My children don’t go to church.”
“Neither do mine.” 

The room was full of Christian college professors and pastors. To a person they were kind-hearted, thoughtful Christians – Reformed Journal readers. They care deeply about creation, racial reconciliation, social and economic inequality, and the proclamation of a gospel of grace. They’re welcoming if not affirming. And for many, their children aren’t participating in the beauty and brokenness of congregational life. 

Stories spilled out about how our children struggle with faith, busy professional lives, and trying to find a safe church in the age of Trump. Tales were told about an indifference to church and a gaping chasm of cultural irrelevance. There was empathy and encouragement, but there were no answers.

“My children don’t go to church.”

I was reminded of a “church lady” who sat in the second row every Sunday. She was a Sunday school teacher, fashioned herself as a writer, and wore hats on Easter. From my pulpit perch I’d often see her pushing away tears. When I asked why, she said she wept that her adult children weren’t interested in church. She felt pain, failure, and deep longing. It was a familiar lament. There are many parents in the church I serve who could join the chorus. The children of church-goers don’t always follow their parent’s pattern. 

The American church has responded to this reality by throwing everything it can think of against the wall: lite rock and laser lights with a TED talk, granola guitars and ancient-modern liturgies, creating a coffee shop or meeting in a brewery, doubling down on confessional certainty, standing against American culture, or waving the flag of church and state. Surely something will stick. Surely something will get our kids in church.  

The church leadership industry has a set of answers: authentic relationships, radical hospitality, accessible music, integrated digital marketing, and honest conversations. Feel free to add your own buzz words.

What struck me about the lament of these Reformed Journal readers was that they embodied those very values. They were authentic, artsy, and culturally attuned. Sure, they skewed older, but they were wise and winsome. It left me thinking, if their children aren’t going to church, we really are screwed. 

A few weeks after that confession-tinged conversation, I attended the funeral of a saint who died at 100. He’d lived through the Depression, served as a medic behind the lines in World War II, and was a high school teacher and coach. He lived a remarkable life. As part of “the greatest generation,” he was a builder, a believer, and a belonger. He lived his century in the shelter of a church community. 

The funeral service was lovely and I was struck by the thick sense of community. He didn’t traverse the hills and valleys of life without being surrounded by friend and family. The sanctuary was packed with people with whom he’d laughed, wept, and sang. He’d talked sports, debated scriptural interpretation, and sat through countless worship services with this community. He’d sacrificed time and resources for the sake of this community and he died in its embrace.   

Granted, there was a measure of cultural pressure for this dear old saint to participate in congregational life. And there’s clearly no longer any such cultural pressure.  Sunday morning yoga, brunch with friends, or chasing after youth sporting events can feel freeing and intoxicating. Quite frankly for young parents there’s probably more pressure to skip communal worship than to participate. 

And granted, there are all sorts of reasons to deconstruct faith and the regular ridiculousness of the contemporary church. There are all sorts of reasons to wrestle with the nature of belief in a complex multi-faith world. There are all sorts of reasons to find community on our own terms. But there is something meaningful lost in walking away from congregational life. I don’t know how to get our children to church, but I know that some sustaining strength is slipping away.  

I’m confident that our children will find community in other places. I know it to be true in my own children’s lives. However, part of what’s lost is a community that’s gathered around a shared story. What’s lost is a community rooted in something bigger than entertainment, an appreciation of creation, common interests and friendship. For all of the church’s flaws and foibles it still engages the mystery of the incarnation. It still proclaims the way and will of God in Christ. It still gathers around the sacraments. At its best the church offers a community that seeks to love God and love neighbor, to serve God and serve neighbor. 

Maybe the answer is as simple as our children re-ordering their priorities, but that seems akin to blaming the victim. Sometimes I hang my hopes on the demise of denominationalism creating a space wherein new structures might emerge, but that feels one step removed from the person-to-person commitment of worship, Bible study, fellowship, and service. And no matter the size or shape those seem essential to being the church. 

I don’t have answers. I took some solace in not being alone in that conversation of pastors and professors. I know there are all sorts of churches for all sorts of people and the Gospel has weathered harder times. I know that we need to listen to our kid’s questions and concerns. And we need to keep a light on. But in the meantime, I’ll long for the day when generation to generation we’re gathered to marry and bury, baptize and bless in a local congregation. 

Editor’s Note: this is the first in a brief series on adult children and faith that will run for the next four days. Check back to see what Tom Boogaart, Sara Tolsma, and Steve Mathonnet-VanderWell add to the conversation.