Stuff Christians Like (11 page)

God help us all if we arrive in heaven and there’s a patent and trademark office. Seriously, we are screwed. Especially me.

Let’s be clear, the original idea for the
Stuff _____ Like
format came from Christian Lander, the talented author of the blog and book
Stuff White People Like.
Sometimes I like to pretend that I just sprinkled God flavoring on the idea like the creative think tank that turned Adidas into “Add Jesus.” And people will kindly tell me that I created an homage, but usually when I describe the humble origins of the
Stuff Christians Like
blog, I use the less French-sounding phrase, “I ripped off that idea for Jesus.”

A closing prayer at church that is not enrobed in some sort of soft musical accompaniment is like one of those hairless cats. Technically speaking, it’s still a closing prayer, but it seems naked and you want it to leave the room as quickly as possible.

The most important rule of a prayer duet is that you can’t start the song at the very same moment as the prayer. That would seem forced and fake, as if instead of praying, you were putting on
Prayer, the Musical!

You have to start the music in the middle of the prayer, slowly and quietly, as if the musician playing wasn’t intending to play along with the prayer but was so inspired by it that he couldn’t help but pick up an instrument in response.

“That is a really beautiful closing prayer our pastor is saying and I’ve already got this acoustic guitar in my hand. Maybe I’ll just play a C chord. Just one, tiny note in response.”

But he can’t stop there, can he? It’s never just one note; it always trickles slowly into a song, and when it does, I’m left with lots of questions in the crowd.

Do they practice that beforehand? Does the minister say to the musician, “When you hear the word ‘freedom,’ that is your cue”? “Don’t miss it. I’m going to trust-fall this prayer back into your hands and I expect a musical blanket to catch it.”

Does the drummer ever get mad that he never gets tapped to do the prayer duet? No one ever says, “I need you to come in during the middle of the prayer with the kick drum. Just start beating that thing as loud as you can.” And it can’t be a harp either. Those things are like musical refrigerators. They’re impossible to hide. The minute the congregation sees one on stage they know “prayer song today.” There’s no surprising people with a harp.

Is it bad that the minute I hear that music starting I try to locate the musician? That’s horrible, right? I should be focused
on the prayer and God and worship, not trying to “Where’s Waldo” the prayer musician. But I can’t help it; they keep switching it up on me. Sometimes he’s sitting on stage where he’s been the whole time, and it’s like the words of the prayer awoke him from a deep slumber while the rest of the musicians stay frozen in time. On other Sundays a musician will slowly materialize in the shadows offstage and musically tiptoe their way to the center of the stage like a tag team wrestler coming to relieve his partner. Sometimes you can’t ever find them; they’re playing somewhere deep within the bowels of the church and their prayer song is floating into the sanctuary like the Phantom of the Opera. Which I usually just assume means they’re too ugly for big church. “Sure, go ahead and play for the youth group and children’s church, but for this prayer, during the main service, we really feel like this broom closet is going to offer you the best acoustics. So let’s just tuck you right in here. Someone will mic your instrument and knock on the door when it’s time to start playing.”

“Please join hands” are three of the most terrifying words you’ll ever hear a minister say. (Second only to, “We never talk about money at our church, but today…”)

Holding hands isn’t difficult. But we tend to violate some simple rules that govern hand-to-hand combat. Let’s review the things we should keep in mind when holding hands with strangers at church:

This is way, way too intimate if you don’t know me and your full name isn’t “my wife.” But some people do it. Instead of the, “Hey pal, I know we’re holding hands, which is weird, but oh well,” palm-to-palm grip, they weave their fingers between
yours. As soon as someone does that, the thirteen-year-old inside me automatically thinks, “This person is trying to make out with me.” This isn’t a couples-only skate at the roller rink to Bobby Brown’s “Tender Roni.” Let’s never interlink our fingers. Please.

For some reason lots of Christians feel the need to punctuate a good handhold with a tiny gesture. They want closure. A fire-works grand finale to the handholding session. I understand that, but please, avoid the temptation to end our time together with a “you’re great” squeeze. It’s nowhere near as intimate as interlinking, but it still feels creepy coming from a man in his mid-fifties that up until thirty seconds ago I had never seen in
my life. I don’t need closure. Our hand relationship is over. I’m ready to move on. It’s not you; it’s me.

When it becomes clear that the period of handholding is over, I expect you to ditch my hand like a bank robber fleeing the scene. Seriously. Let’s not be the last people pressed together with our hands awkwardly connected. Letting go is a race. I want us to win. Let’s set a new land speed record in disconnecting. Come on, we can do it. Eye of the tiger. Eye of the freaking tiger.

If we ever find ourselves holding hands at an event, I should warn you that I’ll hold you accountable to all of these rules. If you persist in violating them, I’ll probably use my sweat defense mechanism. I don’t know if being sweaty is a spiritual gift, but I have it. And so will you if you insist on breaking the rules.

Revivals, those unexpected outpourings of God that sweep whole communities up into a heavenly rhythm, are an important part of the Christian faith. Sometimes the best way to show how important they are is to go ahead and get one on the calendar.

Sure, they’re often spontaneous, but if you can fit one in right after Vacation Bible School and right before Missions Month begins, might as well. Every time I see a church that has “Revival this Sunday 8:00 p.m.” on a sign, I imagine God and Revival playing Connect Four up in heaven and having this conversation:

REVIVAL: Oh snap, look at the time. I’ve gotta bounce. I’m supposed to be at Stonehill Church in fifteen minutes.

GOD: What? Stonehill? I wasn’t going to send you down there until this summer. Are you sure?

REVIVAL: Yeah. Look, it’s right there on the sign. You didn’t know?

GOD: Of course I knew. I’m God. I was just distracting you from Connect Four. Which you lost. You just got served!

REVIVAL: That seems like a harsh thing for a loving God to say.

GOD: No, you misunderstand. I cleaned up your Connect Four board for you. You got served.

This happens. I know it shouldn’t. I know we’re supposed to be one big body of believers united in Christ. But sometimes when you want to grow your church, when you want to expand your impact in the community, you might need to apply a sleeper hold to that church down the street.

They’re struggling anyway. Their last Vacation Bible School didn’t even have a blow-up jump-jump thing. Their parking lot is rarely full, and you heard they don’t even use a drummer in their worship music. You’re not stealing their members—you’re liberating them. This is a mercy acquisition. You’re doing it for God.

The best way to steal other members for God is pretty simple. Two words: “Live Animals.”

For some reason, we Christians love live animals in church performances. If you can get a real donkey to carry Jesus down the aisle on Palm Sunday or have a live nativity scene with a cow, forget about it. Game over. Other churches in your town don’t stand a chance. It raises the holiness and the awesomeness factor exponentially. Think I’m joking? The first two times
I went to the very successful Catalyst Conference, they busted out a camel, a pig, a donkey…and an elephant. They understand the rule of live animals.

And if rival churches follow suit, just throw the ultimate animal card: the live Noah’s ark performance. I’ve never heard of anyone doing this, but surely it’s not too hard to find someone who owns a couple of birds of prey, a few tigers, and some emus. If you pull off that event, you’ll probably need to build a bigger parking lot because you, my friend, are about to be flooded with people from other churches.

I can hear you. I can tell that deep down you’re trying to hide.

Trying to fade into the crowd so no one will notice, but like a horror movie where the phone call is coming from inside the house, I know you’re sitting close to me. One row away? Two pews over? It doesn’t matter. I know you’re there. And I know your dirty little secret…

You’ve got a cold.

You’re sniffing. A lot. And it’s not even a sad part of the service. If someone was getting baptized I could understand watery eyes, maybe even a runny nose. I’d write off how hard you’re hitting those Kleenex to emotion. Baptisms are beautiful. Every time my wife sees one she cries. And then I ask her if we’re in a fight and then she tells me, “No, this is a beautiful baptism.” I get that, I do.

But you’re different today. You’ve got a wad of Kleenex. You didn’t want to bring the whole box because that would be too obvious. That would announce to everyone sitting around you, “Look at me! I refused to take a Sunday off! I’m going to give my offering
and
my cold today!” You couldn’t go the box route, and those mini Kleenex packages that are cellophane wrapped and hold approximately 1.7 tissues are useless. So you brought a wad, a shapeless mass of Kleenex that you keep unfolding layers from like a tissue onion. One pocket for clean. One pocket for used. I know the drill.

I’m on to you. At the beginning of service you tried to do all your nose blowing under the cover of loud singing. Like Tim Robbins’ character in the movie
Shawshank Redemption
waiting until thunder struck before he tried to break a hole through the pipe that led to freedom, you waited until the chorus of songs to rattle off a loud nose clearing. But then the sermon started and you were stuck. You tried to fight it, to mentally tell your nose, “Be cool, don’t drip, be cool.” There’s a part of us all that thinks this is going to work at first. That if we just concentrate hard enough our nose will stop dripping or a tickle in our throat will stop making us cough if we can just muster enough willpower. It never works though, and you had to wait until the pastor said something funny so you could blow your nose while everyone else was laughing. Hoping perhaps that the crowd’s jovial good time would provide an auditory cover for your nose clearing.

It didn’t work though, none of it did, because you made one fatal mistake—menthol. Nothing screams “I’m sick” like creating a thick atmosphere of menthol-flavored breath that hovers over a section of seats in church. The problem is that no one
recreationally does menthol. Bubblicious does not offer menthol gum. Lollipops don’t come in Eucalyptus flavor. If there’s menthol in the room, someone is nursing a cold. And the minute I smelled it, I knew it was you.