Time for a change: Talking to your church about hybrid ministry

As church leaders, lay and ordained, staff and non-staff, we tend to see the value in remaining online in some form after buildings can safely and completely reopen. We've noticed the increased worship attendance that accompanies live-streamed services. We've heard from parishioners who moved away years ago but who have rejoined our faith communities virtually over the last year. And we've talked with friends who never go to church, but have tuned into our YouTube worship service for a few moments, or caught glimpses of a recent sermons on Facebook Live.

As leaders, we get it. The web is a mission field.

And with brand-new Gallup data showing that the majority of Americans are no longer members of a church, the importance of the web to the sustainability of our ministry cannot be overstated.

It's a different story in our broader church communities.

If our buildings haven't already reopened, they will soon, and we'll quickly hear from those who were burnt out of Zoom, those who were so ready to be back, who have no interest in ever again connecting with their church community online. They want to be "back," they want a return to "normal."

This creates an inevitable leadership tangle: the desire to be accessible, inclusive, and invitational in digital spaces, versus the reality of members who are burnt out on digital connection.

Getting started with hybrid ministry: A bit like climbing into a hang glider. On a cliff. Next to the ocean.

This tension isn't going to resolve itself, and it's not going to disappear anytime soon. Some will see the missional opportunity of further ministry work in digital spaces, but many will not. So before we get back into the rhythm of our analog church communities, before our time, energy, and resources are taken up by the realities of face-to-face gatherings, let's take a minute to talk with our congregations about hybrid ministry.

For starters, let's share the message widely that in the transition to safely reopning our buildings, we'll continue to prioritize digital accessibility. Not everyone is comfortable returning at the exact time, and with herd immunity still months away, there's no magic date on the calendar where we can snap back to the church we were. We'll continue to have cameras in the sanctuary and Zoom dial-ins for meetups because nobody should have to trade their comfort and safety for the right to participate in our community. As we journey towards the other side of this pandemic, let's communicate that we are making digital a highly visible and widespread priority.

By communicating that we are staying connected online during this time of transition, we set the foundation for the future of hybrid ministry: that our commitment to inclusivity is only as great as our commitment to ministry in digital spaces.

Not everyone is comfortable attending an analog church. Not everyone is available to be present in a building at a specific time. And while those of us who are temporarily-able-bodied may not experience any issues with walking into a church, let's remember that steps, sidewalks, and stained glass create physical barriers to some, spiritual and emotional barriers to others.

Some will push back. The conversation on inclusivity in the near-term and long-term won't be enough, and they won't care much about the opportunity to extend the reach of the church.

You can probably already guess who that will be within your community. They'll say things like "it's fine to be online, but I don't want to see cameras in the sanctuary. I don't want to have to join any Zoom calls. This is my church, and I want it to go back to normal. Is this really where we are going to spend our money?"

We need to talk to these individuals, and listen to their concerns. These ideas likely don't come from an opposition to hybrid ministry - but from frustration with a year of widespread sacrifice and ever-present social distancing.

Perhaps the best way to talk with and listen to these individuals is not to ask for their opinions on the use of technology in the church. We don't need to give them access to a physical suggestions box, because we don't need to give them an outlet for their complaints.

What we should do instead is to ask them to think about the future of the church. We might ask them to think about what it means that 50% of all Amercians are no longer church members, that entire Christian denominations may disappear within our lifetime.

Then, we should ask them to think about who we are called to be, and what God is calling us to do. In other words, we should ask them to reflect on our church's mission.

If we get too technical with these conversations, if we get stuck on "what we do" instead of "why we do it," we are unlikely to get anywhere. But if we invite our communities to reflect on the future of our ministry, and how we can sustain our shared sense of connection and service for another generation, we may find that we're all more willing to change than we might like to admit.

We don't need to persuade everyone, we may not need to persuade anyone. We simply need to show up for the conversation, to share that hybrid ministry matters, to facilitate a dialogue on where God is calling us next.

Because this isn't a conversation about cameras, social media, or computers. This is a conversation about our future, about whether all that is great about our church community will be available to a new generation.

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@ryanpanzer is the author of "Grace and Gigabytes."

Book Review: Sealed, by Katie Langston

"When Grandma spoke of God and Jesus, it all seemed much simpler. She didn't have a basement stocked with supplies; hers was a Jesus of whom you could talk, rejoice, preach, and prophesy... If I loved Jesus, I loved him in the way I loved my mother's family: from a distance, out of duty. I didn't dare admit it... but what was there to love in a Christ who would destroy the world?"

-Katie Langston, "Sealed"

Katie Langston's memoir "Sealed: An Unexpected Journey into the Heart of Grace" (Thornbush Press, April 2021) is a story of the dynamism of faith. Describing Langston's upbringing in a conservative Mormon family, the memoir recounts what it was like to grapple with doubts and uncertainty in a culture that tolerated neither.

"Sealed" is not the only story I have recently read of a conservative Mormon family. Like so many others, I recently read Tara Westover's explosive memoir "Educated."

But if the power of Westover's memoir came from shocking events and profoundly unique characters, the power of Langston's memoir emanates from its relatability. Langston's is a story of what it is like to navigate family conflict, of what it is like to wrestle with the tensions between the simplicities of childhood faith and the complexity of lived experience.

"Sealed" is available wherever books are sold on April 6th, 2021

So many spiritual stories end with deconstruction and fragmentation. It seems like much of what has been written about the Mormon tradition depicts an abandonment of the faith.

But "Sealed" is unique in that it ends with a reconstructed spiritual identity that affirms what remains useful, even enlightening, from one's past. It is a book that invites us not to critique, but to connect, a book that reminds us that the life of faith is not about categorical breaks with one's past, but about continuously hearing God's irresistible and ceaseless call. Affirming the simultaneous gifts of tradition and of transformation, Langston's memoir is a thought-provoking read for those who want to understand the complex, evolving, and perpetually moving journey that is the life of faith. It is an important contribution to understanding America's dynamic spiritual landscape.

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@ryanpanzer is the author of "Grace and Gigabytes"

The Good Place for Lent: Why the series finale makes for great Ash Wednesday viewing

Warning: this post contains Good Place spoilers. If you haven't yet binged the entire series, consider yourself warned!

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

-Ash Wednesday Liturgy

Spend a moment searching for what Christians think about the television series "The Good Place," and you'll see a mixed set of results. On the one hand, the show presents a godless depiction of an afterlife, which upsets media commentators from Christian Right.

On the other, the show depicts an afterlife system in which people who do not-so-good things can be tormented for eternity, which those same talking heads from the Christian Right are perfectly cool with.

Putting aside this conservative evangelical handwringing, we might see that the show, in particular the series finale, contains tiny glimmers of inspiration that might actually resonate with Christians who aren't in the business of sin accounting and Netflix divinity policing.

"Whenever You're Ready" is the final episode of The Good Place, a poignant epilogue to a show that tactfully careens between network comedy and subtle, accessible philosophy. In the series finale, the characters find themselves living in an eternal paradise of their own construction, a place of indefinite and neverending bliss: Madden tournaments, EDM dance parties, and fancy French dinners, among other amusements.

Yet as these characters experience this eternal paradise over many thousands of years, they come to the recognition that infinite contentment is not all it was cracked up to be. Even William Shakespeare, who makes his debut on the show in it's final episode, cannot stomach too much of the best things, his sequel-laden writing becoming a shell of its former glory.

For the show's characters, an afterlife of their own choosing is simultaneously perfect yet perplexing. As they soon discover, without finitude, even our best experiences and brightest moments become dull and tedious. Without limitation, our happiest thoughts turn to irritation.

One by one, most of the show's protagonists come to the realization that the meaning of our lives is a product of our mortality. Our lives are lived to the fullest not when we experience the complete fullness of time. Rather, our lives are best lived when we realize that what we have is a mere fragment, a transitory moment that comes and goes. We live the good life when we recognize how similar we are to waves crashing on the beach:

Recognizing that meaning is derived by the brevity of our experience, they soon devise a system through which the characters can pass through "the door," surrendering themselves to whatever comes next.

Fittingly for our annual Ash Wednesday observance, the characters turn to specks of light and dust as they take that step through the door. We don't see what happens to these characters when they walk through the door, we don't know what happens next. All we see is that they return to the dust, to the stardust and ashes, of which they were created:

Each year, I pause on Ash Wednesday to receive an imposition of ashes, as is the long-standing Christian tradition. It's an annual reminder that I am dust, and to dust I shall return.

As Christians, we don't receive ashes on our foreheads as a sign of outward piety. We don't receive these ashes to make us feel guilty for screwing up and committing crimes against divinity. The ashes aren't intended to trigger guilt, remorse, anxiety, or shame.

We receive the ashes to remind us of our limits, to hold us accountable for our limitations. Placed on our forehead by a member of a faith community, the ashes are a visible invitation to a season of turning, to a time where we can remember that all things must pass. By receiving these ashes and remembering our finitude, we can set our lives in proper order. By remembering the dust on our faces, we can commit to service, to justice, to kindness. As we see the smudge in the shape of the cross, we are invited to commit ourselves to God's calling, to rekindle our desires to serve in the mission we all share.

This seems to be the most misunderstood aspect of Lent. This isn't a season where we remember that we have fallen short and dwell on our failings. This isn't a season to feel guilty. This is a season to remember that our time is running short, and that there is so much to be done. This is a season to remember that when we have finished our race, God's work continues.

As my late friend and mentor Brent Christianson reminded me each year on Ash Wednesday, we might be stardust and ashes, but we are blessed stardust and blessed ashes, called into existence, invited into God's work in the world. And though that calling may last for but a moment, it is a blessing and a gift as expansive as eternity.

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@ryanpanzer will be observing Ash Wednesday online this year.