through the pronounced Word. He releases them from His house to go out into the world and spread His peace and hope, to break down fortresses of darkness and extend the love of Christ.

Hard times are likely coming for the church. It may come down to persecution. And under persecution the church bands together. God willing, orthodoxy isn’t compromised, but peacetime discussions have a tendency to become sidelined under fire. I hesitate to critique and judge when it’s not a question of joining or raising my children in this worship environment, but I couldn’t help leaving with a looming, dire question. Will this sort of worship raise a generation able to withstand the battery of a wily, enraged enemy? He prowls, and he’s far from dumb. Weapons? Yes, we have them, but swordsmanship takes practice, training, experience. Can the church grow strong without the Word? Can a people lay down roots for growth and warfare in this environment? Soldiers do not grow strong under starvation rations, and this morning, as I left church, I was distinctly hungry.