What if they don't want it?
Making sense of the generational shift in the church + what we can do about it
I’m stuck in the middle of a generational existential shift, hundreds of years in the making. Somehow, I feel both perfectly suited for the moment and I really don’t like it.
As our older generations age out of leadership and active participation in organizational life, I feel their anxiety as they look around wondering who is going to pick up the baton that’s about to fall out of their hands. Their grief is palpable. Of course it is. This is a major life transition to journey.
As younger generations rise, I feel their anxiety as they look around wondering why they’d want to pick up the baton in the first place. What does it mean? What if they want to do it differently?
I sit in the middle of this tension holding that stupid baton. The one that no one actually seems to want. Problem is, I think they all care. A lot.
One end of the baton is full of profound memories that nourished people for decades. Ways of doing things that felt meaningful. Systems and patterns that made sense. A ton of assumptions of “this is how we do things.”
The other end of the baton holds an intriguing dynamic. It presents as indifference but underneath it’s a mix of fear and curiosity. I sense younger generations genuinely want to contribute and lead. But the baton being handed to them looks nothing like the world they understand.
I stand in the middle of generations speaking wildly different languages. Each one feeling the angst, disappointment, frustration, and fear of what’s coming next.
One wants the new leaders to do it their way.
The other doesn’t even understand why a baton is getting dropped into their hands.
The unhealthy coping part of me wants to fix this for everyone involved. Anxiety rises in my body as I sense the angst in the system. I run back and forth, listening to each generations’ concerns and frustration, searching my brain for ways to make everyone happy.
…Right.
The healthier part of me knows all I can do is bear witness to it, invite people into spaces to share their stories, help people grieve what’s been, and listen together for new ways of being human as we journey forward.
What if?
The organization I’m serving in this chapter of life is wrestling with these very questions. We sit around old tables and folding chairs in leaky roof buildings and wonder, “How might we hand this off to the next generation?” The scary question under the question that few want to ask, let alone answer:
What if they don’t want it?
This question’s been rumbling in my bones for years.
I’ve been trying to find the words for this letter since I started seminary in 2007. I had the sneaking suspicion I was getting trained for a job that was rapidly changing. In fact, I started asking serious questions about the specific denomination I was signing on to represent: the United Methodist Church.
In what can only be described as a clearly autistic drive to search out the truth because I could feel everything that wasn’t being named, I borrowed a video camera from my seminary and bought a plane ticket to General Conference 2008 to film a documentary. *Cringe.* I walked around the Ft. Worth conference center recording interviews with any bishop, church leader, or staff member who would talk to me. What gives you hope about the United Methodist Church?
I returned from General Conference with hope and fire in my bones. I saw the problems. But there was such possibility coursing through my veins. It propelled me through grad school, commissioning paperworks, interviews, psychological exams, and right to Alaska to serve my first official appointment as a pastor.
A year later, I sat in a room full of pastors as my bishop at the time pulled up a slide on the screen about the decline of the United Methodist Church. The data was clear. The generational shifts were undeniable. Sustainability was already in question.
I’m sure there were people innovating and leading with hope. But my nervous system picked up a very different emotion.
Fear and terror.
An entire way of being, of arranging ourselves, was slowly dying.
To be abundantly clear — the beautiful news of a gracious creator of life who loves humanity with such fierceness that all of creation is invited to flourish — that was still true.
But the container
method
system
culture
was dying.
And I couldn’t figure out why few wanted to talk about it.
Now it’s somehow 2024 and I’m 42 years old. There are a few wrinkles and gray hairs. My soul’s got a bit of a limp but my heart still lights up when someone sees themselves in the eyes of Love. The trees sing when someone advocates for another whose been silenced. When we redistribute our resources so all have enough, heaven rejoices. When we speak truth to those who hoard power, Love smiles. When one deep in shame feels set free to stop hiding, joy abounds. The Jesus story is still true for me today.
Which is why I still sit in the tension of the fear and terror that grips my beloved faith tradition.
They’re sitting on such a beautiful story of what it means to be human together in community, and it’s almost invisible at times.
What’s the fear really about?
My two cents.
It’s grief. What used to “work” in the church doesn’t work anymore. How does one release that when what used to work is tied to comforting core memories. If we let go of being the church in this way, does that mean we’re also losing our past? I don’t think so. But I have compassion for the moments those two feel one in the same.
It’s uncertainty & confusion. If we only know one or two ways of doing something, that’s as big as our imagination can see. What if we get to practice curiosity at all the wild new ways something could be done?
It’s exhaustion. People are tired. It’s hard to imagine, strategize, and implement something brand new when the former ways use to work.
We’re mixing up mission & method. Our mission is forever intertwined with this beautiful story of love and justice. That never changes. But our methods? Of course they change. But you wouldn’t know that looking at most of our communities.
We’re afraid. It’s scary to let go. What if the new way feels different? What if it’s so different that I can’t relate to it?
My bishop’s two cents
Bishop Cedrick Bridgeforth is our fantastic new episcopal leader in the Greater Northwest. He was recently asked a question during a Q&A: “How do we get young people into the church?”
I found his answer insightful and honest about not just the church, but it rings true for many types of organizations in this season.
It’s so scary to let go of something (or someone) we love. Problem is — if we don’t, our death grip on the situation, a person, a way of doing things, or a chapter in our lives will kill it.
Fear is a powerful thing.
But so is Love.
I sat in a local coffee shop down the street recently with a congregant and leader in our denomination. We got to talking about buildings, sustainability, and generational shifts. I heard myself say, “Younger generations don’t need the church buildings.”
Oof.
I’m a part of a brilliant group of young adults who meet in our home, coffee shops, and online. We don’t need the church building to exist, connect, or grow together.
Maybe it’s really okay to ask the bold intriguing questions about turning our church properties into affordable housing for our community while creating meeting spaces on the first floor where faith communities can gather for part of their work.
My beloved readers — It is okay to open our hands and release what’s been. The meaning and memory is still real. The experiences were profound and letting go never diminishes that. Here’s to making room for Love to do new things for new people.
Almost like this entire thing is about transformation in the first place. May it be so.
Books
From the Thread Archives
Like sand at the beach: A poem honoring the last moments of a life season
How a group of humans showed me I could begin again: When love surprises our shame
I don't think the church wants you to know this: A poem on the church getting out of its own way
This idea of rethinking how we "do church" is something I have also been pondering for awhile. I recently encountered a situation where the response to the question "how can we bring more people in?" was to remember what was done in the 1970's, and my first thought was "if we did that now, people would run for the exits!". Times have changed, but for those of us in the "senior" age bracket, it is hard to envision what meaningful worship would look like and feel like if it wasn't in a sanctuary with a structured (i.e., comfortable) service and music that we have sung our entire lives. I see the value of the approach many churches are taking to help address the unhoused crisis by tearing down their buildings and creating a multi-purpose space that primarily provides affordable housing and social services, and my heart warms at the thought that churches are helping their communities in this way. I also feel a pang of grief at the thought of so many beautiful sacred spaces being taken down, and the disappearance of recognizable houses of worship in our landscape. I guess maybe I need to reset my own vision of what God is calling us all to do and be in this world: not a building or a process, but a light.
Jenny, I enjoyed what you wrote and what the Bishop said. Letting go of control means letting go of outcomes and that is scary. We're afraid that one day we'll come back and there will be weeds in the yard, holes in the roof, and squatters occupying the building. We want to control our heirs from the grave. We lack faith that God will bless the path of generations that follow us like we believe he did ours. In the end love trumps buildings, and methods, and committees. and egos. Even though I'm afraid, I agree..."Here’s to making room for Love to do new things for new people."