The Question We Avoid

There is a familiar reassurance we offer ourselves each year while preparing our Christmas, Easter, or some other big event:
If even one person gets saved, it will all be worth it.

We say it sincerely.
And yet, I find myself lingering over the question beneath it.

Really?

What if the measure of faithfulness is not the scale of our productions, but the depth of our formation? What if the greatest impact of the church is not found in moments we stage, but in lives that have been patiently shaped?

I wonder what might happen if even a small portion of the resources we devote to special days were redirected toward ordinary faithfulness—toward equipping people to love their neighbors, to listen well, to speak with humility, to practice the presence of God in everyday places.

I realize that this is a tall order. These “Special Services” bring people in the door. These people bring money. And money is necessary for the church-as-a-business to function. But at what cost? Many of the people who are attracted to these big events are genuinely impressed by the spectacle. Some return the following week and are disappointed to learn that church isn’t always a big show. Even after several subsequent visits, they find that the emotional high isn’t repeated. They then leave with a distorted vision of what church is. Sadly, many never return.

The training that would equip our members to do the actual, nitty-gritty, in the streets and communities, work of the church isn’t flashy. It won’t attract “lost” people. And it won’t—in the short term at least—keep the lights on.

The careful sharpening of our congregation—allowing them to be shaped into effective carriers of the gospel of Jesus Christ in their world—would reap huge benefits. Some would move through their communities equipped to help ease the suffering of their poorest neighbors. Others would learn to listen well and observe carefully, developing eyes to perceive real and present needs. Still others would be trained to teach practical, marketable skills.

All would be given the opportunity to grow in communication—learning how to speak about their faith with clarity, humility, and love. Emphasis would be placed on shared testimony, allowing those who are experiencing God’s faithfulness in their neighborhoods to speak into the larger community, strengthening both faith and courage in one another.

The effect would probably begin slowly, but in time, the members of our congregation would gain the confidence to truly live their faith in their homes, communities, schools, and workplaces. The result would be people being drawn to Jesus—not through spectacle, but through proximity to lives quietly transformed. Growth would come not from a handful of productions each year, but from ordinary believers faithfully leading others to Christ. Then, like the church in Acts, they would see God “adding to their numbers daily those who were being saved.”

So I return to the question: what if the work of the church looked less like an event and more like a way of life?

I wonder how many quiet acts of love might take root if our primary focus shifted—from gathering crowds to forming people; from hoping someone responds to an invitation, to preparing God’s people to live sent lives wherever they already are.

The question is not whether celebration matters.
It does.

But I keep returning to this: what if the greatest witness of the church is not what happens a few times a year, but what happens faithfully, patiently, and unseen in between?