There is something wonderfully absurd about Noah…God tells him to build a boat. A really big boat…And Noah starts building.

The only problem is that, as far as we know, it wasn’t raining. Not a little rain. Not a drizzle. Not even one of those ominous afternoons when the sky turns dark and everyone starts wondering whether they should bring the patio furniture inside.

Nothing.

Just Noah, a boat, and presumably a whole lot of people wondering what in the world he was doing.

Genesis tells us that God gave Noah specific instructions for building the ark. And then comes this remarkably simple statement “Noah did everything just as God commanded him” (Genesis 6:22).

Noah didn’t have a five-year strategic plan. He didn’t have a guarantee of success. He didn’t have immediate evidence that any of this was going to make sense. He had a call. And he responded with obedience.

That’s what makes Noah’s story so interesting for the church. Because sometimes God calls us to begin something before there is any visible evidence that it is going to work.

We are not particularly good at waiting. We live in a world of immediate results. We order something online and expect it tomorrow. We stream whatever we want whenever we want it. We can get an answer to almost any question in seconds.

So naturally, we bring those expectations into the church. We try something new and want immediate results. We change something and want everyone to love it. We launch a ministry and expect the room to be full. We adjust our worship and want attendance to jump. We try something for a few weeks, don’t see a dramatic difference, and conclude:

Then we go back to what we were doing before. As we might say drawing on Scripture, we “go back to Egypt.” Because Egypt may not have been ideal, but at least it was familiar.

That’s one of the great temptations of church life: we can become more committed to what is familiar than to what is faithful.

Of course, faithfulness doesn’t mean stubbornly continuing something simply because we started it. Sometimes an idea really doesn’t work. Sometimes we need to change course. Sometimes the Spirit leads us somewhere we didn’t expect.

But there is an important difference between saying “this isn’t faithful” and saying “this hasn’t produced immediate results.” Those are not the same thing.

That’s why clarity matters.

Before a church asks, “Is this working?” it should ask: What are we trying to become? What is God calling us to do? Who are we called to reach? What kind of community are we becoming? What does it look like for us to embody the way of Jesus in this particular time and place?

The “ark,” then, isn’t one particular program or change. The ark is the larger vision, the church we believe God is calling us to become.

The changes we make are simply ways of moving toward that vision. And that distinction matters because churches are really good at arguing about the details while forgetting the larger purpose.

Should the service start at 10 or 10:30? Should we sing this song or that song? Should the bulletin look like this or that? Should the walls be painted this color? Should we have this ministry? Should we change that ministry?

Important questions, perhaps. But they’re not the ultimate questions.

The deeper question is: Does this help us become the church God is calling us to be?

This is where things get practical.

Sometimes responding to God’s call means launching an entirely new ministry. Sometimes it means changing the way we worship so that contemporary worship actually feels contemporary rather than simply being traditional worship with a guitar added. Sometimes it means freshening our facilities, bringing paint, décor, signage, and common spaces into the 2020s so that our physical environment communicates the welcome and vitality we say we value. Sometimes it means changing a bulletin that has accumulated enough information over the years to qualify as a small theological encyclopedia. Sometimes it means rethinking how we welcome a first-time guest. Sometimes it means creating a new pathway for discipleship. Sometimes it means changing a committee structure or ministry practice that has become more of a roadblock than a bridge.

And sometimes it really is just paint. But none of those things is the point by itself. The point is what those changes communicate and make possible.

If we’re trying to become a church that is more welcoming, more accessible, more outward-facing, more spiritually alive, and more connected to the people around us, then the way our worship feels, the way our building looks, and the way we communicate all matter.

Not because God cares about paint. Not because the Holy Spirit has strong opinions about bulletin fonts. But because what we do communicates what we value.

Sometimes changing something small is a way of making the larger vision visible.

One of the greatest mistakes churches can make is abandoning something before it has had time to take root. We plant something on Sunday and want fruit by Tuesday. We make a change and expect everyone to understand it immediately. We try a new ministry and judge it by the first three weeks. We make a change in worship and expect the congregation to instantly embrace it.

But living things take time. Seeds take time. Relationships take time. Trust takes time. Discipleship takes time. Culture change takes time. Church renewal takes time.

And apparently, according to Genesis, ark construction takes time.

The absence of immediate results doesn’t necessarily mean the work is failing. Sometimes it means the work is still happening.

A congregation may need time to adjust. New people may need time to find us. Relationships may need time to develop. A new ministry may need time to mature. A culture of hospitality may need time to become instinctive. People who have been hurt or excluded by the church may need considerable time before they believe that our welcome is genuine.

We shouldn’t confuse slow with unsuccessful. Nor should we confuse uncomfortable with unfaithful.

There is an important qualification. “Keep going” cannot mean “never reconsider.” Faithfulness is not stubbornness.

We pray. We listen. We discern. We learn. We pay attention to what is happening around us. We ask whether what we’re doing is actually helping us live more faithfully into our mission.

And sometimes we change the plan. That’s not failure. That’s faithfulness, too.

The goal isn’t to defend every decision we’ve ever made. The goal is to remain faithful to God’s call.

Which means the church needs both courage and humility. Courage to persevere when the work is difficult. Humility to admit when we’ve misunderstood the call.

Maybe you’re in one of those seasons right now. Maybe the change you’re being asked to make feels enormous. Or maybe it feels ridiculously small.

Maybe it’s a new ministry. Maybe it’s a new way of worship. Maybe it’s a freshly painted hallway. Maybe it’s a bulletin that doesn’t require a magnifying glass. Maybe it’s a new way of welcoming people. Maybe it’s simply learning to stop saying, “We’ve always done it that way.”

Whatever the change, the questions are the same: Have we prayed? Have we listened? Have we discerned? Does this align with who we believe God is calling us to become?

If the answer is yes, then don’t abandon the work simply because the results aren’t immediate. Give it time. Give people time. Give relationships time. Give the Spirit room to work.

Noah didn’t know when the rain would come. He didn’t know exactly how the story would unfold. He knew only that he had heard the call. So he acted. And he kept at it.

Perhaps that’s the invitation for us, too. Know what God is calling us toward. Know why it matters. Keep listening. Don’t confuse discomfort with failure. Don’t confuse slow with unsuccessful.

And when we are convinced that we are moving faithfully toward the vision God has given us: Stay with it.

The sky may still be blue. The rain may not have started. Someone may still be complaining about the paint. But that doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

Sometimes faithfulness is simply what we do before we can see the storm.

“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.”