Several weeks ago, I was in Nashville, Tenn., and was surprised to learn Donald Miller would be speaking that Friday night. I’m a fan, so I decided to go. After an interesting hour and a half of artists covering songs from the 1980s, Don finally got up to speak. As he often does, he put into words something I have felt over and over again for the past couple of years. “I am starting to think ‘raising awareness’ is a fashionable way to ‘not do work’ when it comes to justice issues.” He posted the same quote on Twitter a week later.
Don told the story of starting The Mentoring Project, which connects positive male role models with boys ages 7 through 14. He told of how the project was born out of the passion of filling a need and of the emotional excitement of starting something that seemed so good. Then, in the midst of feeling so proud of himself, he realized he was much less excited about actually mentoring kids.
I liked the quote for as long as I could point at other people and say it. But then, as God tends to do, He used my words—or in this case, the words I stole from Don—to convict me. I could hear God asking us, church leaders, the questions: “How often do you get up on stage and ‘raise awareness’ and are unwilling to ‘do the work’? How many times have you spoken on sacrificial giving but remain a consumer at heart? How often have you spoken about community yet stay secluded from the lives of the people in your church?”
Let’s face it. Although well-meaning, most pastors have become well-spoken “slacktivists.” We’re willing to talk about the Bible from the sterility of the stage, but we’re quick to justify maintaining the gap between us and the front row. And even when we visit someone who’s sick or go and serve the poor, we often maintain the role and distance of a professional.
Recently, I led worship at a church that is very different than what I’m used to. Denominationally, philosophically, stylistically—I was in a foreign land. I actually stood in the corner of the lobby as the first congregants were coming into the building, asking myself what I had in common with the people I was seeing.
Normally, in potentially awkward situations, there are plenty of places to retreat to—an office, the green room, the tech booth. But as I was ascending the stairs to hide next to the sound guy, I remembered I was in the middle of writing this article. Everything inside of me wanted to retreat from people, and I could have justified it a hundred ways: “I’m an introvert,” “I need to rest before going up to lead,” “I’ll never see these people again.” But I knew I had to begin to practice life with people and not just talk about it. I had taken on the role of “outsourced professional” and put away the identity of “member of the Body.” So, I went and spent time with people—offstage.
You know 1 Samuel 15:22:
“Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the voice of the Lord? To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams” (TNIV).
You’ve probably taught on it, but this applies to our lives, too. The things we do onstage, the worship leading, the weddings, the funerals, the counseling, even visiting the sick in the hospital—these are our duties, or, in this context, our sacrifices. God appreciates them but isn’t much impressed by them. But how are we obeying? How are we moving away from simply performing duties and walking into a consistent life of inspired obedience? When are we going to learn that taking care of church business is not a replacement for relationships?
