by Joel V Webb | Nov 10, 2025 | Theology & Practice
One of the many things that I have been hearing in a variety of church circles the last couple years is the question, “what makes our church welcoming to an outsider?” And I believe this question comes from a good place, because we want to see people encounter Jesus and have their lives transformed. What this has often led to is taking the how we do our church services, and adapt them to what we think will be welcoming. The question that always remains is, “does this actually work”. While I have my own thoughts (which we will get to shortly), a few months ago I stumbled across a Youtube channel that really answers that question; “what does it look like when an atheist visits church?”
Go into Youtube and type in “atheist church audit”, and what will immediately pop up is the channel Heliocentric, where the host Jared, who is an atheist, goes and visits a wide range of churches. He has been to Evangelical, Baptist, Roman Catholic, Orthodox, Pentecostal, and has even made his way into Mormon and Jehovah Witness’ meetings. While his videos do at times use some foul language, the insights that he brings to what it is like to visit these churches is invaluable. While Jared is an atheist, he says very regularly that he may not believe in God, but he loves religion. And here’s where there’s a fascinating turn of events, Jared was at one point a Christian in ministry.
Coming from a charismatic background, Jared was at one point even in ministry through Michael Brown’s Fire School of Ministry. Through several videos, Jared talks about his deconstruction process, and how unhelpful and unhealthy tendencies and practices eventually led to his deconstruction. (I encourage you to watch those videos, they are very eyeopening to help us see those unhealthy things that have led so many people from my generation to deconstruct their faith). And yet, while no longer following Jesus, believing that He is real, Jared still has a love for religion, what it does, both in the positive and negative. And it is this mindset that he brings to every church he visits. He looks at the things that we often don’t think about. What does everything look like to someone who does not believe it? And this is honestly helpful.
What I found most fascinating in Jared’s videos is that, over time, he began to recognize that not all churches feel the same — and that the ones he personally found most meaningful weren’t the big, flashy, “seeker-friendly” services that we often assume outsiders will prefer. Quite the opposite. Time and again, Jared expresses appreciation for smaller, more traditional, even “old-fashioned” services. Why? Because they feel real.
In his reviews, the large, concert-style churches often left him feeling like he had walked into a production; polished, but impersonal. The sermons could sound more like motivational talks than sacred moments. In contrast, when Jared walked into a small liturgical church, or a traditional congregation with a modest sanctuary and a prayerful tone, he consistently described a sense of peace, reverence, and honesty. Even though he doesn’t share the faith, he notices when people believe what they’re doing matters. The authenticity of worship, not the size of the crowd or the quality of the lighting, is what reaches him.
He often notes that in traditional services, there is a sense of “something ancient” happening, a feeling that what’s taking place isn’t merely for the people in the room, but is connected to generations before. When he steps into an Orthodox liturgy, a Catholic Mass, or even a small Anglican or Lutheran parish, he finds himself respecting the intentionality and gravity of the moment. He says things like, “I don’t believe any of this, but I can tell these people do.” That statement might seem small, but it’s incredibly revealing. Authentic faith doesn’t need to be marketed; it needs to be embodied.
What Jared finds helpful, and what many disenchanted seekers might also find, is not entertainment but encounter. When a church service is smaller, slower, and more reverent, it allows room for reflection. It allows the beauty of the prayers, Scripture, and sacraments to speak for themselves. There’s no pressure to “perform,” only to participate. Ironically, the services least designed to impress outsiders often end up being the most welcoming, precisely because they invite people into something deeper than themselves.
Jared’s experience raises a convicting question for us as Christians: Have we tried so hard to make outsiders comfortable that we’ve stripped away the very mystery that might draw them in? Perhaps what truly welcomes someone isn’t familiarity, but sincerity, not entertainment, but the palpable sense that God is among His people.
If we take Jared’s experiences seriously, they should cause us to pause and reevaluate how we think about being “welcoming.” Many churches, often with good intentions, have tried to remove anything that might seem strange or old-fashioned to a first-time visitor. We shorten prayers, simplify rituals, minimize silence, and replace hymns with songs that sound like the radio. We trade mystery for familiarity, hoping that if people feel at home culturally, they’ll be more open spiritually. But as Jared’s perspective shows, the opposite can often be true.
For someone like him, who doesn’t share the faith but is genuinely curious, it’s not the slick presentation or “relatable” atmosphere that stands out. It’s the weight of something sacred. It’s walking into a small chapel where candles are burning, where the Scriptures are read slowly and reverently, where prayers are ancient yet alive, and where people kneel and stand as though what’s happening actually matters. That difference communicates more than any marketing strategy could. It says, “This isn’t just our weekly gathering, this is holy ground.”
This is not to say that contemporary or creative expressions of worship have no place. But what Jared’s “atheist audits” reveal is that authenticity cannot be fabricated. The most powerful thing we can do to welcome outsiders may be to worship God as if He is truly present, because He is. The church’s task is not to mirror the world, but to reveal a Kingdom that is not of this world.
When we worship with reverence, when our liturgies are filled with Scripture and sacrament, when our communities are small enough for names to be known and prayers to be shared, people like Jared, even without belief, can sense that something real is taking place. And for those quietly searching, that sense of reality might just be the first whisper of grace.
Perhaps the best thing we can offer our modern, skeptical neighbors isn’t a show that looks like everything else, but a glimpse of something wholly other, something ancient, beautiful, and true. The very things we fear might push people away might be what draws them home.
For pastors and worship leaders, Jared’s reflections offer a kind of mirror, an unexpected gift from outside the household of faith. They remind us that people are not looking for another version of what the world already offers; they are searching for something real, something that whispers of eternity. Our call is not to compete with entertainment or comfort, but to cultivate holiness and presence.
If the goal of worship is to help people encounter God, then our services should be less about reducing the strangeness of the sacred and more about inviting people into it. The smells of candles, the cadence of Scripture, the rhythm of prayer, the taste of bread and wine, these are not barriers to newcomers, they are bridges. They engage the whole person, body and soul, in the mystery of grace.
So perhaps the question is not, “How do we make church more welcoming?” but rather, “How do we help people recognize that they are being welcomed into something holy?” The small, traditional, reverent service may not impress the crowd, but it might just open a heart.
On another note, Jared’s story of deconstruction, while painful to hear, is also an opportunity for the Church to pause and reflect, not to compromise the Gospel, but to examine how we have lived it. His journey reminds us that many who leave the faith are not rejecting Christ Himself, but distorted or shallow versions of Him that they encountered in unhealthy church cultures. When we listen to stories like his with humility, we are not abandoning conviction; we are allowing the light of the Gospel to expose where our witness has fallen short. Deconstruction, in that sense, can become a refining fire, a moment to return to the simplicity and beauty of the faith “once delivered to the saints,” grounded not in hype or manipulation, but in the person of Jesus Christ, the Truth who still holds out His wounded hands to a weary world.
Because in the end, what transforms people is not style, but substance, not performance, but Presence. And when that Presence is felt, even an atheist can walk away saying, “I don’t believe in this… but I can tell they do.”
by Joel V Webb | Nov 3, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
Recently I did a post about the need to refocus the role of pastors (derived from presbyter in the NT and also called priest in some traditions) back to its historic and Scriptural role of being a priest, rather than a business leader. Since then I have been thinking again about the roles of leadership in the Church, and that of deacon came to mind. From this I have taken a bit more of a look at this position, what it has looked like, what it often looks like (or doesn’t look like particularly in an evangelical context), and what the benefits would be for the Church to regain part of the historic nature that this role provided in serving Christ’s Body.
One of the cornerstones of the episcopal structure of Church governance is the three-fold group of Holy Orders of the bishop, elder (in some traditions called priest or pastor) and deacon. In many Christian traditions, the usage of these historic roles has fallen out of use, while maintaining some connection to the Scriptural basis of the roles found in Scripture (something we will touch on in a bit). But while evangelicalism has often sought to simplify church structure in the name of pragmatism, we have perhaps unintentionally surrendered a gift Christ gave to His Church—the ministry of deacons—and substituted something less theologically rich, less biblically rooted, and less spiritually fruitful.
We see the origination of the role of Deacon in Acts 6, where the quickly growing Church faced a problem, the Apostles, who were to teach the good news of the Gospel had much of their time taken with the practical side of alms and good words (nothing wrong with that of course, but focus is important when doing a job). “So the Twelve gathered all the disciples together and said, “It would not be right for us to neglect the ministry of the word of God in order to wait on tables. Brothers and sisters, choose seven men from among you who are known to be full of the Spirit and wisdom. We will turn this responsibility over to them and will give our attention to prayer and the ministry of the word.” Acts 6:2-4 NIV. This newly created role was not just to be a waiter like at a restaurant, but an extension of the Church as the hands and feet of Christ, serving with love and dedication.
Paul’s words in 1 Timothy 3 reinforce the seriousness of the office: deacons are to be tested, spiritually mature, and faithful. They are not simply board members, door greeters, or finance committee volunteers. They are ordained servants, carrying sacramental responsibility and pastoral care in the name of Christ. We also see the role of deacons in the function of the Early Church in the first few centuries. The early Church knew this role well. Deacons were entrusted with:
- Administering alms and mercy ministries
- Assisting at the Eucharist and preparing the table
- Serving bishops and priests in pastoral care
- Preaching, catechizing, and evangelizing
- Carrying communion to the sick
- Guarding the unity and order of worship
St. Ignatius of Antioch, in the early second century, wrote: “Let all respect the deacons as Jesus Christ, just as they respect the bishop as a type of the Father and the presbyters as the council of God.”In other words, the diaconate was not an afterthought—it was woven into the very structure of the Church’s life. For centuries, to remove or diminish the diaconate would have been unthinkable.
And this is what I think we in the Western Evangelical Church have lost sight of in the function and operation of the Church. While in some contexts there is an understanding of this role, much of the focus in running the church is focused on the programmatic operation like a business, rather than the people centric focus of sacramental presence and ministry to hungry people in a broken world. This is not a criticism, but simply an observation, just as I spoke of in the role of pastors and priests, that we as the church must reclaim the historic role of deacons as not just managers, but as ministers who assist in the shepherding of God’s flock.
But more than just returning to the proper function of deacons, many have completely abandoned the role. And in abandoning it, many evangelical churches have unintentionally forced pastors to carry both the apostolic proclamation role and the diaconal mercy-care role, resulting in pastoral exhaustion and congregational under-formation.
The Church needs priests who can pray, preach, shepherd, and administer the sacraments. And the Church needs deacons who can embody the compassionate hands of Christ, serving at the altar and among the poor, binding the church’s worship to its service in the world.
Here in the Free Methodist Church, we reclaimed the office of deacon after a long period without it. Yet we have not fully embraced its depth. At present, deacons are recognized locally, often as pastoral helpers or ministry assistants. This is good, but it can also stop short of the rich and historic calling Scripture and tradition give us.
Recovering the diaconate more fully does not mean abandoning our Wesleyan heritage—it means living into it. Wesley himself sent deacons, commissioned lay preachers, empowered class leaders, and believed the Spirit called people to particular vocations within the Body. Holiness, for Wesley, was not abstract—it was enacted love. And the diaconate is enacted love.
Pastors change from time to time. While the FMC practices longer appointments than other Wesleyan-Holiness denominations, there still can be pastoral turnover. Deacons historically have been a grounding force of ordained ministerial presence that comes up from within the congregation, and is planted in the church, staying consistent even through multiple pastoral changes.
Today, many of our congregations feel the pressure of multiplying needs: pastoral fatigue, growing community crises, loneliness among young adults, hunger for depth, and a longing for embodied faith. This is not a time to narrow the ministry of the Church; it is a time to strengthen it. Not by adding programs, but by recognizing callings.
To restore a robust diaconate—in prayerful, thoughtful, historically rooted ways—is to affirm that God still calls servants, and that the Church still needs them.
So what might it look like for the Free Methodist Church to lean into this calling anew?
It begins with prayerful discernment. By asking who among us God may be calling not simply to “help out,” but to embody the servant-hearted ministry of Christ in a particular and visible way. It looks like pastors and congregations encouraging those with a heart for mercy, intercession, visitation, table service, and Gospel witness in everyday places. It looks like laying hands on them, blessing them, and releasing them to a ministry that is grounded in worship and poured out in love.
We do not restore things because they are ancient; we restore them because they are alive. The diaconate is not nostalgia—it is discipleship. It is not hierarchy—it is humility. It is not about creating distance between clergy and laity—it is about strengthening the Body so that all may flourish.
In a restless age, a Church rooted in Scripture, nourished by sacrament, and enlivened by servant-hearted ministers will shine like a city on a hill. And in a weary world longing for tangible grace, deacons may once again become a signpost of Christ’s presence.
May we have the courage to listen, to bless, and to send those whom the Spirit calls. And may our Church, strengthened by the ministry of servants shaped by the cross, become ever more like the One who came not to be served, but to serve.
by Joel V Webb | Oct 24, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
The question and conversation of Sacraments, particularly in the Protestant context, is an interesting one. Primarily, it is not even over the number of Sacraments—that, as we’ll see, is a secondary concern. Often the prevailing question is, “Do Sacraments even exist?” As I discussed in a previous post on restorationism, there’s a strong wing in the Protestant Church that seeks to strip away the language of “sacrament” altogether, preferring the term ordinance. In this view, Baptism and Communion are simply things Jesus told us to do as reminders, symbols of faith and obedience, memorials of grace already received.
While there certainly are elements of memorial and obedience present in these practices, that’s a severely myopic view of what the historic Church has understood these actions to be. When we look at Scripture and the witness of the early Church, we find that the Sacraments are more than mere actions, they are means by which God actually works in the world and in our lives.
The classical definition, first clearly articulated by St. Augustine, is that a sacrament is “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.” That is, God uses material things, bread, wine, water, oil, hands, words, and even people—to communicate His unseen grace. Sacraments are moments where heaven and earth intersect, where the invisible grace of God touches the tangible realities of human life.
In the Protestant imagination, this definition has often been treated with suspicion. Some fear it implies a kind of “magical” view of the elements, as though grace were a substance dispensed through ritual. But that is not what the historic Church has ever meant. Rather, the Sacraments are relational and covenantal. God binds Himself to His promises through physical signs, and in faith we receive what He offers. As Augustine said, “The word comes to the element, and it becomes a sacrament.
Traditionally, the Church has spoken of seven sacraments: Baptism, Eucharist, Confirmation, Penance (or Confession), Anointing of the Sick, Marriage, and Holy Orders. The medieval Church taught that all seven were instituted by Christ, but during the Reformation, Protestant theologians made distinctions.
Luther, Calvin, Cranmer, and Wesley each affirmed that Baptism and the Lord’s Supper were directly instituted by Christ Himself, and therefore uniquely sacramental in nature. These two are what we might call the Sacraments of Christ—those commanded by Jesus and visibly tied to the Gospel. They are not merely symbols; they are Gospel enacted. In Baptism, we are buried and raised with Christ (Romans 6:4); in Communion, we are united with His body and blood (1 Corinthians 10:16). Both are means by which the Holy Spirit conveys grace to believers, nourishing faith and deepening union with God.
The other five—Confirmation, Confession, Marriage, Anointing, and Ordination—have deep biblical and theological roots, but were viewed by the Reformers as sacramentals or rites of the Church rather than direct Sacraments of Christ. They are practices through which God’s grace may indeed be experienced, but not necessarily instituted with a visible sign and direct command by Jesus.
At the heart of the sacramental vision is the belief that God is present in and through His creation. The Incarnation itself is the ultimate Sacrament—God taking on flesh. If in Christ, the invisible God becomes visible, then every sacrament participates in that same mystery. Bread and wine, water and oil, are all created means through which the Creator communicates Himself. When we lose the sacramental imagination, we risk reducing the faith to ideas and morals, rather than encounter and transformation.
This is why the early Church saw the Sacraments as mysteries—not puzzles to be solved, but realities to be entered. The Greek term mysterion carried this sense of divine participation, and the Latin word sacramentum added the idea of sacred commitment, a binding oath. Together they express that in the Sacraments, God commits Himself to us, and we respond in faith and obedience. They are not our performances, but God’s gracious initiatives.
The Reformers often spoke of the Word and the Sacraments as the “two hands of God.” Through the Word, God addresses our minds and hearts; through the Sacraments, He touches our bodies and senses. Both are expressions of the same Gospel. The Word declares grace; the Sacraments enact it. The Word proclaims forgiveness; Baptism washes it over us. The Word promises Christ’s presence; Communion feeds us with it.
When either hand is neglected, the fullness of Christian life suffers. A purely verbal faith can become cerebral, disembodied, and disconnected from lived experience. But a sacramental faith without the Word becomes superstition or magic. The balance of the two keeps us grounded—faith comes by hearing, but it is confirmed in tasting, touching, and participating.
If the Sacraments teach us that God works through physical means, then all of life becomes potentially sacramental. Every meal shared in gratitude echoes the Eucharist. Every baptismal remembrance at the sink reminds us we are washed and called. Every confession spoken in humility opens the way to reconciliation. Marriage, ordination, and anointing remind us that vocation, love, and suffering are all places where grace can dwell.
This is where Protestants can rediscover a rich theology of everyday holiness. The same God who meets us at the Table meets us in the mundane—at the dinner table, in the hospital room, in the workplace, and in the home. The “sacrament of daily life” does not replace Baptism or Communion; it flows from them. The worship service becomes the pattern for life, and life becomes an extension of worship.
In our age of rationalism and technology, mystery often feels like an intrusion—something we must explain away or control. Yet the Church is healthiest when it embraces mystery as the place where faith and awe dwell together. To confess that God is truly present in the Sacraments is not to claim we understand how, but to trust that He is faithful to His promises.
For Protestant churches seeking renewal, this may be the way forward: not abandoning the Reformation’s commitment to the Word, but deepening it through a sacramental imagination. We need not fear that reverence for the Sacraments will lead us back to superstition. Instead, it may lead us forward—to a faith that is once again whole: intellectual, embodied, communal, and full of wonder.
Perhaps it’s time for Protestants to see not just two sacraments and five extras, but a whole life that can become sacramental. The Sacraments of Christ remain the sure foundation—Baptism as entrance, Eucharist as sustenance. Yet the other rites of the Church remind us that grace pervades the ordinary: marriage, vocation, healing, reconciliation—all can become signs of grace when offered to God.
The task, then, is not to argue endlessly about number or definition, but to recover the reality they point to: that God delights to make Himself known through signs and symbols, through word and matter, through flesh and spirit. The Sacraments remind us that salvation is not an escape from creation but its redemption. And that, perhaps, is a truth our world needs to see again—grace that is not abstract, but embodied.
