Normality and judgement

I once said, semi-jokingly, that I don't feel judgemental about anything much, other than people who are judgemental. I can tolerate anything except for intolerance. I suppose it's part of my built-in personality type that I tend to look for common ground with everyone, and am always interested to see alternative viewpoints. My concepts of 'normal' are inevitably coloured by my upbringing and culture, and I find it interesting to learn why other people do things differently.

When moving to another country - or returning to one's home country after living abroad - it's all too easy to make negative comparisons, but when one is fully adjusted (as far as that is ever possible), it becomes clear that most of what people do in public is neither right nor wrong - it's cultural. Table manners are an obvious (and, I hope, non-controversial) example. How we set the table, what implements we use (if any), how we eat... these are not moral issues, but conventions which vary, sometimes within a country as well as when living abroad.

But if someone criticises this kind of thing, I become quite defensive. And yet, feeling critical about differences is basically another kind of personality trait; perhaps grounded in insecurity, but not necessarily wrong. It may be based on ignorance - a misunderstanding of 'normal', or an over-blown sense of 'right' in this sort of context.  So if someone comments that X is using the 'wrong hand', or 'eating messily', I want to stand up and explain that in their culture it's quite acceptable, even normal, and that the person making the criticism is equally weird to people from elsewhere.

That's not a particularly helpful attitude on my behalf, but when the issue is table manners, it's minor. If I can point out, gently, that we all have our own cultural expectations and conventions, it may help someone to be a little more aware of the wider world. Then again, it may also make the other person defensive, or even cause them to feel that I am criticising their culture or choices.

Still, most people can accept - and perhaps experiment with - different foods or styles of eating. If we move to another country, we may even adopt something that feels awkward at first (chopsticks, perhaps, or dipping bread in a communal bowl) but which soon becomes second nature.

But 'normality', to each of us, is far more than conventions at mealtimes. We have worldviews about - for instance - rights and privileges, medical care, education, nutrition, the origin of mankind, discipline, religion and faith. We may learn these overtly from our parents, we may absorb them from our environment, we may learn them at school, or from our peers. They change, as we grow and mature, too; or as different circumstances prompt us to re-think where we stand, what we believe in.

A few weeks ago, for instance, I wrote a post about home education. I tried to keep the post balanced, but inevitably, due to our experiences here, I am generally positive about home education. I am aware that it does not work for everyone, and that a few people may use it as a cover-up for nefarious activities or neglect. However, my worldview on the whole promotes education at home.

It wasn't always that way, though. When we moved to the US in the early 1990s, I had never come across home education (other than the governess/tutor style in historical novels). At that point, I assumed that institutional education was not just normal, but right - that parents needed to be involved in schools, to be sure, but that teachers were the professionals and that children needed peer interactions, group discussions, and so on.

I went to school, after all, and - on the whole - liked it. When challenged, I did admit that a lot of it was a waste of time, and that fifteen years later I didn't remember much of what we learned. But still.. school was, in my worldview of the time, 'normal'. And, I thought, that was right and good. The people we met in the US who 'homeschooled' spent a lot of money on private curricula, and the parents could never take a break. Surely, I thought, it would be a disaster....

Yet the homeschooled children I met were actually normal, likeable young people with a lively interest in learning. Gradually I developed an admiration for parents who would do this, and mild envy that they could afford it. I was still convinced that a curriculum was necessary, that teaching had to be formal, that only the most compliant children could satisfactorily learn in this way. My husband - who hated his schooldays - felt that since he had to suffer school, his children probably should, too. How else, he asked, could they learn to deal with the tedium of adult work? It was an odd, false logic, but I was too unsure myself to insist, despite our older son having a terrible time (and learning almost nothing) in his school.

Fast forward to Cyprus, and we not only started home educating, we learned to love it, to see the value of both formal and informal learning, of curriculum where appropriate, and unschooling/eclectic education the rest of the time. I'm now a tremendous advocate of home education and it's hard, sometimes, to remember that many (perhaps most) people are at the stage I was twenty years ago. And it's not that I'm 'advanced' in my education worldview. I also know of people who at one point were adamant that home education was the only way, but who gradually discover that their children (or at least some of them) flourish in a classroom environment.

That's just one example of core assumptions; of what we perceive as normal and 'right', but which can change - even reverse - as circumstances dictate. When we are open-minded, we can listen to people whose views differ, perhaps learn from them, and perhaps teach them something too. Unfortunately, human nature in general is inclined to keep tight hold of whatever is our current normality, and try to impose it on everyone else.

It's a fine line, and one which I'm still thinking through. We're experimenting with vegetarian eating during Lent (with exceptions on Sundays and other 'feast days'). I'm inclined to be veggie anyway; if I lived alone, I doubt if I would ever eat meat. But my husband has - as so many others do - some kind of built-in need to eat meat. This isn't just craving, say, a steak, or some tandoori chicken, and it's not dislike of beans or lentils. It's the feeling, after two or three days of veggie food, that meat (ANY kind of meat) is needed.

I don't have this need at all. Two weeks into Lent, I have no inclination to eat any kind of meat, even on Sundays. Worse (from the perspective of the family) I find myself almost taking on board some of the things that veggie or vegan friends have been saying about meat-eating for years, which I have previously pushed aside. Vegetarianism is already feeling more 'normal' (because I like it) and suddenly I have an urge to distribute recipes, to experiment with different ways of cooking beans and lentils, and - not so good - to discover all the potential disadvantages inherent in meat-eating, so as (I suppose) to consolidate my position.

Yet, I recognise that there are many people who, apparently, need to eat meat. After Lent, I will no doubt start cooking it again, and will probably eat it too, since I don't want to make life difficult for the various meat-eating family and friends who will entertain us in future. So, right now, I'm doing all I can to subdue the veggie agenda in my mind.

Then there's church.

Yes, that hot potato, that topic that keeps recurring on this blog, and in the writing of so many other people, in books and online. I've been attending weekly church services recently, and finding them fairly benign; I quite like the songs, I like seeing some people who I don't see anywhere else, and I like the walk on a Sunday morning. As a child, I took church-going for granted. As a young adult, I assumed it was essential for all Christians to belong to a particular local church. I don't think I was legalistic about it: to miss a service was acceptable due to illness, or exhaustion, or even on occasion having to do something else. But on the whole I liked going.

Nowadays I still acknowledge that we are part of the church (both universal and local), and that the purpose of the church is to encourage and build each other up, to exercise our gifts, to reach out to others who are part of the Body. And, of course, we should offer ourselves continually to God. I just don't find Sunday morning services to be a good place to do these things. I find the proximity of other people quite draining, the monologue of a sermon rather annoying (and sometimes sleep-inducing) and the singing of familiar songs, more often than not, means that my mind is miles away.

But still, so many people - particularly church leaders - insist that it's important, even vital to be present at these weekly gatherings. They put them on a par with prayer and reading the Bible...and I don't get it. I don't mind church services. I'm happy that other people benefit from them. I recognise that for many, communal singing is a form of worship, and that a sermon may teach them something about God, or inspire them to be closer to him during the week. That's great. But these things don't apply to me (or only rarely). I would feel like a misfit, were it not for the many others around the world feeling the same way, expressing their views far more vocally than I do.

And I want to stay open. I recognise that church gatherings - like school education - can be good, and right. Maybe for the majority they are a good thing. I just wish they would not try to impose them on those who find God to be closer outside of church gatherings. Guilt-tripping about anything - whether church meetings, or nutrition, or politics, or morals - makes people angry and inclined to rebel.

At least, that's how it works for me.

Of the Church, but not in the Church...?

For the first forty-five years of my life I went to a church service every Sunday without really questioning it. Sometimes I went to two services. Okay, so there were odd occasions when it wasn't possible: if I were sick, for instance, or if we were travelling on a Sunday. But basically if we moved, or even went away on holiday, the question was not, 'Shall we go to church on Sunday?' but 'Which church shall we go to?'

I suppose at some point during my childhood I realised that not everybody belonged to a church, but I don't recall what I thought about it. Church - or, more importantly God - was part of my life. I knew that each local expression of church was part of the worldwide Body of Christ - or the Church Universal - and on the whole I quite liked it. Even if I did sometimes find it all a bit pointless. Not God, but the church service bit.

Then 2006 rolled around. Lots of people around the world, it seemed, were starting to question the validity of local church congregations. Or, at least, questioning their necessity. I wrote a post about this - What is Church anyway? - after we had been reading on the topic and discussing it with friends. My husband had moved from the church we had been attending for some years (for a variety of reasons) and at the time was attending a more charismatic one. I wasn't comfortable with it, and didn't want to give up the place where I felt at home. One of our sons had left home by then, the other attended the local Anglican congregation. So three of us attended three different services on a Sunday.

It didn't seem like a problem. Sometimes my husband didn't go at all - he worked far too many hours during the week, in a Christian organisation, and needed to sleep on Sundays. Church services did not recharge or energise him; they made him feel as if Sunday mornings were the lowest spot of the week. Eventually he decided not to go at all (other than a few special services), due to some specific doctrinal issues where he disagreed, and which were considered essential for membership. He wanted to stay in fellowship - and friendship - with the leaders, and was concerned that if he stayed, listening to talks which he disagreed with (if he didn't fall asleep) then he might end up with conflict.

I totally understood. We both have the "NF" (Idealist) temperament, so harmony in relationships is essential to us. Friendship is - and always will be - far more important than doctrinal agreement.  I've written about this before - about Church and temperament, and about how neither of us is anti-church. And gradually, I also stopped going to services every Sunday.

However, I didn't want to give up entirely. I do quite like having a focus on Sunday mornings, at least some of the time. I quite like a lot of hymns and Christian songs, and I like keeping in touch with people I care about. For a while I would go perhaps once a month to the local Anglican church, and once a month to the local non-denominational community church - the one we belonged to for many years when we first moved here. At least, once a month was my aim. Sometimes other things got in the way, and during the Summer it was simply too hot for me to walk home in the heat of the Cyprus sun. I tried it once, I think in mid-June, and spent the rest of the day - and the following day - debilitated by migraine.

And so, I started this post some months ago, thinking about the phrase Christians often quote, that we should be 'in the world but not of the world'. I've heard talks on this, mostly stating the obvious: we are not to avoid people or situations outside Christian circles - we may have 'secular' jobs, or neighbours, or even family. We are part of the environment and society around us, and yet at the same time we have another 'world', that of God's Kingdom.

The actual words are not stated in the Bible exactly like that: they are paraphrased, or perhaps summed up from John 15: 19  where Jesus said that he had chosen the disciples 'out of the world'. By implication, Christians have generally seen this as applying to the entire Body of Christ. The idea of being 'worldly' had implications of materialism, or loving the world more than God, caring too much about the approval of other people.

However, the phrase is regularly used, and I started thinking about the worldwide church, which I am a part of. And it struck me that I could reverse the phrase: to be 'of the church, but not in the church'. I feel that a local body of believers should be able to embrace those who are undoubtedly part of God's kingdom, even if they do not attend Sunday morning services.

But life  - to use another oft-stated Christian cliché - has its seasons. I'm seeing these increasingly as referring to repeating cycles, like the traditional seasons of the year.  I would prefer another word for longer-term roles: we don't have a 'season' of childhood or hands-on motherhood - those are periods of life with a beginning and an end. However, we do, perhaps, have seasons when we love to gather on Sunday mornings, and seasons when we really don't.

I've just started reading a book by Brian McLaren called Naked Spirituality: A Life with God in Twelve Simple Words, which talks about seasons in the Christian life where things seem simple, complex, confusing, or in harmony. I haven't read very far yet, but it makes a lot of sense. As we progress through life, and faith, some things seem very straightforward at first, then as we learn more, we realised they are extremely complex. We start to grapple, perhaps, with contradictions, or confusions; we discover that different people have radically different answers to questions - it's all quite perplexing. And gradually we find a sense of harmony, of peace, as we come to terms with it.

It was useful to see this in terms of local church commitment. It was so easy as a child, then it became more complicated as I realised how many different styles of church service there were. I became perplexed - should we stay with this one, or move to that one? We made the decision eventually, and peace reigned for a while. Life was simple again, until further complexities arose....

And so the seasons come around, varying in lengths and intensities. I've been perplexed about the whole question of church attendance for some years now, never giving up entirely but unwilling to commit to any of the local congregations fully. I am still very dubious about the idea of official 'membership', which implies a rejection of other local expressions of God's Kingdom on earth. But I can see myself gradually being drawn back to the congregation I was once a regular part of: most of the people have changed, the style has become more lively, more charismatic. It's hard for me to worship God through song - Gifts of Affirmation are not one of my love languages, But perhaps there's something important for me to learn.

I don't think I will ever enjoy sermons, or understand why they are necessary; they rarely say anything much, and I often find my mind drifting away, even though I don't actually fall asleep. But many in the church consider them important, even the focus of the meeting. They are unlikely to go away, but at least they are briefer than they used to be. And less noisy. When a preacher shouts, I switch off entirely and feel very stressed. But when they talk about God's love, with perhaps an anecdote or story, that's okay. I guess someone in the congregation needs to hear that message on that particular day.

I've heard from time to time that for each person God will have a 'gem', or perhaps a 'golden thread' in each service - the line of a song to give us goose pimples, or an encouragement from the front, or even something new to think about. I wouldn't go as far as to say that I always find it - or even that I mostly find one. But if I decide to attend church services regularly again - whether every week or every other week - I shall make the effort to watch out for the golden thread.

Far from being anti-church...

It saddens me, sometimes, when people I like and respect seem to write me - and thousands of others - off as being 'anti-church'. The reason for this epithet is that there's quite a growing movement of Christian believers around the world who do not attend Sunday morning gatherings (or 'services') every week.

I am, currently, one of this number.

To be sure, some of these folk have been badly damaged by organised 'church' hierarchies and rules, and can be quite vehement in their eloquence. Others have eased out more gently, finding that these gatherings do nothing positive for them, and that there is no role for them to have. Others have been turned off by angry sermons or off-key worship leaders or perhaps just by boredom. Not with Jesus - nobody could be bored with Jesus - but by the same-old-same-old style of getting together, week after week.

I read an excellent article just a few days ago: Maybe we should stop encouraging people to get out of their comfort zones. An introvert myself, I found myself nodding after almost every sentence. Church services - even quiet, reflective ones - are by nature extraverted. They involve other people, they require going somewhere other than one's home. They are often quite noisy, and although they are usually full of lovely folk, they are not energising or helpful for most Introverts.

This is not to say that Introverts should always avoid church services. I was a regular attender (at least once a week, sometimes twice) at various congregations over the first forty-five or so years of my life. I still enjoy visiting our UK church when we're in the neighbourhood. And, other than during the summer, I try to get to local services here in Cyprus a couple of times per month. I don't even try during the summer since I know that walking home in the late morning sunshine will guarantee me a migraine for the next two days. And a break can be constructive.

But I am far from anti-church.

Of course it's not just Introverts who find the whole church service thing quite stressful. Churches by their nature tend to be quite sensory - music, talks, banners, hugs... all very well in their place, and nobody likes hugs more than I do, from people I care about. But so much sensory input with little time for reflection and pondering can be draining too, for many of us with iNtuiting preferences. People who are not auditory learners can switch off during talks. Those who are tone deaf or sensitive to noise can find singing and instruments to be painfully loud.

And the less said about most church chairs, the better.

Yet there are times when I would love to feel that I 'belong' once more to a local body of believers.  So, when the weather is cool, I tend to walk to a church service at least a couple of times per month. Sometimes I pray that God will let me know clearly if I should commit to this particular group. I am totally willing to do. Yet, so far, every time I have specifically asked, there has been something equally specific which communicated a resounding 'No' - or at least 'Not now'.

We have our small circles, of course; people in our community with whom we share meals, and discuss issues, and help each other out.  And we are, by default, part of the Body of Christ in our town: the local part of the universal Church consisting of all believers. I'm on the email prayer chain for one local church, and run the website for a different one. We have friends in all four of the local English-speaking congregations. We also have several Christian friends who do not attend church services at all - or more rarely than I do.

What puzzles me is why so many Christians have elevated the Sunday morning gatherings so highly, when the Christian life is clearly so much more than a Sunday morning meeting. Why is listening to a sermon considered more valuable than reading a book? Why is prayer in a group considered more significant than praying on one's own? What is it about singing that evidently draws some people closer to God, yet pushes others away?

Some congregations, to be sure, include many other factors in their meetings. There might be visual displays, quizzes, dance, drama, painting. And let's not forget the all-important coffee-and-biscuits afterwards.

It's all cool. It's all part of life, and the Christian life in particular. There's a time and a place for all those things and more.

But why, when people decide for a season - or a few years, or even a decade or two - that they can worship God more effectively and openly away from a structured (or even unstructured) group meeting, are they considered heretics?


And perhaps the most puzzling question is:

Why do those who love church services seem to feel threatened by those who do not...? 

Love is....

I grew up Anglican. Every week, we heard or recited something along the lines of:

'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like, namely this: you shall love your neighbour as yourself.'  

Perhaps there were a few more thees and loveths (this was prior to the modernisation of the liturgy) but that's the gist of it. It wasn't until I was in my teens that I realised that these weren't just Anglican principles, but words spoken by Jesus. In the various Bible studies I attended, at school or elsewhere, we spent a lot of time trying to discuss what exactly was meant by loving God. It's something that, as far as I can tell many years later, takes a lifetime and more to learn. We get it wrong all the time, but since God loves us perfectly, He keeps on forgiving.

But then there's that second commandment, too. We are called to love other people. All people. Not just our friends, not just our fellow believers, not just those who think like we do or behave in ways that seem appropriate to us - but everyone. I know it, of course. I've always known it. I don't think I'm prejudiced or biased; I'm happy to have grown up in a fairly multi-cultural community and mixed with quite a variety of people. I believe that every person has equal value before God, no matter what their race, income, abilities or behaviour. I really do.

However, we can't be emotionally involved with every person we meet, let alone those we will never meet. Nor can we even feel warmly towards everybody all the time. But love is defined in many ways in the Bible: the well-known passage in 1 Corinthians 13 gives some ideals. Love is patient and kind. Love does not bear grudges, does not envy, does not boast, is not proud. And so on. Naturally we don't  reach these ideals, but if we're going to show love then this passage is a good starting point.

I've been coming across blog posts and news articles about people in the US and elsewhere who seem (from my perspective) not to have grasped these concepts. Protesting abortion clinics, shouting down gay pride marches, trying to campaign against health care for everyone. There was an article going around Facebook recently, about some Christians in Chicago at a gay pride march. They apologised publicly for the hatred and bigotry that stems from some right-wing American church groups, and hugged some of the marchers. Apparently this happened a couple of years ago - it's been reported in several places, and has attracted widespread commenting, both positive and negative.

I hope that, had I been in Chicago at the time, I would have stood with those who were offering compassion in this way. Thankfully I have not personally come across outright hatred and bigotry of the sort that I sometimes read about. Perhaps it's one advantage of being British, seeing almost everything in shades of grey, rather than extremes. A bit like the infamous British weather.

But my gut feeling is that Jesus, were he still a man on earth, would similarly have reached out in love to those whom society (or parts of the church, at any rate) condemns. In 1st century Galilee, he was criticised for mixing with tax collectors and sinners. Of eating and drinking with the despised in society.  Jesus reserved his anger and judgement not for those who sinned (that would be all of us...) but for the religious leaders who invented rules and regulations that quite missed the point of loving God.

I wonder how the parable of the sheep and the goats would sound in the 21st century. I started re-writing it with modern situations, and then realised that I would be showing my own personal biases - for we all have them, one way or another - and that I was making negative judgements which were no better (indeed, perhaps worse) than those who come across as bigoted or angry in high-profile situations.

I guess I'm not a fast learner. It's only now that I'm beginning to grasp hold fully of the idea that my responsibility is to love God, and love other people. And that, basically, is it. I show love for God - insofar as I can - by doing what he asks of me. By being honest, and courteous; by generosity, or kindness, or fairness. God has told us plenty of things in the Bible, and I  believe He also guides us in daily life, if we listen. We fail all the time, but He holds out His hand, and picks us up, and we move forward.

But my responsibility in these matters is for me.  Not for anybody else. That's not being individualistic, I hope. I recognise my part as a tiny little piece of the widespread Body of Christ, of course. But I can only be effective if I do what God wants me to do - whether in general or specific terms. It's no good wanting someone else's role - nor hoping that others will take on mine. God is the Master Designer, and it's only by each of us focussing on Him that the Body of Christ can truly function as it should.

However... it is NOT my responsibility to take care of anyone else's behaviour.

Disclaimer: when we have children in our care, it's fine to offer them some guidance, and right to help them understand the principles of following Jesus. But eventually they must make their own decisions, and be responsible for their own behaviour. It's hard to let go fully when they grow up, and of course we should be willing to advise or brainstorm with our adult children - or indeed with anyone else who asks us to. 

BUT

I am not responsible for anyone else's actions, nor do I have any right to judge them. God is the only judge, and He leads each person individually. He knows us all intimately. He knows which parts of my behaviour or inclinations I need to deal with first. And He knows the same about all His other beloved children too. It's remarkably easy to become complacent about sins - or mistakes - which we are not tempted to commit ourselves, and to judge them harshly in others. It's also, ironically, very easy to feel critical about behaviour in others that mirrors what we do ourselves.

And when I've admitted and worked through these tendencies, and feel that I'm beginning to move forward... that's when I realise that I still want to judge those who are judgemental. To fail to tolerate the intolerant. To criticise the critical.

That takes me right back to the beginning.

God wants me to love other people. Including those who do not, from my perspective, do a very good job of loving. 

This post has been several weeks in the making, as I tried to work out what to say, and whether the content was so obvious that it didn't need to be said. It might still have hung around my unpublished collection had it not been for reading, yesterday, this excellent post entitled 'How to love people you disagree with' on a blog I have recently started following. It said much of what I had been thinking recently, a great deal more succinctly.

So I cut this down (yes, it was even longer...) and tweaked a little, and decided it might be worth posting after all.

Church and Temperament

What is it that makes someone choose to belong to a certain church or congregation?

In part, it seems to relate to our upbringing and culture. If we're brought up in a Christian home, we get used to the kind of church service that our parents introduced us to. We might adopt it as our own, or we might reject it as 'boring' or 'old-fashioned' or 'too touchy-feely' - again, at least partly depending on our temperament. Equally, someone might reject their parents' denomination simply because they are rejecting the whole package of their childhood and upbringing.

But recent discussions about the church in general, both locally in 'real life' and around the blogging and social networking world in general, have begun to make me realise that perhaps David Keirsey was right when he talked about the four temperaments leading to the primary motivations in people's lives. He labelled the temperaments as Artisan, Guardian, Idealist and Rational; in Myers-Briggs terms, those refer to the groupings who include the letters SP, SJ, NF and NT respectively.

Much has been written about how the different denominations and styles of Christian worship appeal to people of different temperaments. Some of it makes sense: Guardians, who particularly value tradition, belonging and loyalty, may well choose to attend structured churches where long-standing traditions are upheld, where they know from week to week roughly what to expect. Artisans, by contrast, who tend to be relaxed and spontaneous are likely to enjoy church services that encourage those traits - stereotypically, the more charismatic ones.

Within any local congregation, there are likely to be people of all four temperaments. Artisans and/or Guardians will almost certainly be in the majority, just because there are more of them in the world in general. But there will probably be people of other temperaments there too; indeed, there probably should be, since a living, growing body comprises many different parts.

What I have realised is that people's needs within the Church congregation (of whatever style) are in line with their temperament needs. Worryingly, we all tend to assume that our own personal needs are the most important - or, at least, that they are true for everyone else. It's not surprising. I sometimes find it very difficult, even after years of studying and discussing these theories, to believe, truly, that all four sets of values and needs really are equivalent.

Most of the leaders of any congregation are likely to be Guardians. They are the ones who most like structure, after all. They are good at creating guidelines and rules, and ensuring they are kept. That doesn't mean they are rigid or controlling (although they may be) - just that they are likely to be skilled in administration, and logistics in general. They will care about church policy, and legal issues, and hierarchies within church groups. They may take care of the fabric of the church, too. Guardians are usually reliable, responsible people who can solve problems and take care of what needs to be done.

The problem arises because, to a Guardian, it's very important to belong to a group; a local church congregation is just such a group, so a Guardian leader, and the many Guardian members of his church will be naturally be loyal to it. This may sometimes be at the expense of other churches nearby; however they may well attempt church unity, and joint social events, so as to be part of a wider group. Co-operation is important to Guardians, so they will encourage others to take part in as many activities as possible.

But, most of all, Guardians will tend to see the Sunday services as the lynch-pin of the Christian life. That's where people get together to worship, to hear the Word of God, to pray, and to socialise over coffee. That - according to many Guardians I know - is where the Body of Christ stands firm, and where we can all show our loyalty to each other and to God. Moreover, Guardians tend to like to keep the status quo. They will often be suspicious of too much change, although they may approve small changes which they see as positive.

What of Artisans? They are perhaps less likely to belong to very structured churches, since their primary needs are for freedom to act, and to follow their impulses. Artisans live very much in the moment; they like to hear God speaking, to meet needs as they occur, and are often extremely generous. Charismatic churches leaders might well be Artisans, open to the movement of the Holy Spirit, able to express their worship in movement, or art, as well as song. Some of the 'emerging' churches may also have a significant number of Artisans, who want to explore use of the senses, and different tools and art forms in the context of Christian worship.

Can Artisans and Guardians co-exist? Certainly. If they don't, then a congregation becomes unbalanced. The Artisans can push the Guardians a little way out of their comfort zones, questioning unhelpful traditions, showing what God is actually doing now, as well as discussing what He did thousands of years ago. Then the Guardians can help the Artisans live in the real world, investing wisely, taking care of their buildings, and ensuring their missionaries are supported. A Guardian-only church could be rather dry; an Artisan-only church could seem decidedly flaky.

But what of those minority temperaments, the Rationals and the Idealists?

In recent years, there has been an increasing number of people around the world who call themselves believers, who love Jesus, but who find church services - and church attendance in general - to be alien, uncomfortable, pointless. Amongst our close friends there are at least half a dozen people, in addition to ourselves, who feel (or have felt) this way.

It was something of an 'aha' moment when I realised that almost all of us in this group are either Idealists or Rationals. In any random group, we would expect to find around 12% of each.  Perhaps like-minded people tend to be drawn to each other; yet when I look at our Christmas card list, or consider all the people I  count as friends around the world, there are people of all four temperaments. We have a lot of Guardian friends; those of them who are Christians are almost all committed, one way or another, to their local church congregations.

I suppose about a quarter of our Christian friends are likely to be Idealists or Rationals. That fits, roughly, with what one would expect.  A few of them are also a comfortable part of a local congregation. But not all of them. And here's the lightbulb moment - the majority of our NT/NF Christian friends are not currently part of an organised church.

When I look at the books written on the topic of  'not attending church' - and there are quite a few - the feel of them all is somewhat abstract, sometimes academic, and very much concerned with people. Primarily, it would appear, Idealists. Yes, we who long for harmony, integrity and relationships are the ones who seem to find it most difficult to belong to a structured church.  The Rationals who are in a similar position are often those who feel that they want to learn more - that most sermons say nothing, most songs simply repeat what they know already.

Interactive Bible study can be a good way of learning for people of these types, as can reading books, taking part in online discussions, or even reading and writing blog posts (which inevitably involves some research). But not, it would seem for many, most organised church services.

I don't know where this leaves us. I find it sad that there is no local congregation where I can fully be myself, where I can relate with integrity to others, and see the building up of harmonious relationships. Sermons I have heard in the past ten or fifteen years mostly seem to repeat 'basics' which I have heard countless times before. Worse, for me as an Idealist, too many church groups seem full of strife rather than supportive. When someone is in need - perhaps a serious illness, or bereavement - church leaders and counsellors may be of great help; but in the day-to-day concerns of an ordinary life, they seem barely to be interested.

And yet when we meet with other believers in small gatherings to eat, or play games, or chat, we can (and do) build each other up, and meet each other's needs. Discussions arise naturally, we refer to the Bible and other reference books when necessary. My need for harmonious relationships can be met again and again in small gatherings; those who want to learn can ask questions or introduce discussions topics. We're not very good at structure, and our groups don't look anything like 'church' to those who are committed to a regular Sunday service, and a particular style of worship.  But Jesus said that when even two or three people gather in His name, He is there too.  When we do something for the least of His people, we do it for Him.

Far too often Paul's injunction that we should not stop meeting with other believers is taken to refer to Sunday morning services - but those did not happen in Paul's day. Believers met frequently for meals, and socialising, and learning about Jesus, and discussing doctrine. All of which we do, and enjoy very much. I do also attend some church services from time to time, but it's quite freeing not to belong to only one congregation. The Body of Christ in our town consists of all believers - all who follow Jesus as Messiah - and I can't find any Biblical or other reason to 'join' any one of them and (by implication) reject the others. I prefer to be in fellowship with all parts of the Body if I possibly can. 

The 'third place'

Today, still reading the intriguing book about Starbucks and the Gospel, I came across the concept of the 'third place'. The idea, apparently is that the home is our 'first place', and those who live there are, I suppose, our first community. The workplace - if we have one - or, I suppose, school or college, if relevant, is our 'second place'. And then any other socialising or community gatherings happen in the 'third place' wherever that might be. The book, naturally, implied that Starbucks coffee houses are ideal 'third places'.

The main features of these 'third places', apparently, are that they should be open to anyone, with some regulars, but freely welcoming newcomers. They should be a place to relax, with a sense of fun, and where there's plenty of conversation.

I immediately thought of the traditional British country pubs, where farmers and other workers would congregate in evenings, not to get drunk but to share a few pints of beer, and perhaps have a sandwich, and talk about their days, and perhaps play a few games of darts. Women, traditionally, would have their coffee mornings and sewing circles and so on. Terribly sexist of course. But these did provide a sense of community, separate (for the men) from their workplace, and (for the women) from their home, where they also worked. British pubs still exist, usually with meals available, and attracting women as well as men these days. But so many women are in paid employment that there are considerably fewer women's gatherings during the week, in most circles.

The book suggested that churches used to provide a 'third place' for Christians. In some cases, they still do. Sometimes people arrive early for a Sunday gathering, to spend time catching up with their friends; there may be time to talk within the service - if, for instance, the Anglican 'passing of the peace' takes place - and there's almost certainly half an hour or more for coffee and chat afterwards. Perhaps the church community has Mums-and-Tots, Day Centres, Tea Dances, Youth Groups, Scouting organisations, Coffee mornings and more, providing opportunities for both regulars and visitors to drop in, and socialise, and relax.

Sadly (from my perspective) too many church services focus on music and 'teaching' (which fails to teach anything to the majority). Congregations increase in size, and many church buildings are not conducive to socialising. When people drive several miles for a Sunday morning service, they're unlikely to pop back during the week to catch up with their friends. So the Sunday service may provide something useful - a way of connecting, of worshipping God (for those who like to sing), of learning (for those who are auditory learners), and perhaps, for anyone, a time to be quiet and to listen to God in the company of others. But they don't provide the 'third place' in the sense used in the Starbucks book. Which, perhaps, explains why so many people hang out at coffee bars or restaurants, or on the beach, or anywhere else where they can hope to find a sense of community.

The Internet has become a 'third place' for many. The astounding success of sites like Facebook, and the continuation of online forums and chatrooms suggests that we all long for connection, even if we can't find it in 'real life'. When, on (thankfully rare) occasions our Internet connection is down, I feel almost bereft. But for me, at home most of the time, the Internet feels like my 'second place'. My work, such as it is, involves writing web pages, and researching, and emailing. I socialise there too, and play games (mainly Scrabble).

So I'm thankful for friends who invite us to their homes, or who come to ours, for informal 'cell groups' of Christians. For me, friends' home are my 'third place', whether we hang out and chat, or play a board game. Perhaps that's why I have little desire to visit a coffee house.

Being the church in the 21st century

Just over a year ago I wrote a post entitled, 'What is church anyway?' - in part discussing Jake Colsen's fictional book about the church, and in part my own thoughts.

These thoughts have been ongoing, off and on, and recently resurfaced on reading 'Church that Works' by James Oliver and David Thwaites (reviewed here on my books blog). This book suggests that our entire modern understanding of the church is wrong - it was never what Jesus intended, and is largely ineffective in reaching anybody. Church leaders seem to spend considerable amounts of time trying to make their services and programmes relevant to today's youth, or parents, or retired folk - depending on where they are - but, on the whole, with little success.

Oh, there are mega-churches in the USA and even bigger ones (giga-churches?) in parts of Africa. But do they meet people's needs? Do they draw in the lost, the needy, the dirty and ragged... or do they draw in the respectable folk in their Sunday best? We may be good at welcoming people of all races and cultures, and encouraging those who are seeking God. But what about the folk who come in their scruffy jeans, who haven't had a shower for a few days, and have alcohol on their breath?

Moveover, what are we doing about the vast majority of people in the West who simply wouldn't darken the doors of a church building (except, perhaps, at Christmas and Easter)? We might give out tracts, invite them to Alpha courses, tell them about guest services... and yes, a few will respond. But it's all so impersonal, these days, so structured, so separatist. We feel pleased with ourselves if the Baptists and the Methodists have a joint service once a year... but we still tend to feel our own particular brand of doctrine is really 'better'. Is this really 'church'?

What was meant by 'church' in the New Testament? The word translated as 'church' is the Greek ekklesia (εκκλεσια) which literally means '(those who are) called out'. In Ancient Greece it was a secular term referring to an assembly of officials, but in the Old Testament the equivalent word referred to all the people of Israel who were called by God. There are many web-sites attempting to determine exactly what Jesus meant when he first used the word (in Matthew's Gospel) - see for instance 'Christ's Ekklesia and the Church compared' or ' What is Church?' or 'The Church is not in God's plan' - all worth reading if you want word studies, and some varying interpretations.

What just about everyone agrees on, however, is that the modern word 'church' is an inaccurate translation of the Greek. Neither Jesus nor the Apostles ever intended the kind of churches we have today: sanitised, highly organised and totally respectable. I doubt if they ever imagined that people would drive miles to get together with other people who happen to believe the same minor doctrinal isues as they do, but would refuse to be friendly with their Anglican/Presbyterian/charismatic next-door neighbour.

I don't think we can necessarily determine exactly what Jesus and Paul meant by the word ' ekklesia'. But we can certainly look at the kinds of groups Paul was writing to. He mostly addressed the 'ekklesia' in a town. Or perhaps the 'ekklesias' in a province. But he was pretty annoyed with the folk who tried to be divisive - see I Corinthians 1:10-13. If he were writing today, perhaps he would say something like:

" 'One of you says, 'I'm a Lutheran; another, 'I'm a Calvinist; another, 'I'm a charismatic'; still another, 'I follow Christ'.... "

Christ is not divided, Paul reminds us. The wisdom of the world (with its structures and programmes and campaigns...) is foolishness. All that matters is Christ crucified. We ARE the ekklesia - the 'church' if you want to use that word. I belong to the ekklesia - the body of believers - in the town I live in. I am a member of it because I'm part of Christ's Body worldwide - not because I've signed any doctrinal statement, or affiliated myself with any particular subset of the body.

Moreover, the people Paul was writing to didn't have access to fast transport. When they gathered (perhaps to hear one of Paul's letters, or to pray together) it was in people's houses, generally. Each person would naturally have gone to whichever house happened to be the closest. We read in Acts that the believers shared their possessions, and ate together; this couldn't have happened if people wanted to go half-way across the town to find another body of believers who they felt were more 'sound' than the ones in their neighbourhood.

Of course it's important to meet with other believers. But we're social folk; most of us do that anyway. The book I was reading points out that we're told by Jesus to be salt and light in the world. Can we really be salt and light if we only meet socially with people who share our personal views? Spending our evenings and weekends in church buildings, church programmes and church meetings is surely a good example of hiding our light under a bushel. Instead we're supposed to be where people can see us - and that, for most of us, means in the workplace, or the home, or the school, or wherever we happen to be.

Jesus also told us that any time two or three people gather in his name, he's there with them. He didn't specify a time, or a place, or even a reason for meeting. Just that he's there, alongside any group of his people who get together, for whatever reason.

What about those Sunday morning services that so many people see as central to the 'church'? Many people enjoy them, or find them helpful; they worship God freely and learn more of him through the teaching. That's fine. But it shouldn't be expected of us to meet regularly every Sunday in the same place. It should just be one (optional) part of our life as believers. And we absolutely shouldn't believe that 'our' particular favourite style of Sunday service is in some way superior to someone else's.

We're all fallible people doing what we believe to be right - most of the time, anyway. We have different tastes in music, different attitudes to informality, different ways of learning. Not everyone is an auditory learner. Those that do learn primarily through hearing may well find a forty-minute sermon to be powerful and positive. But probably at least two-thirds of the congregation (who are not auditory learners) will have switched off after the first ten minutes. At most. Yes, the visual learners can be helped by powerpoint presentations or visual aids, but what of the kinaesthetic learners? How are they helped? Or are they made to feel inferior because they would rather be doing something active than sitting still listening to a talk?

If we ARE the ekklesia, the word translated as 'church' over 100 times in the New Testament, the concept of 'going to church' makes no sense at all. The ekklesia has a gathering any time two or three believers in Jesus get together, whether they're praying, studying the Bible, drinking coffee or playing Scrabble. The ekklesia gathers when Christian co-workers (of whatever denominational background) stand up together for Godly principles in the workplace: honesty, integrity, gentleness, love. The ekklesia gathers when two Christian families have a day out together and share a picnic.

How did Jesus say people would know we are his disciples? By the love we have for one another. Not by our moral behaviour, not by the size of our church building, not by the programmes we have to 'reach out' into the community.

Sadly, what people outside Christ's body often observe is Christians who can't get along with each other, Sunday services that seem irrelevant and boring, and very little in the church that has any relevance to their daily lives. We've somehow separated the sacred from the secular in a way that mirrors Greek thinking, but was completely alien to the Jews (including Jesus and Paul) who lived a much more holistic lifestyle.

At the end of his letter to the Thessalonians, Paul instructs us to be joyful ALWAYS, pray CONTINUALLY, give thanks in ALL circumstances. Not just at our Sunday services and week-day housegroups and prayer meetings. We need to see God in our places of work and leisure, to show our colleagues and neighbours that he's relevant all the time - they don't need to adopt a completely different lifestyle to follow him. (Of course, Jesus may well convict them of things that need to be changed after they've met him... but that part is really none of our business, unless we're consulted about it).

A year ago, when I read Jake Colsen's book, our family were finding 'the church' a bit stressful. My husband had stopped going to the congregation we had been a regular part of for some years, for various reasons, and was going - about once a month - to the local charismatic congregation. I didn't feel comfortable there at all, however, and felt I wanted to stay in touch with the people at the congregation we had been part of, also for various reasons. Our 18-year-old son had moved to the local Anglican congregation a year or so before that, believing it right, but not entirely sure why. He wasn't entirely happy either, with a succession of interim ministers during an inter-regnum and a lot of discontent generally.

Now, a year later, we have settled into more of a routine. About two or three Sundays per month, I go at 9am to the congregation we all used to be part of (although we never took out formal membership, feeling unhappy about the concept). I've given up most of my commitments there, though I still occasionally help out in the under-six Sunday School. Our son goes at 9.30 to the Anglican congregation, where he is now the organist/pianist, and on several committees; he is much appreciated by the mostly elderly people who also attend regularly. Then my husband attends the charismatic congregation (where his work colleagues and sailing friends also go) at 10am - a much better time from his perspective as he is NOT an early-bird.

We're all part of the ekklesia in our town. We take part in inter-church activities, and we host a house-group (mostly from the congregation I usually worship with) on a Friday evening, which has a meal together, prays about personal concerns, and then does a low-key interactive style Bible study. It's unusual, but it's what seems to be right at the moment. Some Sundays my husband sleeps instead of going anywhere, and some Sundays I go along to the Anglican congregation instead. Occasionally I visit the charismatic congregation with my husband. The most important thing is to love one another as believers in the town, and to be witnesses - in whatever way we can - in the world.