web mag.indd - Jesus Army

for every gene
CHURCH
for every generation
THANKS TO the Government’s new employment law, we
have an official definition to go by. “Younger” is up to 25,
“prime” is 25 to 54, and “older” is 55 onwards.
What has any of that got to do with church? Timothy
was taught the scriptures from childhood. Paul told Ephesian
husbands and fathers to be both responsible and
restrained – while their offspring eavesdropped. Then
he urged grandmas to train the young mums. Chopping
up lively congregations into age groups is a modern,
Western distortion. It may catch a few extra attenders,
but won’t ever produce the new society of the Kingdom.
I remember my first encounters with this ‘new society’
at Bugbrooke in the early days of the Jesus Fellowship.
“Hello, I’m Trevor. I’m a junior elder.” He’d picked his
way across the building rubble that formed our front garden,
to meet this newly-arrived young family. We’d been
to meetings on a couple of Sundays. Yes, the presence of
the Holy Spirit had stirred us. Now Trevor was about to
open my eyes.
“Tuesday’s Fellowship night; Wednesday’s Shepherding
house groups; Thursday’s Bible Study. You know
about Saturdays and Sundays. And on Bank Holiday
Monday we have Seven Hours With Jesus ‘til 10pm.”
“But what about the children?” My single response
sounded feeble.
“They come too! We’ve got two girls – they just fall
white-haired “straights”. No embarrassment.
No discrimination. No barriers.
I still have red-lined veins on my thighs
from the long hours our children sat on
my lap in meetings until they drifted
to sleep. As teenagers they stood right
there as we worshipped and witnessed
in shopping precincts. The boys were
taught to be PA experts, and the girls
learned to follow Jesus with caring older
friends. Throughout almost all our years
of community residency, there’s been a
saintly pensioner in the house family. I
count that a particular blessing.
Our aim is that all ages can find both their
peers and a place in the heart of the complete
church. I asked a busy mother if she minded
having to slip out of a meeting if the children got
restless. “I’ve got my strongest relationships through
sharing those times,” she confirmed.
A group of Christian ministries reported on the fall-out
rate of workers and volunteers under 30. They concluded
this generation “does spirituality” differently from their
read-your-bible-and-pray-every-morning ancestors.
Converted from the excess culture, they want to crash
and burn for God, too. So, one weekend, our congregaasleep
when they get tired.” Trevor’s warm smile wasn’t
apologetic. It was to reassure me.
I’d spent ten years wandering in regular Christian
scenes. We’d become a regular family. You know: kids
bathed and in bed by seven. Weekends as likely to be
visiting relatives or on a “short break”, as being found at
church.
A recollection floated from somewhere at the back of
my mind… how the early Methodists preached to the
Bristol colliers and their families at 5am or whatever
hour they could be gathered. An inward voice prompted,
“How much do you want this life?”
After my conversion, I’d always want to find something
living. Now I wasn’t so sure, if it came in this packaging.
I was a sensible father, I told myself. But was I a spiritual
one? The inner voice urged again: “Say no to this, and
you’ll never be able to say you didn’t have a chance to
live all-out for God…”. I was shocked.
Trevor, still standing on the doorstep, invited us round
for tea, any time. “We’ll come”, I promised.
At the Shepherding group Trevor introduced our
growing Jesus family. “This is Mrs Eales, she’s 90. She
got baptised when she was 86.” “No, 86,” corrected Mrs
Eales, deaf as a post. All ages. Just like in the main meetings.
I’d seen young men in denim and shoulder-length
hair, rapt in worship, prophesying, and then hugging
Teenagers
can find God
in medieval
chants;
pensioners
can express
their praise
in rave
music
tion ran a straight 28 hours of prayer and worship. The
impact was amazing. Everybody enjoyed it, however
much they joined in, though by Sunday night some of us
were stupidly exhausted.
Last time round, our varied programme included a
medley of solid hymns sung before dawn. “The best bit
was that 26-verse one,” announced 11-year-old Conor.
Accommodating the generations doesn’t equal so middleof-the-road
that no-one is enthused. (Beige, they call it.)
Don’t be told it’s a maturity issue. Baby Christians
come in all ages. And development may be slower the
later you start. So there’s no monopoly on what format
and style of worship touches something authentic. Teenagers
can find God in medieval chants; pensioners can
express their praise in rave music. A congregation that
obliges predictable conformity, whether to guitar bands,
pipe organs or choruses, is confining God’s revelation,
not protecting it, nor advertising it. The same goes with
dress and language.
The generations issue is a cultural one, which the
gospel squarely attacks. Industrialization sent men away
from the home to paid work, and segregated children
for education. It drove apart the generations. Why, when
we see what results from the weakening of family life in
its broadest sense, do we rush to inflict it on the church?
Let’s take a stand.
JL