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Heard any dull sermons, lately? Preachers need to know that many will say, 'Yes'

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Heard any dull sermons, lately? Preachers need to know that many will say, 'Yes'

Kids do say the darndest things, and with decades of pulpit experience, the Rev. Joe McKeever has learned that these revelatory remarks often happen just after church.

In one case, a parent shared a question from a perplexed child who struggled with a complex McKeever sermon. Thus, the 7-year-old asked: "Why does Pastor Joe think we need this information?"

That's blunt. But not as blunt as what happened to a friend, as McKeever recounted in a recent essay: "Boring sermons: We all have them from time to time."

This pastor said a family from his church attended a Friday football game, and during halftime, their preschooler asked why students chanted "BORING!" at the visiting marching band. "Her mother explained that sometimes students will do that when they feel the other band is doing poor work," wrote McKeever. The mother added: "It tells them they stink."

The child remembered this and shouted "BORING!" during the next Sunday sermon.

Pastors need honest feedback from time to time, stressed the 83-year-old McKeever, who -- in addition to decades in various kinds of Southern Baptist ministry -- was for 20 years an active member of the National Cartoonists Society.

"One of the problems with being a pastor is that we rarely hear anyone else preach," he said, reached by telephone. "We do what we do in the pulpit, over and over, and it's easy to lose any sense of standards.

"Many preachers lose the ability to listen to themselves. … They end up telling people things that they don't need, things that they didn't want, that they don't understand and, worst of all, that they don't find inspiring."

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Big questions religious leaders need to be asking about autism statistics and ministry

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Big questions religious leaders need to be asking about autism statistics and ministry

Many modern churches may be weak when it comes to architecture and sacred art, but they almost always have concert-level lighting, sound and multi-media technology.

But in a few sanctuaries linked to ancient traditions, worship leaders are trying something different. In some Eucharistic services, they are offering autistic worshippers an atmosphere that is more calm and less intense.

"If you look at many church services from the point of view of highly sensitive people -- especially autistic children -- there is too much noise, too many lights," said Father Matthew Schneider, known to online Catholics as @AutisticPriest. "We can turn down the lights. We can turn down the volume. We can do a few things to accept these families and let them feel more comfortable."

For neurodivergent people, it actually helps that ancient rites are built on repeated gestures, prayers and music that become familiar. Schneider experienced this phenomenon in seminary, but grasped its importance when he was diagnosed as autistic several years after his ordination.

"If you do something over and over, then I know what's coming. I have time to take that in. I know what is happening and why," said Schneider, who currently teaches theology at Belmont Abbey College near Charlotte, North Carolina.

"If you throw me a curve ball, it may take me some time to get over the shock. That's just a reality for autistic people. ... If I'm familiar with a service -- stand up, kneel down, look right, look left -- that can become comfortable."

Religious leaders will have to face these issues after seeing waves of stunning statistics from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and other groups studying neurodiversity trends. For example, in 2000, 1 in 150 children were somewhere on the autism spectrum. That number was 1 in 36, in recent CDC data. And 26.7% of autistic children now display "profound" symptoms.

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What if New York City became a community? Tim Keller came to the city to stay

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What if New York City became a community? Tim Keller came to the city to stay

On the Sunday after 9/11, thousands of New Yorkers went to church, with many joining a line stretching outside the Redeemer Presbyterian services in a Hunter College auditorium.

The Rev. Tim Keller asked his staff if they could manage a second service -- doubling the day's attendance to 5,300. Keller's sermon, "Truth, Tears, Anger and Grace," began with Jesus weeping before raising Lazarus from the dead.

Many Americans were "coming to New York to fix things," he noted. "We are glad for them. They will try to fix the buildings. We need that. And eventually they will leave. But when Jesus weeps, we see that he doesn't believe that the ministry of truth -- telling people how they should believe and turn to God -- or the ministry of fixing things is enough, does he? He also is a proponent of the ministry of tears. The ministry of truth and power without tears isn't Jesus."

This sermon contained major themes from the life and work of Keller, who died on May 19 death at age 72, after a three-year battle with Pancreatic cancer. Instead of seeking quick fixes, especially through politics, he kept urging conservative Protestants to stress compassion and face-to-face ministry, while continuing to defend centuries of Christian doctrine.

In Keller's case, that meant building a church for New Yorkers that addressed their blunt, exhausting, even cynical, concerns about life.

In that first sermon after 9/11, Keller noted that everyone had an opinion about New York City and America as a whole. Some were claiming that "God is punishing us" because of rampant immorality. Others said America had been judged because of social injustice and greed. Instead of blaming the victims, Keller said it was time to ask who would stand their ground and love their neighbors.

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Entering year 35 with 'On Religion' -- Demons, martyrs, violence, miracles in Colombia

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Entering year 35 with 'On Religion' -- Demons, martyrs, violence, miracles in Colombia

In one of her first encounters with violence linked to the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), Deann Alford heard, or felt, a bullet pass and slam into a door frame, with shrapnel striking a nearby woman and child.

The future journalist was both shocked and inspired by her contacts with Christians caught in that land's toxic climate of paramilitary warfare, narcotrafficking and kidnappings. She struggled to grasp how someone like pilot Russell Martin Stendal, after years held for ransom, could forgive his kidnappers and then start a missionary effort to convert them.

"Without his months as their hostage, I'm convinced he never could have reached the FARC," wrote Alford, in "Victorious: The Impossible Path to Peace," her blunt memoir about religious freedom in Colombia.

Stendal, she added, "has forgiven all. But I have not. ... In my quarter-century as a journalist, I've written dozens of articles about Colombian guerrilla groups' crimes against Christians, ranging from extortion to murder. Many of these stories regard crimes of the FARC, typically threatening and abducting church workers, missionaries and pastors, extorting them with offers they could not refuse."

Eventually, Alford realized that it wasn't enough to cover Colombia with telephone calls, faxes and Internet connections. She would have to put "boots on the ground" and return. "But I didn't. I was afraid. No, that word is too mild. I was terrified. I let the risk of being killed and kidnapped keep me away."

Alford's bottom line: "I told the Lord I would go anywhere for him but Colombia."

But she returned and, over years of contacts, her fears mixed with frustration. After working in secular newsrooms, as well as Christian publications and wire services, she couldn't understand why more people -- journalists and religious leaders -- could not see the importance of the faith stories unfolding, decade after decade, in Colombia.

This is another example of an important theme woven into my work with this "On Religion" column, with this week marking the start of my 35th year. Simply stated, many journalists do not "get" religion, in terms of grasping the role faith plays in many important events and trends stories.

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Raquel Welch finally found some peace in with believers in an ordinary church pew

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Raquel Welch finally found some peace in with believers in an ordinary church pew

The statuesque film legend didn't call attention to herself as she shared a pew with other conservative Presbyterians in their small church not far from Hollywood.

She was articulate when discussing theology and church matters and, from time to time, would offer advice on finances. She had learned a lot in the movie business.

Raquel Welch wasn't trying to hide, during the later decades of her life when she faithfully attended Calvary Presbyterian Church in Glendale, California. She was simply looking for people she could trust.

"She was careful. … She wasn't going to one of those 2,000-member churches where everyone would look at her. That wasn't her style," said the Rev. Christopher Neiswonger, who grew up in that congregation and attended nearby Fuller Theological Seminary. He now leads Graceview Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church in Southhaven, Mississippi.

"She also wasn't trying to stick her thumb in the eye of a Hollywood culture that she knew would denigrate this kind of faith commitment. … She was Raquel Welch, but she just wanted to be part of our church family."

Welch died on Feb. 15 at the age of 82, inspiring waves of tributes focusing on her iconic beauty in "Fantastic Voyage," "100 Rifles," "The Three Musketeers" and dozens of other movies and television programs. The legendary poster from "One Million Years B.C." framed her as a bombshell babe image for the ages.

In a Facebook tribute shared with other believers, Neiswonger called Welch a "wonderful lady and a fine Christian" whose "faith grew more powerful and practical with age. It's often true that the most important things become the most important to us as we've matured personally."

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Olasky flashback: Back to the evangelical clashes over character and two-party politics

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Olasky flashback: Back to the evangelical clashes over character and two-party politics

It was totally logical for the Southern Baptist Convention to pass its "Resolution on Moral Character of Public Officials" in 1998.

Consider this "whereas" clause: "Some journalists report that many Americans are willing to excuse or overlook immoral or illegal conduct by unrepentant public officials so long as economic prosperity prevails." This was followed by: "Tolerance of serious wrong by leaders sears the conscience of the culture, spawns unrestrained immorality and lawlessness in the society, and surely results in God's judgment."

Thus, the SBC urged American leaders to "live by the highest standards of morality both in their private actions and in their public duties."

Yes, this resolution passed soon after the infamous claim by President Bill Clinton, a Southern Baptist, that "I did not have sexual relations with that woman."

It was easy to predict who thought Clinton should exit the White House, noted conservative writer Marvin Olasky, who was writing "The American Leadership Tradition: Moral Vision from Washington to Clinton" at that time.

"In poker, you really don't know what cards someone has," said Olasky, reached by telephone. "You can't tell, with certainty, the character of a politician. … In that book, I argued that the state of a man's marriage was a strong tell. If he's faithful in his marriage, he's likely to be faithful to the nation."

Olasky's fellow religious conservatives praised the book. But things changed when he wrote a World magazine essay in 2016 entitled, "Unfit for power," arguing that Donald Trump should step aside as the Republican nominee.

"Clinton had denied having a sexual relationship with Monica Lewinsky, but her stained blue dress bearing Clinton's DNA was proof that he had used his power for adulterous purposes, and then lied about it," wrote Olasky. Then there was the videotape showing "Trump making lewd remarks about groping women's genitals. While many opponents … have criticized Trump's character, the video gave us new information about how Trump views power as a means to gratify himself."

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Why fairy stories still matter, in an age of secular myths and marvels

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Why fairy stories still matter, in an age of secular myths and marvels

Demons appear on movie screens all the time, but poet Richard Rohlin is convinced he has actually seen them at work when counseling young people whose search for meaning has driven them deep into experiments with sex, drugs and the occult.

"The stories that I can't tell would curl your toenails," he said, speaking at the Eighth Day Institute in Wichita, Kansas. "If you think that these spiritual realities are not still with us, you are deluding yourself. ... The magic is coming back into the world. Something is happening and it is not an unqualified good."

The young people he works with in Dallas are not interested in sermons and detailed descriptions of why their lives are broken. But they are open to fantasies, myths and tales -- ancient and modern -- about unseen, spiritual realities that interact with their lives.

Millions of Americans know where to find stories about angels, demons, warriors, seers, giants, demigods and heroic kings and queens. They head straight to movie theaters and cable television, where they find entire universes of content offering visions of fantastic worlds. The last place they would seek inspiration of this kind is in churches.

The irony is that some of these works draw inspiration from the fantasy classics celebrated in the ecumenical Eighth Day Institute's annual fall celebration of The Inklings, a mid-20th Century circle of Christian writers in Oxford, England, that included C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and others.

This year's lectures focused on Scottish writer George MacDonald, often called the "grandfather of the Inklings," who is best known for "Phantastes," "The Golden Key," "Lilith" and many other works. The festival included Celtic and folk musicians, along with workshops on topics such as "The Art of Making Mead" and "Publishing for the Moral Imagination."

The goal of MacDonald and The Inklings, noted Rohlin, was to reclaim an older vision of life in which physical realities corresponded to spiritual realities and nothing was considered purely material. The real divide was between "the seen and the unseen," not between the "spiritual and the material."

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Apostasy? That word led Bishop FitzSimons Allison out of the Episcopal Church

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Apostasy? That word led Bishop FitzSimons Allison out of the Episcopal Church

It has been three decades since the Rt. Rev. C. FitzSimons Allison took his first step away from his life as one of the Episcopal Church's strongest evangelical voices.

That tentative move took place in a small-group discussion during an Episcopal House of Bishops meeting in Kanuga, N.C., during his final year serving as the 12th bishop of the historic Diocese of South Carolina. The topic that day was, "Why are we dysfunctional?"

Allison attacked Episcopal priests and seminary professors who were openly proclaiming their faith in an ancient, erotic, divine spirit "older and greater" than the God of the Bible. There was, Allison said, a clear, ancient word for that -- "apostasy."

Other bishops said they had no problem accepting clergy who were testing the boundaries of ancient Christian doctrines.

After that clash, Allison remained in his pew and declined to share the consecrated bread and wine during a Holy Eucharist with the entire House of Bishops. He didn't publicly discuss this act of broken Communion for several years, but his silent protest was a poignant symbol of early cracks forming in the global Anglican Communion.

Now the 95-year-old bishop has officially resigned his status as an Episcopal bishop, making his departure official. Two weeks ago, he wrote U.S. Presiding Bishop Michael Curry to clarify that he had been received into the Anglican Church in North America -- a body recognized as valid by many Anglican bishops in Africa, Asia and the Global South, but not by the Archbishop of Canterbury or leaders in the U.S. Episcopal Church.

"Some people said that I didn't need to do this, because everyone knows where I stand," said Allison, reached by telephone. "But I felt, the way things have been going, that I still needed to make things official. That's just the way I am."

Allison was ordained as a priest in 1953 and then received a doctorate from Oxford University.

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Loretta Lynn's art put rhinestone feminism and Gospel truth in the same package

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Loretta Lynn's art put rhinestone feminism and Gospel truth in the same package

On many Sundays, Loretta Lynn sent her social-media followers a thought for the day from Scripture.

Two days before her death at her ranch in Hurricane Mills, Tenn., the 90-year-old country-music legend posted two verses, repeating the second verse to stress her point.

Lynn's final Instagram post said: "Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God. John 3:20-21"

The feisty superstar experienced plenty of darkness and light and shared the gritty details in a career that changed the role of women in Nashville. Lynn was raised poor in the Kentucky hills and spent years in church pews before she started singing in honky-tonks. Her husband Oliver "Dolittle" Lynn struggled with alcoholism, but they stuck together in a union that inspired songs about love and loyalty, as well as break-ups and fist fights, such as "Don't Come Home A-Drinkin' (With Lovin' On Your Mind)."

Lynn vowed to tell the truth about both sides of her life. She loved to sing hymns and gospel music, while critics hailed the rhinestone feminism of her hits such as "You Ain't Woman Enough," "The Pill," "Rated X" and "You're Looking at Country."

In her "Coal Miner's Daughter" memoir, Lynn described her faith journey: "I believed it all, but for some reason I was never baptized. After I started in music, I got away from going to church and reading the Bible. I believe I was living the way God meant me to, but I wasn't giving God the right attention."

In that same 1976 memoir, she added: "I'm trying to lead a good Christian life, especially since I got baptized two years ago. So there ain't too much spicy to tell about me -- just the truth." Christian Chronicle editor Bobby Ross, Jr., noted that she later added a strong kicker to that: "Nobody's perfect. The only one that ever was, was crucified.”

Anyone who explored the details of Lynn's life and music knew that she wasn't a good fit in the "elite feminist establishment" or among advocates of a "status-quo idea of domesticity," noted Russell Moore, Christianity Today's editor in chief.