Maybe even two dollars, which is the little kid equivalent of 19 million dollars.

At least that’s what my dad would do in this situation.

When I was a boy, he would pay me and my brothers a dollar if he used us in a sermon illustration. Though I’m not a pastor, and this isn’t a sermon, I’m about to show you the gospel in four pictures, and they’re not mine.

They’re my daughter’s.

She’s in kindergarten at a public school in our neighborhood. A few days ago, during her “free choice time” when she can play with blocks or color, she decided to do something a little different.

She decided to write her first book. The title is simple:

“Jesus” by McRae.

Has a ring to it, don’t you think? What would follow in the pages she wrote was an incredibly succinct and beautiful view of faith. Here is the story:

Page 1
Someday Jesus died for our sins.

Page 2
Jesus always told stories. Jesus never lied. Jesus love everyone.

Page 3
Jesus and God are still alive.

Sometimes I wonder why Jesus said things like this in Mark 10:15:

“I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

Then I read books like the one McRae wrote. Kids get the gospel. They get the need for a savior. They understand forgiveness. They know God and Jesus are still alive.

And they’re not afraid to draw Jesus with a great big smile.

Wow, where do I even begin? It’s been so long since we last talked. Fifteen years at least. I used to go see you in college on the Sundays I would go to church. There you were, faithful and true. No jumping around during the week for you. Like an old friend, you were always waiting for me in the same spot each week. At church, spooning right up against the service.

I could double dip.

I could knock out both at once. Church and Sunday School were the perfect team, like chocolate and peanut butter, frog and toad, Kim Kardashian and a professional athlete/Kanye.

Ahh, see that last joke was unnecessary. That was more The Soup and less the SCL. I probably wouldn’t have even made it if you were still around. But you’ve been gone for a while now.

We collectively decided you were old-fashioned. We felt like you were too restrictive, too old-school, the bad kind of old-school, not the good kind, like the neon colors that have zombie-crawled their way back from the 80s and are dominating the planet right now.

These days, we don’t want you, Sunday School.

We want to do life together.

To go through some seasons.

To form a community of communities that fellowship.

So we traded you in for small groups and home groups and connect groups and journey groups. We moved you to Tuesday night or every third Wednesday night or the fourth Thursday night divided by 14 with no remainder carried over. Now when I go see you, I have to find a babysitter. And a couch from IKEA and a plate of Costco one bite brownies for everyone that comes over.

And I love small groups. I think they’re awesome. In addition to forming some great friendships, if it doesn’t work out, you can trade in your group for a new one. That was hard with you Sunday School. If things didn’t work out, I didn’t have a whole lot of options. I couldn’t dump you, knowing that every Sunday morning I’d see you waiting for me right outside of church. But with a small group, I’m free to move around.

Let’s say the leader of my next group inexplicably owns a komodo dragon. And I don’t like komodo dragons. I’m more of a gila monster man. My daddy was a gila monster man. His daddy was a gila monster man. That’s just how I was raised. Well, I can just change groups.

But even though I like small groups, the more I think about it, the more I realize I miss you. I miss having the double feature of Sunday School and Church. I know it still exists. It’s still available at a ton of different churches. But, for 15 years, I haven’t seen you at the churches I attend.

Maybe we’ll run into each other at a potluck. We’ll shake hands, maybe talk about the old days. But then someone from my small group will come up, and I’ll have to leave you standing by a sad casserole, Sunday School.

It’s not you, it’s me.

Jon

Question:
Does your church have adult Sunday School?

I do.

I was speaking at the Orange Conference in Atlanta. A guy named Reggie Joiner puts it on with his team at Rethink. They’re a bunch of geniuses, and you should check out what they do.

Reggie interviewed me from stage which was awesome because Andy Stanley spoke right before me. And one of the first rules of public speaking is “never follow Andy Stanley.”

The interview was a blast. We talked about the role leaders need to play with social media. When it was all done, I stood up from a chair I had been desperately trying not to fall off, and then made a decision:

Handshake.

Reggie, however, made the opposite decision at the exact same time.

He leaned in for a hug.

I leaned in for a handshake.

5,000 people then proceeded to witness my handshake-hug trainwreck. I was already in motion and couldn’t morph the handshake into a hug fast enough, as if I was doing some sort of breakdance wave move. I think I shook his left hand with my right hand and then wrapped my left arm around his neck somehow. There might have even been a leg involved. It’s all a blur.

I was cool with hugging Reggie. Despite making billions of dollars off the phrase “Side Hug,” I’m not opposed to the front hug. I just don’t assume it. So I came up with a system. When I greet people, as I lean in, I say out loud, “Are we hug level? I think so?”

And then they go, “Of course,” and we proceed to hug. But I couldn’t say that on-stage in the Gwinett Arena. I had a mic on. Can we rock? What’s up doc? Who am I, Shaq and the Fu-Schnickesn? It would have been weird.

Whole thing was my fault. Reggie handled it like a pro, though. I don’t even think I saw him give an assistant a secret signal that said, “Don’t invite this hand shaker back next year.” At least there weren’t 40-foot tall video screens and HD cameras to capture the whole thing. That would have been embarrassing.

I promise if you and I ever meet, I’ll shake your hand, unless you blurt out “are we hug level?” Cause then I’ll say, “Of course,” and we’ll hug.

Question:
Do you assume hug or assume handshake when you greet someone?

Doing the Holy Shuffle

No, I’m not referring to Saturday Night Fever moves that have been subtly modified to be church-disco-appropriate.

As a Christian who doesn’t drive and who takes a lot of buses, I have plenty of opportunities for time with God, listening to worship on my iPod. I’m worshipping, just with my mostly-inside-my-head worship voice. Sometimes muted sounds escape from the back of my throat. It’s like Crash Test Dummies’ Mmm mmm mmm mmm vs. Michael W. (Some people call him “Smitty.” Not me.)

Sometimes though I don’t know which kind of Christian music I feel like listening to.  Will it be Hillsong United – the espresso-shot of worship I need first thing in the morning, even though I’m much too old and un-bouncy to be in the target demographic? Should it be something soothing and peaceful? If I’m wearing a hoodie, should I go for one of the three songs with rap sections?

And then I remember: I don’t need to decide. The iPod has a shuffle function. It goes something like this:

Shuffle songs: Tim Hughes, Beautiful One.

My brain: “Oh, awesome. Yup, Jesus is beautiful. I love Him. Wow, it’s like God knew this was the right song. Hmm hmm hmm.”

I gaze out the bus window. The song is finishing.

Shuffle songs: Matt Redman, Let my Words be Few.

Brain: “That’s such a good reminder. Today I’ll have to remember to listen and pray more than I speak.”

So far, so general.

Then things get a little weird.

I’m daydreaming about that guy I like in my home group. Might he like me? Could he be the one?

Shuffle songs: Marc James, Surrender.

Brain: “Wow – that is so spot on! I need to surrender that crush to God as well as everything else in my life. I’m feeling corrected.”

It’s at about this point that I attribute the gift of prophecy to the iPod.

Don’t get me wrong. I completely believe that God uses music to speak to us. Probably even prefers an iPhone over a Droid. How else would you explain how long it took for droid to get Instagram, an app primarily used to document the sunsets God gives us? What’s astonishing is that the device knows exactly which song to play next.

It’s become a Holy Shuffle. (I felt like “Siri Spirit” was probably pushing it too far.)

Holy Shuffle: Matt Redman, Mission’s Flame.

Brain: “Wow! I’m going to be a missionary! God really is a DJ.”

Sometimes, God’s voice is a little harder to discern though. Especially when you have forgotten that the last time you synced your iPod, you loaded all your music rather than just selecting the worship.

Brain: “What is it that you have for me today, Lord?”

Holy Shuffle: Beyonce and Slim Thug, Check on it.

Brain: “Who am I to marry, Lord?”

Holy Shuffle: You Can’t Always Get What You Want, Glee Cast version.

Does that mean I’m headed toward a “Silver medal spouse?” Awesome.

What do you think?  Are there tracks on your iPod or MP3 player that could provide the answers to the questions in your life?

Question:  Have you ever done the Holy Shuffle?

It’s a tricky situation, fraught with unique challenges. Do you take the passive-aggressive route: Just stop showing up? Make excuses until eventually they stop calling?

Can you skip group without looking like you’re skipping God, because you still love him, right? Do you organize a mutiny and try to take other couples with you? “I can’t keep studying the book of Job. I’m making a break for it; we’re starting a new group and heading to the border of the New Testament. I think we’ve got room for two other people in our car. Three, if someone will sit in the way back, but Hank and Stacey aren’t going to be able to make it. Don’t look back. Just run. Run!”

Do you work hard to make them want to dump you? When you host it at your house, do you serve the most disgusting dessert possible, kidney strawberry pie or blackberry beet pudding?

Do you leave out of awkwardness? “I want to talk about some bowel issues I’m having. Anyone else know what I’m talking about? Bowel issues? Here are some detailed observations I had in the bathroom this morning. I took pictures.”

Do you bring your own poetry and tell people, “God laid this fourteen-page poem about the death of my cat on my heart; I’d really like to read it to you tonight. It’s written in Klingon, so it might be a little hard to understand the first time around.”

Do you start seeing other groups on the side? And do you keep your broken group going because you like talking about football with one of the guys, and your wife likes the recipes one of the girls gives her? You can find substance elsewhere. Just start small grouping all over town until you find one you like, and once you do, you can dump the old one.

If all else fails, I guess you could just be honest. But that’s only if you don’t know a good recipe for pork pineapple white chocolate chip cookies. People hate those things. Serve a warm plate of those to your small group, and it will be over by bite two.

Have you ever had to break up with your small group?

(It’s throwback Thursday! This essay, doesn’t that word make me sound “fancy”, originally appeared in the Stuff Christians Like book. You can buy a copy of the whole book right here.)

And usually, before I step on stage to share an idea with a crowd, I have a conversation with God in my head.

It goes something like this:

Me: God, are you sure you want me up there on that stage?

God: I do.

Me: Are you sure? I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. Do you know what I’ve done?

God: I do.

Me: It was pretty big.

God: Was it? Everything looks small in the shadow of the cross.

And then I walk on stage.

But at the heart of that conversation is a problem. A trick the devil loves to play on us. A trick so devious that I had to draw it out to show you what I mean.

The devil loves for us to step up to a telescope and look at our sin like this:

We stare at our sin up close through a telescope and it appears massive. It fills our vision, its size overwhelming, its magnitude breathtaking, its weight colossal. The detail is so intricate we could draw it from memory. The regret so clearly replayed in our mind we could recite it perfectly, decades after we’ve fallen.

And then, the devil flips the telescope around and asks us to look at the cross like this:

We look through the wrong end, and the cross seems so tiny. It’s too small for our sins. Our sins outweigh it. They loom larger than the death of Christ. There’s no way grace could be enough for what we’ve done. Surely there’s something else we need to do to be forgiven. To be held. To be loved.

And so we search. We run from a small cross into a big world and look for something that will fix us.

The truth is, the cross is massive. Its shadow covers failure like an ocean covers sandcastles.

I’m ready to stop looking through the telescope the wrong way.

Are you?

It was kind of like watching the director’s commentary on a DVD, which is always a disappointing experience. I remember being excited to watch the director’s commentary on the movie “Say Anything.” I thought there would be some sort of magical exchange between the director and John Cusack when they discussed the scene where he held up the boombox over his head. Some sort of deep wisdom or off-the-cuff nugget about that pivotal moment.

Instead, it went something like this:

Director: Remember that scene.

John Cusack: Yeah, I do.

Director: What tape was actually in the boombox?

John Cusack: I think it was Fishbone.

Director: Really?

John Cusack: Yeah, maybe.

Director: Oh.

If you want to Instagram that dialog feel free. It’s riveting.

Would the director’s commentary of the church service prove to be more interesting? Would they top John Cusack with their analysis? Would there be any part they didn’t discuss loudly? So many questions and, as time has proven, so many thoughts went through my head:

1. Whoa, talking during a worship song. Bold move, or maybe they’re “talk singers,” afraid to actually try singing a song and, instead, just talk the words out. Nashville is an intimidating place to worship. Everyone you sit next to has a record deal.

2. Is it rude to listen? It’s impossible to ignore. They’re talking so loud that I kind of feel like they’re talking to me.

3. Is this performance art? Maybe this is part of an edgy new sermon series? Are they crowd plants? Maybe Pete is going to do a series on distractions, and these people are actors?

4. Do they think they’re invisible? Is this kind of like when my kids were young and played hide and seek simply by closing their eyes? They thought no one could see them if they couldn’t see you. Should I tell them they’re not invisible?

5. Is that the weirdest thing you could tell someone at church? “Hey, not sure if you knew, but you’re not invisible.”

6. What if this is biblical? Isn’t there a verse about not worshipping when a brother is mad at you? Don’t you have to run and fix that broken relationship before you worship? Maybe I’m watching a reconciliation? Brother against brother.

7. Like the Civil War. Or “Civil Wars.” How great is that band name? They added an “S” and boom! That consonant is gold. Plus, their 60 seconds on the Grammy’s was absolutely brilliant. I wonder if they come to Cross Point like all the other country musicians? Maybe this is them? Am I sitting next to the Civil Wars right now? Are we in Barton Hollow?

8. How is my pastor, Pete, handling this? He’s a pro. I just saw him look over here, though. He has to hear what’s happening. Is there a discreet way I can signal, “They’re not with me. I’m ‘tracking with you’”?

9. Do they know we’re at church? Probably. I mean there are 1,000 people in the room, and we’re sitting in pews. Both of those things seem like pretty clear indicators of what is going on right now.

10. Maybe they have bad depth perception. Maybe they can’t tell that we’re sitting on the front row. The pastor is 7 feet away, not 70. Is it an eyesight issue? They think they’re in the back row?

11. What if they’re first-time visitors and don’t know how church works? I am such a jerk.

12. Wait, why do we act like first-time visitors are from another planet? Have they ever been to a movie, a school performance, a play, a funeral, or a dance recital? Then they probably know the social norms that come with sitting in a crowd.

13. Can you shush someone at church and not look like a graceless monster fresh from the bowels of Hades? Is that possible? Probably not.

14. If I write about this, how fast will someone comment, “This is why people hate coming to church!” What’s that going to be: the third comment or the fourth comment?

Ultimately, I decided to just listen to the podcast of the sermon later. I was too ADD to not half-listen to their conversation and Pete’s sermon at the same time.

My ultimate concern for this situation, though, isn’t about talking in church or kindness to strangers or pew etiquette. My chief concern is simple:

I hope they don’t read Stuff Christians Like and see this.

Question:
What would you have done in this situation?

How do we update that idea? How, in 2012, can you really tell if someone is holy?

By looking at where they keep their Bible app on their smart phone.

Not all locations are created equal. App geography matters tremendously and, fortunately, I put together a pretty simple guide.

The Bible App Holiness Guide or (BAHG)

Only App on your smart phone
Holiest, or “Enoch” Level
I guess they’ll just bring a fiery chariot right to your door when you decide you’ve spent enough time on this planet. You have a smart phone, but the only app you have on it is the Bible. The “front page” of your iPhone is just the Bible app. There are no other choices. You even found a way to delete Google Maps. When you get lost, you don’t open up GPS. You open up Exodus and read about the Israelites roaming the desert.

First page
Super Holy, or “Pastor” Level
Top shelf! Pretty good. No searching deep into your phone for your copy of Youversion. It’s right there on the front page or homepage, if you will. Granted, it’s slumming with YouTube and a bunch of other nonsense apps, but you’re still doing pretty good.

Second page
Kind of Holy, or “Pre-Rooster Peter” Level
I don’t know about Android, but the first page of the iPhone has 16 available slots. You’re telling me the Bible didn’t make the top 16? Yikes. The Bible is in your list of top 17 apps? Pretty sure Pre-Rooster Peter would have said the same thing.

In a folder
Smidge Holy, or “Martha” Level
Whoa, interesting choice. Keeping the Bible in a folder? That’s the 2012 equivalent of hiding your light under a bushel. I’m pretty sure that verse meant to say, “You are a light on a hill, unless you feel like putting your Bible app four pages deep in some sort of folder named ‘Education.’” I guess you got distracted using Evernote or some other productivity app, like Martha would have loved.

Don’t have a Bible App
I’ll pray for you, or “Gonna be a hot one my friend” level
Was it the price of Youversion that kept you away? Free? That too expensive? Good grief. I’ll pray for you. Probably. Unless you don’t have a smart phone. Some of my friends don’t, and I can appreciate that, especially when they don’t say, “I don’t even have a smart phone,” which is becoming the new “I don’t even own a TV.”

Based on that chart, I’m super holy. My Youversion app is right there on the first page of my iPhone.

How about you?

If you have a smart phone and a Bible app, how’d you score?

Growing Up At Small Church

When I was a kid I went to a small, country church. Everyone should have a chance to grow up in a church like the one I did. Why? Because small church has so many things to offer that big church just can’t deliver. If that compelling reason wasn’t enough, then here are 5 more killer reasons you should leave your church with all the ministry coolness and opportunities you have there and find the smallest, most countriest church you can find. (that’s how we say “really country” in small churches) If not for you, do it for your kids so that they can have something to blog about when they get older. Jobs are going to be tough to come by in 2030 I hear.

4 killer reasons it’s better to grow up at a small church (do you say “killer” at big churches?):

1.  Your parents always had someone lined up for you to marry.
You might as well be home-schooled if you go to a small, country church because the odds of you having the freedom to get to know a wide range of girls was slim to nothing. But no matter how many girls or people attended small church, it was always important to pay attention to who your parents hung out with because the chances of you being encouraged to marry one of their daughters was huge. When I say “encouraged,” I actually mean “pre-arranged” or “forced.” Was she cute? Doesn’t matter! Does she have all of her teeth? Stop being so picky! Dude, you’re getting married!

2. The “worship” music involved a voice tuner.
There was always a guy at the church I grew up at that would lead the singing. Before every song he would pull his little, silver tuner out of his pocket – blow into it to hear what the first note of the next song was – and then proceed to be terrible. He may have gotten the first note right, but the rest were awful. I wonder if there’s a way to blow into that thing before every note of the entire song? “How Great Thou Art” could’ve definitely been a little bit greater. Granted, it would have taken 19 minutes to finish the song, but it would have been worth it.

3. Every adult can discipline you.
Being young at small church can be tough. You are squirmy, immature, and it can be difficult to stay interested in a weekly exegesis through the book of Numbers. What was especially tough, though, was the agreement parents made behind your back to allow any adult who went to your church to have the right to discipline you. At a small church you have 87 parents. I remember being at potluck #1,043 and I was playing tag with a friend of mine. We were running out in the parking lot (this is part of the strategy of playing tag for those of you who don’t know because you went to a big church and didn’t have to entertain yourself by running in parking lots because you had an awesome playground) and some crazy, random lady opened the door and yelled at me for running. In the parking lot! Not the sanctuary. Not the hallways. Not past the lady who was obviously upset that my parents hadn’t hand-selected her daughter to be my wife. Ahh…those were the good old days! A part of me longs for those days when strangers would guide my fragile soul down the straight and narrow. (sigh)

4. Potlucks.
If you go to a big church, I just feel sorry for you. How in the world are you going to have an all-church potluck every week with 2,000 people? What does your “fellowship” time look like at big church–Starbucks in the book store? A cafeteria with a full menu of restaurant quality food? Ha! I laugh at your “fellowship!” Ok, that’s a lie. That’s what we have to say when we go to small church because we so badly want to have cool coffee like you. Dang it.

Come to think of it.  Stay where you are. Your kids don’t want to go to small church after all. Especially if that one lady still goes there and is going to yell at you. For running. Outside! Geeesh!

Question:
Do you attend a small church or a megachurch?

For more great writing from Nate, check out his blog4men.

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Please send an email directly to the Adam McHugh at adamsmchughatgmaildotcom and he’ll send your copy out to you.

Thanks to everyone who commented.