Whose Agenda?

In my studies, particularly my reading over the last decade, I have heard the voices from within and from without the church. Much of the study I did had to do specifically with the church, especially what might have gone wrong along the way. But some of it had to do with other things like creativity, education, worldviews, culture, art, beauty, and relationships. Missiology too. But no matter what I read, it was always with the church in mind and what we, as followers of Jesus, needed to rethink. Turns out, it might be just about everything regarding method if not dogma.

Unfortunately, even among some of the most fascinating of writers, I have run into a common thread. They all, apparently, have the answer(s). Especially with regard to this conundrum of church, their research led them in a certain direction and ultimately they had come to one conclusion or another about the answer as to how we ought to “do church.” Of course none of them agree.

In the beginning I would read along with great interest and hope. These are mostly people whose journeys have been similar to my own. I would relate to their frustrations and their questions. I would respond with thoughts like, “Yeah! Me too!” Or, “Wow, that is exactly what I have always thought!” However, sooner or later there would come a point at which I would end up saying, “What? No, really? That’s your result?” That’s because obviously each writer feels the need to provide his readers with the right solution to the mystery.

I think my college literature professor may have told us that. Something like, “Good writing presents us with a problem and then proceeds to solve it.” Or maybe it was, “Tell them what you are going to tell them; then tell them; then tell them what you told them.” Apparently publishers are also pretty picky about this sort of thing. Because, I have yet to read one that didn’t spell out some specific pattern or model to follow in order to solve the problem.

If God is speaking to each of them, he is saying something different about what the church ought to do in each of their circumstances. Which kind of makes my point. Their particular conclusions are presented as the answer—the one and only answer to every situation. Maybe that’s not the way they mean it, but that’s the way it sounds. I don’t think there is only one answer to the question of what the church should be doing in any given city or community. I think the questions and concerns are similar across the board, but I think the right conclusions and solutions for the church are as varied as her people.

My purpose here will be to try and ask the right questions, give you our attempts at solving them, and leaving the rest up to you.

It’s About Time

I have taken a two year hiatus from writing. Two years ago this month, we took over the coffee shop that is on the front side of our location in the Fontana Shopping Center in Tulsa. That has been a long journey of really hard work. But it is time that I get back to the job of writing about that to which God has called us. So the following writings pick up where we left off. We were just getting ready to talk about what we have learned over the last six years or more.

In the interim, I have had the opportunity to think about how to approach our story. It seems to me that if I write it one way—with a sensitivity toward existing structures—I might get a hearing with people who are still steeped in the “church as usual” mindset. Then again, my writing so far has apparently already caused some people hurt feelings, especially those who take what I say very personally.

The other option is that I just put it out there, tell it like I see it. And while my intent is not to be obtuse or controversial, I may be too far down the road anyway to go back and remember what it felt like to hear from people like me a few short years ago.

In the last six years I have learned that too often people in the church will say and do things out of a fear of criticism from within. The way we talk, the decisions we make about relationships, and what we choose to allow others to know about us are controlled more by a fear of fellow Christians than by personal conviction. I don’t want to be guilty of that.

So as a result, I have concluded that I need to simply lay it out. Let the chips fall where they may. It is likely that anyone who reads what I write with an open mind will have already started down a path that will make them receptive to it. Anyone who cares about what I have to say will have already concluded for themselves that all is not well.

With that in mind, you have been warned.

“Send” the Indigenous, Part 1

The church in which I grew up has become one of the largest missionary sending organizations the world has ever known. It was conceived and birthed in the heat of passion for going and sending based on the aforementioned Great Commission. But if there is one thing we have learned, it is that why and how one is sent is as critical as being sent in the first place.

What we have learned is that sometimes the worst thing that can happen to a country, a culture, or a people group is the invasion of what I’ll call fanatical Christian salvation guerillas. Because, the one and only message they have is salvation. So they storm the country with medical teams, food supplies, or relief efforts, in an attempt to gain an attentive ear for their message by providing for needs. Now, providing for needs isn’t a bad thing. That is very much a Kingdom value taught by Jesus. But not when the real purpose is bait and switch.

When physical needs are met for the sole purpose of creating a captive audience for a quick presentation of the Gospel, that is bait and switch. And, it doesn’t just happen in foreign countries either. It also happens in churches every week right here in the good old US of A.

Youth are baited with pizza, extreme games, celebrity guests, and fancy hangouts. Adults are baited with promises of wealth, beauty, and success, not to mention a break from their children for at least an hour. Add on top of that promises of discipleship training for every age group (as though that was supposed to be the job of the church and not the disciple).

Worse than that, the needy in our cities are promised food in exchange for a church service which they have to attend. “Free clothing” comes with a secret price tag—the cost of which is measured in enduring bad music and a reductionist salvation message. In either situation—the fancy church or the skid row mission—the problem is the same. Here it is: What you win them with, you win them to—whether it’s pizza, prosperity, or free clothes.

Now, I know that many churches and Christian organizations do wonderful things for people with no strings attached. Those groups have my compliments. But there are just as many, if not more, who use this as a “strategy.”

Last Sunday afternoon, I went to a downtown park where some friends of mine were doing a cook out for our homeless friends. There were at least 60 of us in the park that day. And although this was a first (the cookout), it was not the first time these men, women, and children had fed, loved on, and talked to many of these people. They called each other by name, and were so genuinely glad to see one another. And the food and the hugs and the football and the croquet were all paid for and given away unconditionally.

Unfortunately, some there that day who didn’t know my friends were waiting for the other shoe to drop. So when two guys got out their guitars to play some jazz and folk music, one man was overheard to say, “Uh-oh! They’re gettin’ out the guitars. Here comes the Jesus message…”

Bait and switch.

Now my friends and I had no intentions of doing anything more than feeding, hugging, and spending some time with them. But they were so conditioned to the schemes and methods they had seen so many times before that they were certain we were getting ready to “lay some Jesus on them.”

Some of my other friends who are missionaries in Asia have a name for people who convert in one of these bait and switch situations. They call them “rice Christians.” Rice Christians (whether in Asia or South Tulsa) aren’t won to Jesus, they are won to: fill-in-the-bait.

Now, so far you’re wondering how this applies to our subject of “Sending the Indigenous.” I guess what I’m wondering in my head and wandering through with the above is if we are ready to entrust the Holy Spirit with the next step. If we can trust Him to draw or to persuade the indigenous to follow him without our coercion or manipulation, are we ready to allow Him to help them to contextualize the truths of scripture for their own culture without our messing it up for them?

Before we can talk about sending the indigenous to reach their own, we have to answer the question: Are we ready to let them build their own versions of ecclesiology (church) and maybe even soteriology (salvation) that may or may not resemble our versions?

Not Your Grandpa’s Church

Start a church? Really? Had I ever thought about it? Well, not out loud, but certainly I had dreamed. Maybe a better word is fantasized. However, over the years I had developed quite a stack of concerns about the modern church. Those concerns were magnified in the years I spent teaching ministerial candidates in the study center sponsored by the church. Then layer on top of that all the questions spawned by the tornado and then the subversive stuff Earl had given to me to read.
I knew one thing for sure: Tulsa didn’t need another church. There’s already one on almost every street corner, and another one pops up about every other week or so. They are as numerous and prolific as roaches.
That, despite the fact that the church in Oklahoma and across America hasn’t been growing for dozens of years. We’ve just been passing around the same people among us. Why would I want to build a church out of somebody else’s rejects? People who are disgruntled in one place will still be disgruntled when they show up at your place.
While we’re talking about shuffling people, Tulsa is the biggest of culprits. One preacher has a new revelation and builds up a big following. But then he can’t keep it in his pants, so another “man of the hour” comes along until he gets a wandering eye or an old skeleton knocks on his office door.
And church in Tulsa is big business—big names, big buildings, and big money. The smorgasbord of programs, groups, and activities makes the local churches without a doubt the largest providers of consumer services in the state. Church has become a pay-as-you-go, consumer-driven enterprise where money changes hands in exchange for “services rendered.” And those consumers (called members) have expectations.
And those expectations begin with: church is supposed to be the place where the God-stuff gets done. Where our children and youth are supposed to get discipled so we, their parents, don’t have to do it. Us too, for that matter. Disciple me so I don’t have to do that myself either.
Oh and, we need a place to discover and exercise our “gifts.” Especially the ones that the “world” can’t seem to appreciate. We need a place where we can be suckled and be healed and find meaning and purpose. And if we don’t feel we’re getting our money’s worth, we can move on claiming we weren’t being fed.
After I pondered all of this—all things I had experienced or witnessed—I concluded that if I was nuts enough to go through with it, there would have to be a major paradigm shift. Not just in the thinking but in our whole approach to “doing church.” If we decided to do it, it would not be; it could not be my grandpa’s church.

No Place Like Home

Before I get into 1992, let’s go back to the beginning—my beginning—in 1955. (I know. It was like 3 years before the car was invented.) Like the starting phrase of a bad novel, it was a dark and stormy night, literally. And it looked like I wasn’t going to “pop out” anytime soon. So they sent dad home and kept mom. These were the days when dads had to sit in the waiting room anyway, so they thought he ought to sleep in his own bed instead of loitering in the lobby all night.
Dad was a little nervous, I think, so instead of giving the hospital his phone number—just in case—he gave them his boss’ number. So sure enough, in the middle of the night they called Hildred Tucker’s home and said, “Your wife is about to have a baby.” Hildred informed them that his wife Mary was lying in bed asleep next to him. Well, it didn’t take long to figure out what had happened. Hildred gave them dad’s number, and dad rushed up to St. John.
That night, the newest, youngest member of Mom’s OB/GYN staff was on call. Dr. Cohen delivered me early that next morning. (As a side note, that same Dr. Cohen, as the senior member of the same group, was on call almost 28 years later and also delivered our first daughter Whitney.)
By 1959, my family had moved to West Tulsa and we started attending a little church at the corner of West 48th and South 30th West Avenue. I grew up at Carbondale Assembly of God. In fact, I don’t remember anything prior to Carbondale.
In October of 1967, the congregation moved to its current location on West 51st street. I barely remember that. But in the previous summer of 1967, my favorite cousin Phil had moved from Muskogee, Oklahoma to Tulsa. That I remember well.
We were born seven months apart in 1955—he in May and I in December. But we loved one another like brothers from the time we were little. In fact, before they moved to Tulsa, anytime one of us would visit the other we would cry when it was time to go home.
“Why do we have to live so far apart? It’s not fair.”
So, it was a glorious day, the day they rolled into West Tulsa to live. And, while they were building a house in Berryhill, they rented a house a little over a mile from ours. That summer, we would walk to and from each other’s houses, because we could. It was 1967. (Cars couldn’t go more than 10 miles an hour that far back, I don’t think.)
One day, we were walking up 51st street on the way to our house and passed the home of an older boy from the church. He was out mowing his lawn. Roger Sharp was three years older than us. I was getting ready to go into the 6th grade. Which means he was getting ready to start the 9th. I was so nervous. I didn’t even know if he would know who I was. In fact, I still don’t know if he did. But I was determined to introduce my cousin to him and vice versa. I probably wanted them both to think I was cool.
Roger stopped his riding lawnmower, acted like he knew who I was—even if he didn’t—and couldn’t have been kinder to me and to Phil, the new kid.
From that summer to this day, Phil and I have been almost inseparable. People who have known us for many years think of us together. Many of those people believe we are brothers, when, in fact, we are closer than that. But in less than two years we would add another one to the band of brothers. That kid on the mower would form a fraternity with us that would take us all over the world together.

Three Pastors

Following my “Saul” experience in Georgia, the next three pastors I worked for were good men. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it was to work for honorable men who felt a tremendous sense of responsibility not only to their congregation and to their calling but also to those whom they had called along side to help. I learned so much from each of them: patience, loyalty, compassion, and diplomacy… and patience.
Having been in corporate work for several years, I was coming from a much more black and white and “secular” perspective in my approach to people and to situations. I was much more the “Barney Fife” nip-it-in-the-bud kind of guy. But, these men taught me that this seldom works in your favor with people.
There’s a standing joke among preachers that doesn’t often get spoken aloud. The joke is: Pastoring would be a great job if it wasn’t for the people. Of course the irony is that pastoring is, of course, a people job. So, it is also a job of learning for a lifetime.
I remember reading a short phrase in the original Life’s Little Instruction Book, and when I read it, it was a revelation. I suddenly understood what these three men had been trying to teach me. Here it is.
“Never cut what can be untied.”
For some of you reading this, it will be inconsequential. But when I read it, an immediate bright halogen headlight turned on. I suddenly understood that my natural inclination was to cut, slice, rip, nip, and hack—leaving behind an unusable piece of yarn. But in the actions of these men I saw, time and time again that prayerfully left alone, most things work out “on their own,” without someone having to be the bad guy. Or perhaps, given enough time, God works things together for his purposes, so long as I don’t try to force it and screw it up.
Once I learned this principle, it didn’t mean that I didn’t get impatient. Actually, it often drove me crazy. But it has paid off, and it has gotten easier over the years.
Of the three men I worked for after we left Georgia, the best one was family. In March of 1992, I returned home.

“What Do I Do Now?”

“May I speak with Earl Creps, please?”
“Yes, may I tell him who is calling?”
“Yes, Jeff Taylor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. Will you hold please?”
“Surely.” (I know. Weird, but that’s what I always say.)
(Pause.)
“This is Earl.”
“Earl, my name is Jeff Taylor. You don’t know me from Adam, but I heard you speak a while back in Branson at the Oklahoma Minister’s Retreat.”
“Yes, Jeff.”
“Earl, I want you to know that I’m totally screwed up now, and I want to know what I’m supposed to do about it.” (Long, silent pause.) Once I realized that he probably thought I was a crank, I hastily added, “And, hey! I mean that in the best possible way. I just need to know what I ought to read or what you would recommend that I do now.”
I could swear that I heard him lightly exhale.
Obviously relieved, he said, “Well I can recommend to you several books and a couple of websites that you might check out…”
We chatted some more. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. But I do remember the books he recommended, some names he gave me, and at least one of the websites. Since I was new to almost all of this, he led me to resources I could put my hands on that would help explain some of those words and phrases he used in his teaching: Postmodern, post-Christian, emerging church, and others.
From the beginning, I was like a thirsty man desperate for a drink. I couldn’t get enough.
Some who are following the story have asked about the response of others that day. Looking back, I am still astonished by the lack of response to Earl’s message. It was obvious that everyone there realized the truth in what he was saying. However, I was a ticking time bomb, and Earl lit my fuse. No doubt I was waiting for something that would explain the restlessness in my heart since the tornado. So, without realizing it, I was prepared like no one else in the room that day for what he shared.
The staff I was working with at the time was also affected by it. We talked at length. We even read some of the books and talked about how we might integrate the information into our church. I’ll let you in on the progression of that conversation a little bit further on.
I wish I could tell you that the tectonic plates shifted and we immediately made plans to put this new information to work for us and for Tulsa. But we were too steeped in our Modern model, and there were more events to come, some good, some really bad, before a new model would emerge.

Long Range Plans

Part of the process of deciding to rebuild and committing to stay on the same property was drawing up plans that would maximize the potential of those 10+ acres upon which Carbondale sits. Given the land we had, what is the largest size to which we could grow there? As the ideas were developed, our architect sketched out a three-phase plan.
The first phase was for the short term. This would answer the question: What will get us operating on that property again in the shortest amount of time? The second phase was a medium range plan that would get us up to the larger, more expanded size that we felt we needed as soon as we could afford it. And the third phase was the long range plan. It was the plan to construct as much building footprint, with the required adjoining parking, plus whatever infrastructure necessary in order to maximize the property.
The long range plan would include a new “sanctuary.” And that would determine just how big we could get without buying more property. Early on, it was discovered that we could likely build between a 1,200 and a 1,500 seat sanctuary and the accompanying meeting rooms, office space, and parking on that land.
Plus, we got the privilege of building a retention pond for about $85,000. This was made a requirement by the city and was officially called a “privately funded public improvement” or PFPI. In other words, we got to pay for fixing the city’s problem with drainage in our neighborhood. You can drive by and see that lovely monstrosity today. It was built before almost anything else.
This may be more than you need to know, unless you plan to build anything within the Tulsa city limits. Then it’s good stuff to hear. But here’s some more advice to go along with the above. We learned that you can fight City Hall. But you will lose.
Eventually we decided to opt for phases one and two, immediately. What’s an extra two million dollars among friends? But the third phase, the long range plan is still in the works even today.
Once the rebuild was finished and we had moved back onto the property, the details of the third phase started to take shape. We continued to meet with the architects, Paul Meyer and Gary Armbruster of Meyer Architects in Oklahoma City.
One night in the middle of all of this “long range” planning, I could not sleep. I tried everything. I tossed and turned—more like: flopped like a fish. I gave up, more than once, got up and read thinking that would make me sleepy. When that didn’t work, I tried reading the “begats” of the Old Testament. Even that didn’t work. I tried praying, begging God to kill me, tell me what he wanted, or let me sleep.
I finally decided that God was trying to get my attention.
“C’mon, God!” I pleaded. “All my friends get these elaborate dreams with deep meaning and obvious application to their current circumstances. Why can’t you do that for me? At least I would get to sleep!”
But no, not for me. Beside the fact that all my dreams are stupid, I finally surmised this was supposed to be some kind of direct encounter. I’m a little dense at times. At last, I gave in.
“Okay, God. What is it you want to tell me?”
Now, you would think that would be all the capitulation that God would need. And that he would just spit it out. I mean, believe me, I was all ears. But no. We were only half way through the night. And this was going to take all night.
I began my humble contrition by kneeling in the den by the couch upon which I had been sitting to read. No need to bother Vicki any more than I already had. She had mostly slept through my flopping anyway. I stopped begging and just shut up. Although, every now and then my brain would involuntarily scream, “What?!” In the deafening silence, I was trying to find a comfortable position from which I could hear the voice of God. In the process, I tried every position in the Yoga book and a few others I made up. Finally I ended up on my knees with my back arched over and the top of my head on the floor like a contortionist Muslim praying toward Mecca hell.
I wish I could tell you that I emerged from that horrible night with a lovely, illuminating, and Divine Word. I wish I could tell you that after that night everything changed. But none of that happened. However, while waiting to hear something really important, I couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid “long range plan.”
Specifically, the phrase that kept coming back to me was, “What will the church look like in 10 to 20 years?” So, I kept straining like a constipated man to come up with an answer to that question. And the only answer I could come up with was formulated out of the context in which we were already operating.
“Perhaps we ought to build something more like a theatre instead of a church sanctuary,” I thought. This was in keeping with our new emphasis on music and elaborate productions. So I envisioned a full production stage with fly-in scenery walls, multiple curtains, catwalks, and a sophisticated array of sound and lights. I even dreamed of an orchestra pit on hydraulics that would raise and lower into a basement rehearsal room. Some of those ideas actually got incorporated into the new sanctuary plans.
It never occurred to me back then that it was the question. The question was all I was supposed to take with me that night. I almost developed an aneurism trying to come up with an answer. But my answer was not the point. It would still be several more years before I would ask that question in a different context.
What will the church look like in 10 to 20 years?

Living in Exile

The next 20 months were our 40 years of wandering in the desert. And yes, we were often wondering while we were wandering—wondering what was next. I attended more meetings during that time than in all my previous life put together. We had meetings with the insurance people. We had meetings with architects. We had meetings with city employees and local television news crews. We even had meetings to prepare for our next meeting.
One of the first things anyone wants to know after a disaster is: “Are we insured?” We were. However, we found out pretty quickly that we were grossly underinsured. Just to rebuild what was destroyed was going to cost far more than our total coverage. And getting a check cut for the full amount meant that we would have to prove how much our losses were. So, we all donned masks, grabbed a micro-cassette recorder, walked back into the deteriorating building, and began verbally inventorying everything in the place except the mold. Mold was growing exponentially while we were discussing the future.
After some more meetings, it became apparent that rebuilding only what was there before was unacceptable. Prior to the tornado we had already started having meetings on how to expand our footprint. We badly needed more space.
And, here’s another thing we learned in a meeting. Did you know that you have to get a permit to tear something down? Even if it’s already a pile of rubble? Even if it’s a giant petri dish threatening to overtake the world with mold spores? That seemed to me to be unusually cruel. Demolition couldn’t even start without cash and the approval of an overpaid city bureaucrat.
In the days ahead, we would meet as a staff and reevaluate everything. It was going to be a long time before we could rebuild and move back home. It was going to be a while before we even knew what we were going to build. So we had to figure out how to make the most of our exile. There would be no “business as usual.”
Immediately we felt like we were starting over. We were literally working from the ground up. So we asked hard questions beginning with, should we rebuild? We honestly asked that question, of God and to one another. Then, if we do rebuild, do we stay on the current property? What do you have to have to be a church? Do you even have to have a building? Do you have to do Sunday school? What is “Christian Education?”
The questions kept coming. Is it necessary to have separate meeting places for adults and youth and children and babies? (Babies, definitely babies.) And what if we don’t have those luxuries? If we can’t do everything we were doing, will everybody leave and go somewhere else? Were our “programs” holding the church together?
The tornado that destroyed the building created a storm in our souls that blew “normal” completely off of our map.