I grew up in a pretty average-sized church. There was no such thing as a mega-church at the time, of course, but there were definitely larger congregations in my hometown. At our church there were typically around a hundred seventy-five people in the sanctuary on Sunday mornings—maybe even three hundred at Christmas and Easter—and it seemed like a perfect size to me.
Now, of course, I’m a little (a lot) older, and our family belongs to a very big church. We average somewhere around twelve hundred people just in the eleven o’clock service, and between our three Sunday services, probably three thousand people worship at our church every week. A regular Sunday is ten times the size of an Easter Sunday crowd when I was growing up.
There’s actually a good reason why I’ve been thinking about this particular topic. Last weekend I visited my hometown church for a special service, and there were maybe a hundred twenty-five folks sitting in the pews that were home to me for so many years.
Well, about ten minutes into the service, someone started to cough. The coughing was sporadic but persistent, and after the fourth or fifth coughing spell, I couldn’t help but smile.
I know that probably sounds so strange, but my reaction was totally sincere. I meant it. Because this is the reality: when you’re part of a smaller congregation and someone starts to cough, it’s usually pretty easy to identify who might be having a hard time. It’s easy to pass that person a mint or a cough drop. It’s easy to check on him or her later.
And as I thought about the gentleman who was coughing a few pews over—about the care and concern he would no doubt encounter before he left that sanctuary—I thought, Well, this is beautiful.
It’s not that we can’t look out for each other in big churches. Of course we can. We do. But my Sunday morning in my hometown church reminded me of the grace of being able to take care of each other in small, everyday ways—like when someone is in the middle of a coughing fit, of all things—because, well, it means we’re close enough to notice. It means we’re close enough to help.
I’m certainly not trying to make a case for one kind of church being better than another. I’m just saying we don’t have to lose the gift of small even if our church isn’t. And in a world where we’re often drawn to what’s big and spacious and roomy—where we sometimes seek out environments where we have plenty of personal space—I think it’s good for us to remember there are some real benefits when real life happens in quarters that are a little more cramped.
That doesn’t mean you have to go to a smaller church. Maybe it just means you need to find a smaller group within your church where your coughing, so to speak, won’t go unnoticed. Sure, it’s not always comfortable. Sometimes you may long for a little more room to stretch and breathe. But as you check up on each other and take care of each other and share a cough drop or two, you’ll see how something small—fueled by the hope of the gospel—can create something much bigger: big purpose, big mission, big love.
In Jesus’ name.
1. What has your church experience been like in the past? Small church? Big church? No church? Talk about that a little bit.
2. Why do you think we can get so “antsy,” for lack of a better word, about being in close community? Why does it bug us sometimes?
3. At this point in your life, are you part of a local church? Why or why not?
4. How can our care for each other within the church affect and impact people outside the church?
Today’s Prayer