Stuff Christians Like (8 page)

If church is about worshipping God and not about me, then why did I break into a cold sweat when my wife started knitting one Sunday as we waited for service to start? “What are you doing? Put that away,” I said in a hushed whisper.

“What? I’m just knitting. What’s the big deal?” my wife said, clearly startled at my shallowness.

The big deal was that I mistakenly thought knitting was for almost-dead people. At the time I didn’t realize how hip and artistic knitting really was. I thought it was for old people who called the internet the “World Wide Interwebs” and collected plates commemorating events. It’s bad enough people near us don’t know we direct deposit our tithe and have a perfectly legitimate reason to stiff the offering bucket. Now I felt like I might as well be whittling a pipe out of a corn cob or churning fresh butter.

When you tell someone about your church, there’s unfortunately not a standard system to describe the degree of metrosexuality your worship leader possesses. Wouldn’t it be awesome to say, “You’ll love my church and the music. We have a 78-point metrosexual worship leader”? Or if you were driving by a church and you saw a hip-looking “42” in the corner of the sign, you’d know instantly how metro the worship experience was going to be.

Doesn’t that sound fantastic? I think so, and as a service to churches around the world, I created an easy rating system to analyze how metrosexual your worship leader is:

How did your worship leader score? How did you score? And what’s it all mean? I’m glad you asked. Here’s how to assess a point total:

1 – 10 points = Hymnal Hero

You, my friend, are what is known in the industry as a “Hymnal Hero.” (That’s the industry of sarcasm, by the way.) You’re not metro in the least bit. You don’t like fruit-flavored Chapstick and think that songs that were written in this century, or the last one for that matter, are “too new.” If married, your wife tries to get you to wear hip jeans, but you’re not into it. When my cologne that smells like old hymnals comes out, you will buy a case.

11 – 20 points = Tomlin Curious

Oh, well hello there, you’re Tomlin Curious. I am, of course, referring to Chris Tomlin, one of the founding fathers of metrosexual worship leading. You’re currently dipping a toe, possibly even a pedicured toe, into the idea of all this. You still rock the occasional hymn, but recently you saw a wide leather bracelet at the mall and thought about getting it. When you sleep at night, you can hear voices calling you, “Come style your hair…Come frost your tips.”

21 – 40 points = Goatee Guy

Right now, you’re wearing Pumas and drinking a coffee that has fourteen words in its name. It’s cool—I have Pumas on too. You’ve gone over to the salmon side. (This is the side where instead of saying “pink,” you say things are “salmon” or “melon” or “coral.”) You rarely play a hymn and style yourself after Jeremy Camp. For breakfast you had something with “wheatgrass” in it.

41+ points = Girl Jeans Gambler

I’ve never personally rocked the girls’ jeans because they make my legs look really skinny. Oh, and also I’m a boy. But you’re thinking about it. You might not be ready to do the eyeliner thing, but when you shop for clothes, you get a little tempted to hit up the makeup counter. You’ve never sung a hymn and think Chris Tomlin is “too traditional.”

0 = Metrotastical

Surprisingly enough, zero is the highest degree of metrosexuality you can possess. Why? Because it’s a trend and trends change. So if you’re truly a metrosexual worship leader of the highest degree, by the time this book comes out, you will have moved on to what’s next, which will probably be homemade clothing. You’ll be knitting your own oddly shaped jeans and chunky socks on stage in between songs. And I’ll be in the crowd finally wearing a white belt and saying, “Come on! Now I have to learn how to knit to stay cool? You guys are killing me.”

Sure Whitney Houston, I believe that children are the future, but I’d be lying if I said that’s the first thing I think when a minister younger than me takes the stage. Call it jealousy that the next generation is about to lap me or that the generation behind me has a cooler name, “millennial tweener x-tremes,” but when youth is served at church, sometimes Christians like to tune out and think:

“Oh no, where’s the regular pastor? Is it ‘regular’ or ‘senior’ or ‘teaching pastor of imaginevisioneering’? I can never get those right, but who is this kid up on stage? Is he doing the announcements? Is there a youth group fundraiser I need to know about? Fine, I’ll get my car washed in a Chick-fil-A parking lot. That’s like a win-win right there, holding a Christian event in the parking lot of a Christian restaurant. That’s God squared.

But why isn’t this kid getting off the stage? Is he, no, is he about to preach? Is it youth Sunday already? What, he’s the youth minister? That’s great, but this isn’t youth group. He’s way too young to school me in the game of life. Oh, but this is happening. It’s too late for me to walk out and leave. It’s time for the junior hour of power.

Please just don’t use that phrase that all young ministers bust out. Please don’t say, oh no, you just did. You just said, “When I was growing up.”

You said it like it was over, like you’ve crossed from young man into wizened old gentleman. But you’re only twenty-four. The toughest decision you’ve faced in life so far was whether to get the full meal plan or the five-day-a-week meal plan at seminary. You went with the five? That’s good to know, let me scribble that down here in the sermon notes section of my bulletin.

But I’ll forgive you that one. I’ll let that one slide as long as you don’t give me any marital advice. You’ve been married for about fifteen minutes. You’re still tan from your honeymoon. I can still kind of smell suntan lotion on you. If at any point in this sermon you try to give me marriage advice, I am going to think about college basketball. I just want to be up front about that. The toughest marriage decision you’ve faced so far is whether to exchange one of the china sets you got as a wedding gift for a George Foreman grill that is shaped like a massive charcoal grill. Don’t. I’ve done that, I fought that battle, and it was not worth it. You need more plates than you think and less George Foreman grills than you think. Trust me on that.

See, I should be doing this sermon, I just gave you some free marital advice. You’re welcome.

Dear Crock-Pot,

Is there anything your circle of goodness can’t deliver?

Any bounty of deliciousness you are incapable of providing?

Any warm embrace of bubbly food delightfulness you are unwilling to share?

I say no, but you don’t come around as often as you used to. We’re all trying to live a little healthier. We’re eating fewer dishes that look
like macaroni, cheese, and beef got into a street fight. When I go to potlucks, I can’t find you among the plates of organically grown seaweed burgers. I look—oh, I promise you I look—but you remain elusive. No miniature hot dogs swimming in mysterious red sauce, no unidentifiable stew that is the color of Burnt Sienna crayons. Somewhere you sit alone in a cabinet, instead of in your rightful place of honor.

You’re so forgiving, too. We can just throw something in you and completely forget about cooking all day. Even if that meal spends an hour too long in your hot belly, it’s okay. You won’t burn it. You won’t hurt it. Your love is tender. You always give, you never take away.

If there were a Dish Hall of Fame, I would nominate you. If there were an NCAA-type tournament for cookware, I would pick you to win my bracket. If Mount Rushmore had room for an additional American hero, your rotund face would sing from the mountains.

I love you, Crock-Pot.

Forever yours,

Jonathan

Christians like to sing with their hands raised. I know this because I watch them. In church I am constantly studying the different styles of arm extensions. (Insert a “Worship is about God, not watching other people” judgmental statement right about here.) And in my many, many years between the aisles, here are the five different hand-raising styles I have noticed most often:

You are tricky, sir, truly tricky. The Ninja is testing the waters. He sees ladies fling their arms into the air at the first note of a praise song, but he’s not so sure. What if his friends see him? He used to make fun of people who did that. So instead of going all out, he does a fancy little move. He puts his hands by his pants pockets with the palms facing the heavens. From behind, you can’t see that he’s doing anything out of the ordinary. From the front it just looks like he’s cupping his hands slightly, as if displaying the contents of his pockets.

This person often wants to sing with both hands raised, but they attend a conservative church and don’t want to be known as “that guy.” Instead, they hold one in the air, placing the other one in their pocket or on the chair in front of them. It’s like half their body is screaming, “YAY, JESUS!” and the other half is whispering, “Nothing to see here, folks. Move it along, please…move it along.”