A few weeks ago, I had the unexpected pleasure of attending church in 1966.
Most of the men wore dress slacks and ties. Willingly. So did most of the teens and not a few of the young boys. Women and girls mostly wore dresses. It was easy to notice, because the teens and the children worshiped in the same service as the grown-ups. And seemed to have no problem with that at all.
The orchestra led us in four verses of four hymns. The two-or-three hundred on hand sang out loud and strong. People delighted in something songwriters used to call “melody.” (Look it up.) The pastor played trumpet in the orchestra; the associate pastor played piano and joined in the special music duet.
Halfway through one hymn, the music minister invited the congregation to greet those around them; the greeting went on for a full 15 minutes. These people like each other.
Both pastors showed a lively sense of humor, engaging freely from the pulpit with people in the pews. The sermon was solid, drawing on passages from both Old and New Testaments. It went on for more than an hour, but – hey: you can’t have your ecclesiastical cake and brevity, too.
Sweet fellowship, a sense of dignity and reverence that wasn’t lost in the easy good humor, a deliberate emphasis on the truth of Scripture. A grand remembrance not only of how church used to be, but of why how-it-used-to-be was actually pretty good.
Only one thing was missing.
At service’s end, no one invited anyone to follow Christ.
They used to refer to it as the “altar call” – an invitation, with a sense of urgency, for people to come down to the front of the sanctuary and publicly embrace the salvation offered by Jesus Christ. A former pastor of mine had a better term for it. “It’s decision time,” he used to say, as he closed our meetings in prayer.
People tell me that was always “a Southern Baptist thing,” and probably it was. Preachers like Billy Graham made it famous, reminding people that “every person Christ called in the Bible, He called publicly.” We don’t seem to care about such things, though, anymore. If you want to know Jesus, that’s between you and Him. Tell us what He done for you, if you like. Don’t, if you like.
Walking down an aisle – past heads bowed and praying, to the gentle urgings of a compelling song – could feel awkward, sure, and many found themselves too shy or self-conscious to accept the opportunity. But many more found the invitation irresistible – too focused on the voice of God in their hearts to give heed to who might be watching, or what the watchers might be thinking.
Nor were the rewards restricted to those going forward. Seeing a person move toward the altar was a strong reminder to the rest of us of our own past decisions … a nudge to reflect on how seriously we’d been taking our once heartfelt commitments to follow Christ and live out the faith.
It was also a persistent reminder of our greatest responsibility as disciples of Christ: to bring others to Him. We watched people pray with the minister, and reflected on who we might have brought along with us to the service … or could find some way to share the Gospel with, in the days ahead.
We don’t have to do that, nowadays. Oh, many churches still make faithful mention of “reaching lost souls for Christ.” We just don’t do it. We don't press for it. We don't train for it. We don’t expect others to come, and we certainly don’t intend to bring them. We really don’t even expect that of our pastors much, anymore.
The church I attend now used to have a regular altar call, they tell me. In recent years, they’ve done away with that. They instead make a point of directing anyone “needing to talk to somebody” toward a room off to one side, near the back of the auditorium.
It’s a long way over to that room, if you’re on the far side of the great hall. But, hey: if someone wants to talk badly enough – if the Spirit is really, really moving – they’ll probably make their way through the crowd and head over there.
Actually, our ministers don’t always remember to mention the room at all. Last week, the sermon came to a close, and one of our ministers stepped up to dismiss the congregation. He made some announcements, off-handedly adding that the counseling room was available. He didn’t exactly say where it was, but if one happened to find it, and make some kind of decision for Christ, he said, “that would be, uh, great.”
Yes, it would be. Finding eternal salvation, a profound sense of joy and peace, and a meaningful purpose for life … that can be swell. Really neat. Cool, even.
We tend to expect of others the things we expect of ourselves. And to not require of others what we don’t require of ourselves. If I’m not all that committed to publicly following Jesus myself, why should I care whether you do? Why should I go to the “trouble” of inviting you to do so?
Christians – and in particular, pastors and church leaders – all over our country increasingly embrace the lazy, comforting, undemanding belief that, because we’re not serious about what we do, the Evil One is not serious about what he does. That, because I can’t be bothered to bring people to Jesus, others won’t be bothered to keep them away. That if I don’t stand for Him, well – someone will.
We believe, more and more, that being “nice” is an acceptable substitute for “living godly in Christ Jesus.” That staying quiet will deliver us from evil, and that whoever’s meant to go to heaven will find a way to get there whether I say anything or not. Whether I invite them, or not. Whether I really much care, or not.
“There are only two creatures of any value on this earth,” John Adams used to say, in the days of the American Revolution. “Those with commitment. And those who require the commitment of others.”
We live in the throes of another, older revolution. One with personal consequences for ourselves and those around us unimaginably more urgent and eternal than the fate of nations and governments, political movements and regimes.
Those bent on defying Christ and destroying His church understand that all too well. Only the Christians don’t get it.
So: it’s decision time. And for those who “have decided to follow Jesus,” past time we decided to take up our crosses … and invite someone else to come along.
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