“Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth! Do you not perceive it?” ~ Isaiah 43:18–19

There are some things a pastor can say on Sunday…And there are some things you probably shouldn’t say unless you want to watch half the congregation suddenly become very interested in the ceiling or the floor.

So, in the spirit of our Imagine series, I thought I’d say a few of the things that weren’t said on Sunday morning.

Isaiah says something rather startling: “Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old.”

That can sound almost disrespectful. After all, we are people who love our history. We love our traditions. We love the things that have shaped us. We remember the people who came before us, the ministries that mattered, the hymns that formed us, the programs that touched lives, the ways we have worshiped and served and been the church.

And we should. The Christian faith is not built on amnesia.

But there is a difference between remembering the past and living in the past. There is a difference between honoring what God has done and assuming that God is only allowed to work in the ways God has worked before.

Isaiah isn’t actually telling Israel to erase its history. He’s reminding them that God’s faithfulness in the past does not mean God’s future will look exactly like the past.

In fact, Isaiah says something even more provocative: “I am about to do a new thing.”

Not I did. Not I used to. Not remember that one time? But, I am about to do. Present tense. Future possibility. Holy anticipation. God is still moving. And if we’re not careful, we can become so busy protecting what God did yesterday that we miss what God is doing today.

Churches rarely decide one morning, “Today we are going to become stuck.” It usually happens gradually. We keep doing something because we’ve always done it. We resist changing something because someone might be upset. We preserve a structure because changing it feels complicated. We keep a program because it once worked. We defend a worship style because it feels familiar. We hesitate to rethink staffing because “we’ve never done it that way.” We continue offering things primarily for the people already here while wondering why we’re not reaching the people who aren’t.

Eventually, without ever intentionally choosing it, preservation becomes the operating system. The question quietly shifts from: “What is God calling us to become?” to: “How can we make sure nothing changes too much?”

Those are very different questions. One is driven by mission. The other is driven by fear. One looks toward the future. The other looks over its shoulder. One asks, “Who is God calling us to reach?” The other asks, “But what about us?”

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: a church can be incredibly faithful and still become stuck. We can love Jesus and resist change. We can love the church and resist the future. We can have wonderful memories and still need to make difficult decisions. We can be deeply committed and still be standing in the way of the very thing God wants to do next.

There is a particularly powerful force in church life known as “But we’ve always done it that way.” It is remarkably adaptable. It can defend almost anything. It has been used to protect buildings, programs, committees, worship styles, staffing structures, budgets, furniture, schedules, bulletin formats, leadership models, and probably at least one casserole recipe.

Let’s be honest: sometimes “we’ve always done it that way” is a perfectly legitimate reason to keep doing something. Sometimes tradition carries wisdom. Sometimes continuity matters. Sometimes the old way really is the best way.

But sometimes the phrase isn’t actually an argument. It’s just fear wearing a cardigan. If we allow fear to make every decision, we shouldn’t be surprised when our church stops moving.

Our denomination gives us a remarkably clear mission: to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.

At First Wayne Street, we believe we make disciples as we love God, love people, and serve together. We are becoming a church where everyone can belong, grow, serve, and encounter the transforming love of Jesus Christ. 

Those aren’t decorative statements. They’re not words to print on a banner, put on a website, or recite at a leadership retreat before returning to business as usual.  They’re supposed to function like a compass. They should help us decide what we do, what we stop doing, where we invest, who we reach, how we worship, how we organize ourselves, how we use our building, how we spend our money, how we staff, and how we serve our community.

If something helps us love God, love people, serve together, make disciples, pursue justice, practice peacemaking, create belonging, and become radically outwardly focused, then let’s find a way to do more of it. If something consistently prevents us from doing those things? Well, perhaps we need the courage to ask whether it still serves the mission. That’s not disrespectful. That’s discipleship.

Here’s where Isaiah gets really interesting. God says: “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth! Do you not perceive it?”

Notice the question. God doesn’t ask, “Would you be comfortable with it?” God doesn’t ask, “Would everyone approve?” God doesn’t ask, “Have we ever done this before?” God asks: “Do you not perceive it?”

In other words: Can you see what I’m doing? Can you recognize where I’m moving? Can you imagine something beyond what you’ve already experienced?

That’s really the question behind the Imagine sermon series.

Can we imagine a church that is not simply trying to preserve itself, but is actively participating in God’s future? 

Can we imagine worship that speaks to people who aren’t already part of us? 

Can we imagine structures that make ministry easier rather than more complicated? 

Can we imagine staffing around mission rather than around historical expectations?

Can we imagine programs designed around the people we are called to reach rather than simply the people we already have?

Can we imagine using our building in ways that bless downtown Fort Wayne?

Can we imagine a church where a young adult, a young family, an empty nester, a recent retiree, a longtime member, a person who has never been inside a church, and someone who isn’t entirely sure what they believe can all discover that there is a place for them here?

Can we imagine it?

If we can, then perhaps we are beginning to perceive what God is doing.

Just to be clear: “new thing” does not mean “everything old is bad.” We don’t need to burn the hymnals. We don’t need to bulldoze the building. We don’t need to pretend the last 150 years didn’t happen. We don’t need to become something we’re not.

Our history is part of our gift. Our traditions have formed generations of disciples. Our stories matter. Our people matter. The saints who built this church deserve our gratitude.

But the best way to honor the people who built the church is not to freeze the church exactly as they left it. 

It’s to have the same kind of courage they had. They built something for their generation. Now we have been entrusted with building something faithful for ours.

That’s not betrayal. That’s stewardship.

This may be the hardest thing to admit. Sometimes the thing standing between a church and its future isn’t the culture. It isn’t the denomination. It isn’t the economy. It isn’t downtown. It isn’t the younger generation. It isn’t technology. It isn’t even the church down the street.

Sometimes the biggest roadblock is simply our unwillingness to let go of what has become familiar.

We can become experts at identifying everything that might go wrong. We can list every reason a new idea won’t work. We can explain why another church can do something but we can’t. We can predict who will be upset. We can remember the last time something didn’t work. We can tell stories about how much better things used to be.

Eventually, we can become so good at protecting ourselves from disappointment that we also protect ourselves from possibility. That is not faith. Faith doesn’t mean we know exactly what will happen. Faith means we trust the One who does.

Maybe that’s one of the most important invitations of Imagine. Not to become trendier. Not to chase numbers. Not to change things simply because they’re old. Not to abandon who we are.

But to get out of God’s way. To loosen our grip. To stop assuming that our preferences are the same thing as God’s will. To stop confusing familiarity with faithfulness. To stop measuring every possibility by whether it makes us comfortable. To stop asking, “What will we lose?” long enough to ask, “Who might we reach?” To stop asking, “What will people think?” long enough to ask, “What is God doing?”

And maybe to have enough holy imagination to believe that the best days of this church aren’t necessarily behind us. Maybe they are ahead of us.

Isaiah continues: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” That’s the promise. God doesn’t simply tell us to go find our own way. God promises to make a way.

There will be uncertainty. There will be hard conversations. There will be things we have to release. There will be decisions that make some people uncomfortable. There will be moments when we wonder whether we’re getting it right. There will be things that don’t work. There will be experiments. There will be learning. There will be laughter. There will probably be a few strongly worded emails.

That’s church.

But there will also be grace. There will be new people. There will be new disciples. There will be new friendships. There will be new ministries. There will be new ways of worshiping. There will be new ways of serving. There will be people in downtown Fort Wayne who discover that the church isn’t just a building they pass on their way somewhere else. There will be people who encounter Jesus here. There will be lives transformed.

Perhaps, years from now, someone will look back at this moment and say: “I’m so glad they had the courage to move forward.”

That’s the church I want us to be. Not a church that forgets its past. Not a church that despises tradition. Not a church that changes for the sake of change. But a church that loves the past enough to learn from it, loves the present enough to engage it, and loves the future enough to prepare for it.

A church willing to say: We remember what God has done. We are grateful for what God has given us. But we are not finished. Because God isn’t finished.

So let’s imagine. Let’s listen. Let’s loosen our grip. Let’s take some holy risks. Let’s have difficult conversations when difficult conversations are necessary. Let’s celebrate what deserves celebrating. Let’s release what needs releasing. Let’s try some things. Let’s fail at some things. Let’s learn. Let’s laugh. Let’s dream. Let’s pray.

And above all, let’s pay attention. Because somewhere ahead of us, God is already doing a new thing. Hopefully our hearts, our hands, our eyes, and our minds will be open so we can perceive it. 

I have a prayer…

I pray that Christian nationalists, and those American evangelicals who have come to identify Christianity so closely with nationalism, power, political victory, and cultural control, might someday meet Jesus.

Not the Jesus of campaign slogans. Not the Jesus of the culture war. Not the Jesus who seems perpetually angry about who is using which bathroom, who is marrying whom, or who is crossing which border.

I mean Jesus. The Jesus we actually encounter in Scripture. The Jesus who sounds remarkably like Micah 6:8: do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.

The Jesus who, when given an opportunity to explain what life in the kingdom of God looks like, preached a Sermon on the Mount filled with blessings for the poor, the grieving, the meek, the merciful, the peacemakers, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

The Jesus who said, “Love your enemies.” The Jesus who told his followers to turn the other cheek. The Jesus who warned us about our own hypocrisy before giving us permission to diagnose everyone else’s. The Jesus who touched people respectable religion had pushed to the margins. The Jesus who ate with sinners. The Jesus who welcomed children. The Jesus who wept. The Jesus who forgave.

The Jesus who repeatedly seemed far more interested in how human beings treated one another than in whether they had successfully established themselves as the righteous people on the right side of every cultural argument.

And then there is Matthew 25. It is difficult to read Jesus’ words about the final judgment and come away thinking that the central question is, “Did you win the culture war?”

Jesus says the question is whether we fed the hungry. Gave drink to the thirsty. Welcomed the stranger. Clothed the naked. Cared for the sick. Visited the prisoner.

And then comes the part that should make all of us uncomfortable: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did it to me.”

That sounds an awful lot like Jesus.

And here’s the awkward thing: Jesus never once mentions abortion in the canonical Gospels. He never once addresses homosexuality or same-sex relationships.

That doesn’t mean those issues are unimportant. Christians can, and do, reason from broader biblical, theological, ethical, and pastoral principles about them.

But Jesus himself spends an extraordinary amount of time talking about love, mercy, forgiveness, humility, justice, reconciliation, generosity, peacemaking, and how we treat people who are vulnerable or excluded.

Maybe we should notice that. Maybe we should be just a little suspicious when a version of Christianity becomes consumed by issues Jesus never explicitly addressed while becoming strangely quiet about the things he talked about constantly.

Maybe this is why I find myself praying for something much more radical than another political victory.

I pray for revival. But not the kind of revival that simply produces more people who vote the right way. Not the kind that fills stadiums, sells books, builds political coalitions, or gives Christians greater cultural influence.

I want a revival that actually makes us more like Jesus. A revival that makes us less obsessed with power and more committed to service. Less interested in domination and more interested in reconciliation. Less concerned with winning and more concerned with loving. Less eager to identify enemies and more willing to see the image of God in people we don’t understand. Less interested in being right and more committed to being Christlike.

That is why I struggle with the increasingly militarized language surrounding some expressions of American Christianity.

Our Secretary of Defense has spoken openly about restoring a “warrior ethos,” emphasizing lethality, deterrence, readiness, and the capacity to defeat enemies. Those are understandable concepts within the vocation of national defense.

Maybe I’m the odd man out, but I don’t want my theology to be shaped by the Pentagon.

I want my theology to be shaped by Jesus.

Jesus did not say, “Blessed are the powerful.” He said, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

He did not say, “Blessed are those who dominate their enemies.” He said, “Love your enemies.”

He did not say, “Blessed are those who protect their status.” He repeatedly moved toward people who had none.

Jesus’ kingdom is not built through conquest. It is built through love.

That doesn’t mean Jesus was soft. He wasn’t. Jesus could be fierce. He confronted hypocrisy. He challenged religious authorities. He overturned tables. He spoke uncomfortable truths. He demanded radical obedience. But his power was cruciform.

He conquered not by killing his enemies, but by refusing to become like them. That is the kind of spiritual awakening I want.

Not a Christianity that becomes more powerful. A Christianity that becomes more faithful.

Not Christians who look more like America. Christians who look more like Jesus.

Maybe that kind of revival would change more than an election ever could. Maybe it would change the way we welcome immigrants. The way we care for the poor. The way we speak about people we disagree with. The way we respond to prisoners. The way we treat LGBTQ people. The way we care for our neighbors. The way we talk about race. The way we use wealth. The way we wield authority. The way we understand patriotism. The way we practice religion. The way we treat our enemies. The way we understand what it means to be a Christian.

And perhaps, if we experienced that kind of transformation, I could finally stop feeling like I need to introduce myself by saying: “I’m not that kind of Christian.”

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life explaining what Christianity isn’t. I want to be part of a Christianity so recognizably shaped by Jesus that people don’t have to ask.

A Christianity that does justice. Loves mercy. Walks humbly. Feeds the hungry. Welcomes the stranger. Visits the prisoner. Makes peace. Loves its enemies. Forgives extravagantly. Serves sacrificially. And follows Jesus, not because doing so will give us power over the world, but because Jesus showed us what the kingdom of God looks like.

So yes, I have a prayer. A rather audacious one.

I pray that Christian nationalists might meet Jesus. I pray that American evangelicals might meet Jesus. And, if I’m being completely honest, I pray that progressive Christians might meet Jesus too.

Because perhaps the deepest spiritual awakening we need isn’t one more battle for control. Maybe it is the rediscovery of the person at the center of our faith…Jesus.

Not the Jesus we have constructed to serve our politics. Not the Jesus we have recruited to bless our tribe. Not the Jesus we have enlisted in our cultural battles…Jesus.

The one who calls us to love God. Love our neighbor. Love our enemies. Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly. And become, in every possible way, more like him.

That is the revival I am praying for.

And maybe someday, if that prayer is answered, I won’t have to say, “I’m not that kind of Christian.”

There is a particular look that some Christians have perfected.

You know the one.

The slightly furrowed brow. The solemn expression. The carefully calibrated nod during the sermon. The kind of face that says, “I am currently contemplating the weight of eternity, so please do not make me laugh.”

It is the face of someone who understands that church is serious business.

And, to be fair, it is. Jesus did die for our sins. So obviously, we should look like it. No smiling too broadly. No spontaneous laughter. Certainly, no inappropriate enthusiasm. Keep the volume down. Keep the emotions in check. And whatever you do, do not clap during worship…especially if you can’t clap on 2 & 4! 

We don’t want to get carried away or someone might think we’re having fun. And we can’t have that. After all, we’re Christians.

We are supposed to be serious, reverent, appropriate, thoughtful, intellectually respectable and just a little bit uncomfortable. Especially during worship.

If the sermon is funny, we should probably resist laughing too loudly. 

If the music is upbeat, we should probably stand there politely.

If someone gets excited, we should look at them with a look that firmly communicates, “lock it up!”

And if someone actually raises their hands? Well…we should probably have a meeting about that.

Here’s the problem with all of this: While, yes, Jesus died for our sins, sometimes we look like we have forgotten that Jesus rose from the dead.

That’s kind of a big deal. The Christian story does not end at Good Friday. We don’t gather every Sunday to commemorate the tragic death of a really nice religious teacher. We gather because the tomb is empty. We gather because death didn’t get the last word. We gather because sin doesn’t get the last word. We gather because despair doesn’t get the last word. We gather because Jesus is alive!

And yet sometimes one would think the defining theological statement of the Christian faith was: “Please remain calm throughout the gathering.”

Somewhere along the way, we’ve confused reverence with solemnity and depth with seriousness. But those aren’t the same things.

There is a time for silence. There is a time for lament. There is a time to grieve, to repent, to confess, to sit quietly in the presence of suffering.

Christianity has room for all of that.

But Christianity also has room for laughter. For celebration. For music that makes you want to move. For stories that make you laugh until you cry. For children making noise. For people singing badly but enthusiastically. For spontaneous applause. For mistakes. For warmth. For joy.

Consider the Jesus we actually encounter in the Gospels. Jesus went to dinner parties. He ate with people respectable religious folks didn’t think he should be eating with. He told stories. He used exaggeration. He talked about camels going through the eyes of needles and people swallowing camels while straining gnats. He called Herod a fox. He compared religious leaders to whitewashed tombs. He told stories about prodigal sons, lost coins, runaway sheep, dishonest managers and people throwing parties. He touched unclean people. He laughed. He cried. He celebrated.

And, apparently, when a wedding ran out of wine, Jesus decided the appropriate response was not a lecture on responsible event planning. He turned water into wine…to keep the hosts from being embarrassed AND to keep the party going. Not only that, his mother made him do it!

Now, do a little research and you’ll discover that there have been Christians trying to make the case that Jesus just made grape juice or refreshing purified water. We have apparently reached the point where we will do anything to make Jesus less fun. Because heaven forbid somebody discovers that the guy we worship actually knew how to throw a party.

With all of that, I find myself wondering, “what does our Christianity look like to people who aren’t Christians? Do they see something compelling? Do they see people who have discovered a deeper way to live? Do they see love? Hope? Generosity? Compassion? Laughter? Freedom? Joy?

Or do they see people who look perpetually annoyed that other people are enjoying themselves?

If the gospel is good news, shouldn’t there be at least some visible evidence that we’ve heard it?

Mike Yaconelli, in his book “Dangerous Wonder: The Adventure of Childlike Faith” wrote, “Christianity is not about learning how to live within the lines; Christianity is about the joy of coloring. The grace of God is preposterous enough to accept as beautiful a coloring that anyone else would reject as ugly. The grace of God sees beyond the scribbling to the heart of the scribbler – a scribbler who is similar to two thieves who hung on crosses on either side of Jesus. One of the two asked Jesus to please accept his scribbled and sloppy life into the kingdom of God and He did. Preposterous. And very good news for the rest of us scribblers.

I love that. Because perhaps we’ve spent too much time teaching people to stay inside the lines and not enough time helping them discover the joy of being alive in Christ.

Yaconelli was also fond of reminding the church that real spirituality is messy, unfinished and imperfect. In other words, faith doesn’t require us to become a collection of perfectly polished religious people.

Now, before someone writes an angry comment, I’m not arguing for shallow worship.

I’m not suggesting that every sermon needs to be a stand-up comedy routine. I’m not saying every hymn needs a drum solo. I’m not saying we should replace theology with confetti.

There is something beautiful about reverence. There are moments when the appropriate response to God is silence. There are Sundays when we need to sit with grief. There are prayers that should make us uncomfortable. There are Scriptures that should challenge us. There are moments when worship should bring us to our knees.

But here’s the thing…reverence doesn’t require joylessness. Depth doesn’t require boredom. Intellectual substance doesn’t require emotional constipation. And holiness doesn’t require looking like you just sucked on a lemon.

We can be thoughtful and joyful. Reverent and exuberant. Theologically serious and capable of laughing at ourselves.

We can sing ancient hymns and contemporary songs. We can sit in silence and clap our hands. We can pray the Psalms and dance. We can weep over the brokenness of the world and still throw a party when someone comes home.

That’s not theological inconsistency. That’s the Christian life.

In “Everybody, Always: Becoming Love in a World Full of Setbacks and Difficult People,” author Bob Goff wrote, “When joy is a habit, love is a reflex.”

Think about that. When joy is a habit, love is a reflex.

Maybe that’s part of what we’ve forgotten. Joy isn’t just something we feel when circumstances are good. Joy is a way of seeing. A way of living. A way of saying that the resurrection has changed the way we understand the world.

Joy says: Yes, the world is broken. Yes, people are hurting. Yes, there is injustice. Yes, there is grief. Yes, there are things worth fighting for.

And yet…God is good. Love is real. Grace is bigger than our failures. Hope is stronger than despair. Jesus is alive.

That’s not childish optimism. That’s resurrection faith.

Maybe what the church needs isn’t more people trying to look holy. Maybe we need more people who actually look alive. People who laugh easily. People who welcome warmly. People who sing like they mean it. People who aren’t afraid to clap. People who can admit when they screwed something up. People who aren’t embarrassed by enthusiasm. People who aren’t afraid to tell someone, “I’m really glad you’re here.” People whose faith spills over into generosity, kindness, justice, hospitality and joy. People who have so deeply encountered the love of God that they can’t quite contain it.

Because that’s what love does. It spills over. It gets messy. It gets loud. It throws parties. It welcomes outsiders. It feeds people. It dances. It sings. It laughs. It weeps. It embraces. It celebrates.

And sometimes it probably makes the religious people nervous…which I think is great because Jesus had a habit of doing that.

So…No more boring Christians. No more uninspired worship. No more acting like enthusiasm is a spiritual defect. No more confusing a frown with holiness. No more assuming that serious faith requires a serious face. No more apologizing for joy.

Let’s be people who actually look like we believe the gospel is good news. Let’s sing. Let’s laugh. Let’s clap. Let’s celebrate. Let’s make room for the awkward, the imperfect, the exuberant and the beautifully messy. Let’s worship with our minds and our hearts and our bodies.

Let’s make our churches places where people don’t just hear about the love of God. Let’s make them places where people can actually feel it.

Because Jesus didn’t say, “By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you maintain an appropriately solemn demeanor.”

He said: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” ~ John 13:35

And Jesus said: “I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.” ~ John 15:11

Complete joy. Not carefully managed joy. Not appropriately subdued joy. Not please keep your joy within the approved liturgical boundaries joy. Complete joy.

So let’s be salt and light. Not lemon juice in a paper cut.

Let’s be people whose presence makes the world taste a little better and look a little brighter. Let’s be people who carry hope into the room. Let’s be people whose love is obvious. Let’s be people whose laughter isn’t an embarrassment but a testimony.

Let’s be people who live as though Easter actually happened. Because it did.

Christ is risen. So, for God’s sake, let’s smile.