Ned has attended the same church for more than four decades. He was, by all accounts, a crabby little kid who grew into a crabby young man. After his religious conversion, he joined the church and became a crabby Christian.
He gives no evidence of uncertainty in his faith. He believes the Bible from cover to cover, and he believes the cover is genuine leather. But there doesn’t seem to be any record over the last forty years of Ned ever changing his disposition, his mind, his expression, or his pew.
He complained to me one day about the lack of commitment of young people in the church, and he launched into a litany of his own daily devotional habits.
But Ned, I thought, You’re still crabby. You’ve crabbed your way through 14,200 quiet times without changing. What’s the point of doing all this religious activity and still being the crabgrass in the ecclesiastical lawn?
Harold, on the other hand, had the kind of experience people write books about. Marital problems, a history of substance abuse, and unemployment finally drove him to church. The first week he sat in the back row-he had grown up in another religious tradition (long since discarded), and the cross at the front of the church bothered him.
But he returned, the next Sunday bringing a Bible.
Then he started rising at 4:00 A.M. to read it. In a few months, he made a Christian commitment, was baptized, joined a small group, and got involved in ministry.
Harold’s life changed so abruptly I wondered if it would stick. But now, several years later, according to his wife, his children, his friends, and Harold himself, he is a new man.
The potential for change lies at the heart of what it means to be human. Thoreau wrote, “I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by conscious endeavor.” Those of us who work for churches are in the business of enabling conversion at its deepest level.
And yet to change is hard. St. Paul wrote that he knew of no more discouraging fact than his inability to elevate his life by conscious endeavor. “For the good that I would, I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do.” And to change profoundly, to fully live out the reality of being “a new creature,” is the hardest thing of all.
From the beginning of my ministry, I’ve wanted to produce people in whom Christ-like qualities are progressively being formed. But too often I realized that people were not really changing. On the whole, crabby people stayed crabby and envious people kept envying and controlling types kept wanting control; there were cliques and power struggles and unresolved conflicts typical of any group of human beings. These characteristics often co-existed year after year with church attendance and Bible reading and all sorts of activities usually associated with Christian growth.
It is probably unrealistic to expect all conversion stories to be as dramatic as Harold’s. One kiss does not always turn the frog into a prince. But shouldn’t we at least be producing kinder, gentler frogs?
I doubt we’re the only congregation wrestling with this. More than 25 percent of Americans claim to have had some kind of Christian conversion, leading William Iverson to remark, “A pound of meat would surely be affected by a quarter pound of salt. If this is real Christianity, the ‘salt of the earth,’ where is the effect of which Jesus spoke?”
In a recent interview, George Gallup said only a small minority of those within the church have experienced what he called “a deeply transforming faith.” He said that, apart from this small minority, “one reason that Christianity hasn’t grown the way it should is that people don’t see Christians as that different from the rest of the population.”
The Roper polling organization recently reported that having a conversion experience doesn’t necessarily lead to transformation: people claiming to be “born-again Christians” reported increases in drunk driving, use of illegal drugs, and adultery after their conversions. In a few cases, no doubt, the conversion wasn’t genuine. But how do we explain the others? Perhaps their conversion prompted them to greater honesty in their reporting, or perhaps they were now more aware of shortcomings in their lives. Still, the direction of the poll is troubling.
So I began to think about how our church might help people really change. First, though, I had to decide what exactly is supposed to change with conversion.
What’s Not Likely to Change
Some areas of a person’s life are not likely to ever change. IQ scores will probably not increase, introverts will normally not turn into flaming extroverts, thinkers will not often become touchy-feely, income levels are not likely to climb (unless someone converts from Baptist to Episcopalian).
One of our women, who yearned for intimacy with her husband, was upset that even after her reserved husband became a Christian, he still had trouble talking deeply or personally with her. She was hoping for a husband who looked like Troy Donahue and talked like Phil Donahue, but conversion doesn’t seem to produce that kind of change.
Conversion seems to respect the raw materials we start with. It might turn a Saul into Paul, or a Simon into Peter; it’s not likely to turn a Rosanne Barr into Thomas Aquinas.
On the other hand, some elements of a person’s life are changed easily, but the change doesn’t really run deep enough to count as conversion.
Some time ago, my wife and I visited a crowded church. As we searched for a seat, a woman got up and graciously offered us her place. An hour later, as we leisurely drove out of the parking lot, a driver behind us honked angrily and gestured impatiently. When I looked back, I recognized her: she was the woman who had offered us her seat. I wondered, How could Mother Theresa turn into Zsa Zsa Gabor so quickly? Her Christ-like qualities inside the church had completely vanished in the parking lot.
Conversion must have a certain depth and permanence about it. A layer of veneer can make plywood more attractive, but it can’t turn it into mahogany.
What Does Change at Conversion
Theologically, we understand that conversion and regeneration mean a change in our position before God. We’ve been moved from death to life, from guilt to grace. We have been credited with Christ’s righteousness. No change can be more dramatic or significant than that.
Conversion changes our very being-not just what we do, but who we are. True conversion goes deep. Authentic conversion means the formation of new character-the character of Christ.
We look Christian even when we’re not aware we’re being watched. It’s not difficult for us to project for a few minutes an image while people watch. That’s like holding in your stomach while being photographed. But genuine conversion shows up even when a person doesn’t know anyone is watching.
So how can we know if we’re producing truly converted people? How can we monitor character?
Spiritual growth is hard to quantify. Psychologists can’t even agree on how to measure emotional health or gauge how therapy helps people change; spiritual maturity seems forever beyond the ken of paper-and-pencil tests or double-blind studies. And yet, when you meet it in a person, spiritual depth is unmistakable.
We may not even be the best judge of our own change. Some people try hair styles so new and different that they’re convinced no one will recognize them, only to have the change go unnoticed by their closest friends. Changes that seem drastic to us often don’t seem so to others.
I realized some time ago that I tend to become preoccupied with my own tasks, often undercutting valued relationships (my wife calls it “wearing blinders”). I had been working on this for several months, and I began feeling proud of the headway I had made. Then a friend took me out for lunch.
“I wonder sometimes,” he said, “whether our friendship really counts with you. I often get a sense when I’m with you that you’re someplace else. I feel frustrated trying to get you to listen to me.”
It was a painful conversation, in part because the very area I thought was changing most was where he felt most let down.
But this little incident also showed me that what does change at conversion is the direction of our lives. Conversion doesn’t mean to have Christian character in toto. The emphasis is on developing Christian character. The fact that I’m aiming to “consider others more important than myself” is a change that conversion has brought.
As I seek to discern my people’s spiritual condition, then, I’ve found it helpful to focus more on the bullseye than on the edge of the target.
In Scripture we see a persistent conflict between what are called the “boundary” and “centered” approaches to spirituality. Those concerned with the boundary try to distinguish the sheep from the goats by examining certain highly visible behaviors and beliefs. In Paul’s time religious leaders often used circumcision, dietary laws, and Sabbath keeping to separate the in-group from the out-group.
Today the boundaries are marked around lifestyle issues, doctrinal positions, or denominational affiliation. I grew up in a tradition in which the “truly converted” sometimes envied, resented, and gossiped, but they never smoked, drank, swore, or voted Democrat.
But others in Scripture sought a centered spirituality, seeking cultivating first the kingdom and cultivating the fruit of the Spirit. They looked not for conformed people or informed people but transformed people. They concentrated not on people’s position inside or outside a boundary but their movement toward or away from the center. They focused not on the edge of the target, but the bullseye.
The Old Testament term for conversion is most often used to describe a physical turning, an orienting of oneself in a new direction. And the gauge of change doesn’t lend itself to quantifiable measurement, but it does come from a reliable source: “By their fruit”-the everyday, ordinary actions that flow from and reflect the heart-“you shall know them.”
So a starting place for the leadership team at our church was to at least identify the target.
Gauging Movement Toward the Center
It helps to remind myself that no matter how many people the church attracts or how much money we raise or what size facilities we build (and we have few people, little money, and no building at all since we’re a recent church plant), the task is to grow a community of transformed people. If people are not more loving, joyful, peaceful, gentle, more concerned for the poor and oppressed than they were a year ago, we’ve lost.
And the single most helpful indicator for me is the most frightening: Am I myself more like Christ today than I was a year ago? If I’m not changing, there’s a good chance the people I minister to are not either; you can’t give what you don’t have.
This means I have to ask myself certain questions that help me zero in on the target. Am I less preoccupied with myself today than I was a year ago? Am I less threatened by criticism? Am I less hurried, less angry? Has my need to be “right” diminished? Are my relationships healthier? Do I laugh more, reflect more? Do I have a deeper sense of the presence of God? Is the way I spend time and money more in line with the kingdom?
And not only do I have to ask myself these questions; I need to get feedback on them from trusted friends as well.
The second most helpful indicator is to look at how we are treating one another within the body.
When Jesus said, “Your idle words will condemn you,” he wasn’t saying we should only engage in solemn and utilitarian conversation. He meant our character-our soul-would be revealed not in crisis moments when we know others are watching. Character is revealed in the routine events of ordinary life when we’re not trying to be particularly religious or admirable or anything other than who we really are. It is in those unguarded moments when the heart expresses its true nature.
Sam Reeves is chairman of the board of trustees at Fuller Theological Seminary. He decided to invest himself in Fuller when he witnessed one of those unguarded moments in David Hubbard.
Twenty years ago Hubbard, the school’s president, spent the weekend at Sam’s home, among other reasons, to convince him to join the board. Sam had already decided to say no, yet he didn’t know quite how to tell Dr. Hubbard.
He needed some time alone, so he rose at 6:00 A.M., earlier than normal for a Sunday morning. He made his way downstairs, and as he did, he heard noises from below. He peeked into the family room and saw Dr. Hubbard (who had gotten up even earlier to study and write) on the floor playing with Sam’s 2-year-old daughter (who had gotten up earliest of all).
Sam was startled. For a moment that no one was intended to see or know about, Dr. Hubbard was not an Old Testament scholar or the president of a seminary or a globe-trotting speaker and author; he was someone that may be of even more value in the kingdom: he was a 2-year-old’s playmate. That impressed Sam more than any long-range plan or institutional vision statement ever could. He changed his mind and became a member of the board.
Likewise, I learn about the effectiveness of my ministry by watching people in the parking lot rather than in the pews.
Helping People Get Centered
Once the goal became clearer, we had to devise a strategy for getting there. Over the years I’ve helped develop strategies for stewardship and evangelistic campaigns, but until recently I had never sat down and precisely thought through how a church could intentionally help people be transformed, to become like Christ.
We, like most churches, affirm that the Holy Spirit alone produces true conversion. However, I’m convinced that the Spirit also uses people to accomplish his purposes.
Dallas Willard writes: “Ask your own church, ‘What is our group’s plan for teaching our people to do everything Christ commanded?’ The fact is that our existing churches and denominations do not have active, well-designed, intently pursued plans to accomplish this in their members. Just as you will not find any national leader today who has a plan for paying off the national debt, so you will not find any widely influential element of our church leadership that has a plan-not a vague wish or dream, but a plan-for implementing all phases of the Great Commission.”
Churches interested in making disciples, in developing “full-conversion strategies,” have some resources to draw on. For instance, an organization called Renovare offers churches a practical strategy for spiritual growth by encouraging people to draw daily on several great streams of Christian spirituality: the contemplative tradition, the holiness tradition, the social justice tradition, the charismatic tradition, and the evangelical tradition.
Richard Foster talks about the difference between “training versus trying” to live like Christ. If I haven’t trained to run a marathon, when the moment of the race comes, I’m not going to make it, no matter how hard and sincerely I try. I must first make certain preparations. And trying to live like Christ is at least as hard as trying to run a race.
So we decided that if the standard we place before people is to live the way Jesus lived, we must offer them the opportunity to train the way he trained-by practicing solitude, silence, acts of service, study, and so on. It means we have to provide instruction on how to use these disciplines to actually change.
Small groups have become for us a place where people can not only experience support and teaching but also work on reordering their lives and character. Our primary strategy is helping our small group leaders embrace the spiritual disciplines; once they’ve experienced some transformation, they’ll be able and ready to help the people in their groups do the same.
In addition, we tell people the most important part of our small group experience is what results outside the meeting in people’s everyday lives. In particular, we’ve found people change the most during and immediately after times of crisis-divorce, death of a loved one, abuse, financial disaster, and so on.
Converting Crises
All forms of life seek homeostasis, human beings most of all. Crisis events are the periodic snooze alarms that keep us from dozing through life. They remind us of what we spend most of our lives trying to forget: our mortality, our fragility, our essential aloneness. Crises can blind, but they can also illumine.
That is why crisis times can be key moments for conversions-big ones and little ones. Faith, if it is to be formed at all, is usually formed on potter’s wheels and hardened in fiery furnaces.
But crises only provide the context for the development of faith. If a church has not already provided resources to help people, when the crisis comes, it will leave people feeling more alienated than before.
One resource already available in most churches is a network of people who have suffered a crisis themselves. They are often highly motivated to help others going through the same difficulties.
One couple lost their 27-year-old son to cancer. On top of that loss, they found that the experience distanced them from many well-meaning people, even Christians: many people simply did not know how to “mourn with those who mourn” and felt extremely uncomfortable around those grieving.
But this double crisis ended up transforming this couple. They began reaching out to others who had lost children. They not only found this to be the single greatest source of healing in their own lives but a way to help others be transformed as well.
So one of my goals as pastor is to help put people together with others who can help them through the painful events of life they happen to be facing. As a result, the Spirit brings about some remarkable conversions from time to time.
Nobody seemed a less likely candidate for conversion than Al. He was not actively hostile about faith; he had a record of thirty-five years of apathy with gusts of mild scorn. His wife and daughter were no longer sure how or even if to pray for him.
He was six months from an early retirement that he had been looking forward to for years when his doctor told him he had cancer. He was not likely to make it to retirement, the doctor said, and certainly would not live much beyond it.
Suddenly there was a new openness in Al. He and his family began to talk about things they had not discussed much before, and a number of people from his wife’s church reached out. He soon chose to belong to God.
He did not become a Martin Luther or a Martin Luther King, Jr. He mounted no great crusades and joined no great causes. He remained emotionally reserved. But a kind of tenderness grew in him: he mentioned worrying about his wife; he held his grandchildren.
He even prayed with me-this had been unthinkable before. In fact, he said, “Let’s do it this way” and grabbed my hand while we prayed. He did not become a saint, an unblemished model of health and wholeness. But he wanted to know God. He became a kinder, gentler Al. I know. I saw him up close. He was my wife’s father.
There is still no greater miracle than a changed life.
Copyright © 1991 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
