I once went to a church for the first time. It was a big church, well-attended, with a minister who was a fantastic, internationally-renowned preacher and author. This church had what I call ‘welcome cards’; a printed leaflet that was given to visitors for them to write down their name and address and so on. It’s a common practice in churches that I’ve attended. I filled in a welcome card.
Later that week, I arrived home to find a letter addressed to me. I opened it. It was from the church I’d attended. ‘Dear James,’ the letter started, ‘it was great to see you there on Sunday. Hope to see you again. Do not hesitate to get in touch.’ That was nice enough, but what sealed the deal for me was that it was signed, in pen, by the church’s minister. I felt honoured. The great man himself had taken notice of me and welcomed me to his church!
I went back the next Sunday, of course.
Now, the church I had been attending previously also had welcome cards, but they were for a slightly different purpose. They weren’t just for visitors. They were for everyone. The idea was that if everyone filled out a welcome card, it was easy to see who had been there on Sunday and who hadn’t. So I, knowing no better, assumed this was the way things were done at every church. Yes – that’s right – I filled out another welcome card on my second visit.
You already know what happened.
That week a letter arrived. ‘Dear James,” said the letter, ‘it was great to see you there on Sunday. Hope to see you again. Do not hesitate to get in touch.’ At the bottom of that same letter, in the same pen, was the same signature of the same great man. I felt deflated. I had thought that the letter meant that I was significant and had been personally welcomed, but in reality it was just the end product of a church system that hadn’t really noticed me and not even remembered that I had been there seven days ago.
I continued going to that church, and benefited greatly from being a part of it, but after that second week I never assumed that I really mattered to them. This was before eBay, otherwise I suppose I could have filled out a welcome card every week and run a nice little sideline in selling famous Christian autographs.
The thing is, we can come up with systems to try and make people feel loved, but one day an idiot is going to come along and fill out a welcome card two weeks in a row and our system is going to explode in a shower of nuts and bolts and cogs and springs. Love, the real stuff, resists organisation and short-cuts. Love, the real stuff, is hard work and messy, but it tends to be idiot-proof, and ends up making idiots feel like kings.
Did you say you went to Barton Church?
Have I noticed you at the front preaching, you sound familiar.🤣🤣🤣 love it!
I could sell my own autographs I suppose…
If it’s the church I’m thinking of, I never felt particularly part of the congregation, either – though I know I didn’t go as often as you. That said, I did feel more part of it than I did at other churches I looked into at the time. And the preaching was usually great.
(Not sure if any of that made sense . . .)
Yes, I think it’s just the Curse of the Big Church, and there were plenty of Big Churches to visit in those days.