Stuff Christians Like Read online

  I personally never got caught up in the fancy ways to say “we’re not living in sin.” I was living in a trailer home in a retirement community when I was engaged, and there was very little chance the community would have stood for any of that shacking up nonsense.

  Sure, while living there I mentally aged about forty years in a matter of weeks, sitting in a rocking chair with a quilt over my knees and a foot massager I requested for Christmas because they were all the rage in my new old neighborhood. I may have suddenly fallen in love with Everybody Loves Raymond and chuckled at that rascal’s antics like an old man, but other than that, everything worked out.

  My wife didn’t become old. She lived across town with the Morrisons. In their house. Which was different from a trailer park. Where I slept. Alone by myself.

  GETTING CAUGHT OFF GUARD BY DIVORCE

  I’m married and if you are too, then statistically speaking, one of us is getting divorced.

  “Hold up one second!” you might say. “That can’t be true. I’m a Christian. I’ve seen studies that indicate that Christians actually have a lower divorce rate, something like 33 percent instead of a 50 percent divorce rate like the rest of the country. How dare you misinform me!”

  Shame on me, but arguing about whether Christians have a 33 percent or a 50 percent divorce rate is ridiculous. Look at it this way: Would it make a huge difference if one out of every three neighbors on your street got mauled to death by a bear or one out of every two? Would you sit around with friends and say, “Those bear stats are grossly exaggerated. I read that there are only 33 deadly Grizzly bears in our gated community, not 50. The media is so biased!”

  No, regardless of the statistic, you’d be more careful about bears. You’d buy books on how to keep your house safe from bears. You’d carry a gun and bear spray. And when Valentine’s Day rolled around, you’d probably buy your wife a hot water heater.

  Okay, one of those sentences had nothing to do with the metaphor but was in fact true. In my defense, it was a “State Select” model, which I’ve been assured is one of the sexier hot water heaters available. So don’t worry about us becoming a statistic; we’ll be fine.

  CHURCH

  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.

  THE METROSEXUAL WORSHIP LEADER

  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.”

  TUNING OUT IF THE MINISTER IS YOUNGER THAN YOU

  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 stil
l 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.

  CROCK-POTS, A LOVE LETTER

  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

  RAISING OUR HANDS IN WORSHIP

  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:

  The Ninja

  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.

  The Half & Half

  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.”

  The Pound Cake

  This is what we in the industry refer to as an “underhand move.” Instead of reaching your arms upward, you hold them slightly in front of you, palms turned toward the sky, as if expecting to receive something from someone in front of you. The Pound Cake places your elbows at stomach level, your hands tilted at a 47-degree angle, as if someone visiting your housewarming party is about to hand you a delicious pound cake. It’s not a heavy cake, so you don’t have to brace yourself. Instead, you just relax and think, “Hey, cool. Pound cake. Let me take that for you.”

  The Double High Five

  I’m stingy with my high fives. I think the last time I gave one was in the delivery room of my second daughter. The next time I give one will be if this book sells more than nineteen copies. Other than those two situations, I find the high five to be the physical equivalent of using a lot of exclamation marks!!! That’s why I rarely do this move. The double high five looks exactly like it sounds. You act like you’ve just scored a touchdown and are about to double high five the person in front of you. (Some people call this move the “Secret Passageway” because it kind of looks like you are feeling along a wall for a hidden button that will open a secret door. But I’m a purist and don’t use that term.)

  The YMCA

  This is my favorite, and probably the most common hand raising technique. It’s not complicated and regularly makes cameos in magazine ads for Christian colleges. Much like the famous song, you simply raise your hands above your body and form a big Y. That’s all. But it leaves little doubt to the folks around you about what’s going on. You’re worshipping. It’s big, it’s beautiful, it’s messy, and it’s great. A friend of mine said that when her mom did it, it always looked like she was clearing a runway for God to land.

  I tend to be a Ninja guy myself.

  FEARING YOUR CHURCH WILL DO SOMETHING WACKY THE ONE TIME YOU INVITE A FRIEND

  The only thing Christians like more than inviting friends, co-workers, and family members to church is fearing that on the Sunday they do, all hell will break loose during service. (Not a swear. This is a Christian book; I get to use that one.)

  It doesn’t matter how great your church is Sunday after Sunday. On the one day you actually invite a neighbor for the first time, there’s a moment of panic that passes through you.

  Worship music top notch week after week? Well this will be the Sunday the lady who owns a mission trip rain stick souvenir will be doing an interpretation of the song “I Can Only Imagine.”

  Pastor always brings his A game? Well this will be the Sunday he starts his sermon by saying, “Today I want to talk about why you should give all your money to the church unless you want to go to hell.”

  Never done any old school snake handling at your church? Well this will be the Sunday where they hand out a free pit viper with each bulletin.

  Your only defense against this fear is to prepare a really good church disclaimer. As soon as the service jumps off the tracks and you see your friend squirm, lean over to them and call a mulligan, “Church is never like this. I don’t know what’s going on today. Will you please come back next week?”

  PRETENDING YOU’RE NOT CRYING DURING CHURCH

  I cried once at a Fuddruckers hamburger restaurant during lunch. No, it wasn’t the time I participated in a two-pound cheeseburger eating contest and got the meat sweats while throwing up that afternoon in my cubicle at work. It was just a normal lunch with a guy from the office. We started talking about how crazy God’s love is and before I knew it, I was tearing up right there over a plate of onion rings.

  I don’t know why guys can’t cry at church, but it’s a law. Fortunately, there are a few ways to pretend you’re not crying:

  Sniff, don’t sniffle.

  There’s a huge difference. A sniff is what a man does when he has a cold. A tough, manly cold. A sniffle is what a small puppy does when it’s crying in church. Pretend you have a cold. If you think you’re going to cry, fake sneeze a few times, blow your nose into a tissue, and mutter to the people around you, “This darn cold! Got it ice fishing…for sharks…with my bare hands.”

  Look up as if condensation has fallen on your face from the ceiling.

  Best-case scenario is that you keep the tears in your orbital region and never allow them to escape your eye. But let’s say one makes a break for your cheek. When you feel that wet renegade creeping down, immediately look up at the ceiling. I don’t care if it’s 12 feet away or 100 feet away—react as if condensation from the air conditioner has just dripped on your rugged, masculine cheek
. Then proceed to punch that little pool of water off your face. Stupid ceiling leak.

  Never use the back of your hand.

  You know who wipes their tears with the back of their hands? People who’ve just finished watching a Lifetime Channel movie called Stolen Innocence, where the heroine had her heart broken by a horrible man and lost everything she had but in losing her way found herself and the will to survive. That’s who uses the back of their hand to wipe tears. Not you. You use the tips of your thumb and your pointer finger. Put one on each side of your nose and make clockwise circles as if you are rubbing the tension out of your face from wearing glasses for too long. You’ll look pensive and maybe even thoughtful, like you’re trying to concentrate. All the while you’ll secretly be wiping away tears. Works like a charm.

  There are more tips, but most are pretty complicated and involve props like pirate eye patches and smoke bombs. You’ll probably want to stick with these. If you can’t—if you end up crying in the middle of church—counteract that wanton show of emotion by volunteering to tear down the band equipment or stack up all the chairs in the sanctuary. Alone. Wearing a red and black flannel shirt like a lumberjack. That’ll fix ‘em; that’ll fix ‘em good.

  ALTAR CALLS

  An altar call is when the pastor encourages you to come down front and give your life to Jesus. Those are pretty straightforward events. You go down, you pray a prayer with someone (usually on staff), you go home. Not that giving your life to Jesus is straightforward—please save the hate mail—but the altar call is pretty cut and dried.