Lutherans hate volleyball

It said, “Public Parking.” The complex was next to an old Lutheran church in downtown Minneapolis; 100 feet from the front door of the convention center. We were here for a volleyball tournament and my parents drove 8 hours from Chicago just to see their granddaughter play. A long walk from a distant parking space would be hard on my mom.

Now this was the first time I’d ever been in Minneapolis, and I could be totally wrong, but I think Lutherans are kind of like the Shiite majority in Baghdad; powerful, possessive, and not to be trifled with.

It was Sunday morning and we showed up at the parking garage like we had the two previous days, but this time there was a sign informing us in no uncertain terms that parking was reserved for “church members only.” I could feel the anger welling up inside me when my dad (80 years old, and ever the gentleman, but definitely no Lutheran) turned away and began to look for other places to park; places that would be farther from the door of the convention center.

I could stand it no longer when, rounding the corner of the parking complex that was reserved on Sunday’s for “church members,” I saw an acre of parking completely empty. But it was Sunday morning and this was Minneapolis, Minnesota, so the parking lot stood empty waiting for Lutherans. The backsliders never came. The lot stood mostly empty all morning and I spewed; “this is ridiculous! This is everything I find so annoying about the established church!” I think I used the word "asinine" too. It wasn’t the word I wanted to use, but mom was in the back seat.

Through sheer force of will, I persuaded my dad to pull into the garage. Mom was either nervous, or disappointed in my hostile attitude and said nothing. Dad asked if I had some credentials I could show in case they wanted to give me a ticket. I said, “yeah, I got your credentials…right here!” In my head I fantasized about a heated confrontation with a large-boned, elderly Norwegian woman about my right to use a parking space abandoned by an apostate Lutheran. No old lady, Norwegian or otherwise, ever showed up but I won the argument anyway. We walked past the Lutheran church, went inside the convention center and watched volleyball.

It occurs to me that self-righteous indignation is kind of like flatulence; it feels good to the one expelling it, but to everyone else around, it just smells like...well, you know. Eventually I apologized to mom for my "venting." And I apologize to the Lutheran whose parking space we stole.

It was a good Sunday anyway in spite of my emotional gas.

I must be nuts!

The thought crosses my mind with frightening regularity. The way I've come to think about life and ministry and community seem so different from where I came from. I pedal my bicycle past numerous churches on Sunday mornings (fewer cars on the road to deal with) and I can honestly say that there is nothing in me that longs to return to that world.

Ironically though, my faith is stronger, more real and vital than it's ever been. The disconnect makes me wonder if I'm just a bit nuts. Then I come across an article (John White's Denver story in a recent issue of Time Magazine) or a book,(Revolution; by Barna) and I realize I'm not alone.

Thank God!

I just finished reading Barna's book this morning and I have to admit, I'm looking forward (with lustful pleasure I might add) to the fallout from conventional church leaders. But more importantly, Barna ends the book with a sort of personal manifesto that sounds hauntingly like my own.

Here is a sampling of the "affirmations" he makes:(the whole list begins on p. 128)

God does not need me to fight His fight, but He invites me to allow Him to fight through me...

I do not need to save the world; Jesus Christ has already done that. I cannot transform the world, but I can allow God to use me to transform some part of it.

I am not called to attend or join a church. I am called to be the Church.

Worship is not an event I attend or a process I observe; it is the lifestyle I lead...

There is strength in relationships; I am bound at a heart and soul level to other Revolutionaries...


Barna makes one other comment a bit earlier in the book that provided enormous relief. As a consequence of following Jesus on this journey, I've made the shift BACK to a "tent-making" lifestyle. I'm sure many would see this as a huge failure professionally. I don't really care about that. In the past year, I've invested a significant amount of money to open a business in my community so that I can wean myself off "ecclesiastical assistance," (that is being a paid, professional pastor) I thought I was crazy until I came across Barna's words;

"Tent-making - the practice of working at a non-religious job as a means of paying the bills while facilitating one's desire to be a genuine representative of Christ in the world - moves from a quirky, first-century idea to a defining, personal lifestyle."

Crazy?

Maybe I am.

Maybe that's good!