Here it is another Sunday. My experience of church after some years of new wine reality, is that of a lullaby. I am lulled into a stupor, satisfied with crumbs, made to feel glad with little substance. It’s like candy, a quick fix to any conviction, just enough truth to mimic a meal, pats on the back all-around with little that lasts. Milk is being served and I am desperate for some meat. And I attend a good church.

It’s not all bad but it does make me wonder what the heck we are all doing.

You know, halfway there is worse than not there at all. At least if it was atrocious we could spot it. But no, we’ve got just enough truth to make us miss the half-truths, just enough bonhomie to make us miss the outpoured sacrifice of Christ and the call upon our own lives to the same, just enough comfort such that we forget our troubles but can never realize our purpose, our exact participation, the cross that we are to carry.

Do you know what your cross is? I ask.

How have you died to yourself this week, and who for?

What has God asked of you lately and are you doing that thing?

How has God directed you this week and how might we support you in that?

I rarely hear these things from the few churches I’ve attended over my lifetime and I wonder why and I think something is wrong.