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Group Effort
Four approaches to congregational evangelism.
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A strange thing happened when I was in Daytona Beach. You'd expect a beach town to be asleep early Sunday morning, but streets surrounding the block that is home to both First Baptist Church and First United Methodist look much like the raceway—U.S. 1 on one side and parking lots, flagmen, and bumper-car traffic on the other. I hadn't noticed the Methodist church at first. The assortment of buildings fringing the busier sides of the block were once fast food stands and souvenir shops. Now they house special ministries of the Baptist church, singles and such. On the back side of the block is the Methodist church, the same beige as the Baptist church with the same Spanish tile roof. At first I thought it was the Baptist's "old" sanctuary. But a weathered sign beside the door bore the Methodist name and service time: 11:00. With the Baptists at 9:45, I decided to take in both. I'm here because First Baptist Church of Daytona Beach is where a new evangelism program was developed. A plan that weds witnessing with Sunday school, FAITH is plastered everywhere—on the bulletins, on a 25-foot high banner in the entryway. It's another acrostic, a five-point outline for sharing one's, well, faith. In the auditorium that seats 2,000, on the wall above the choir, are taped 102 two-foot-long sheets of paper shaped like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Half of them are right side out. As it turns out, First Baptist is doubling the number of Sunday school classes this year. They're halfway there. 
Group Effort
After lusty Baptist singing, an anthem with trumpets, and a simple but heartfelt message on the prodigal son, the pastor issues an invitation. As he kneels beside the cross-shaped pulpit, a dozen or more people come down the aisles to profess their faith in Christ and join the church. I slip out from my balcony seat, the only one available when I arrived, and head for the stairwell. I can feel the eyes from the upper level as the faithful hope another sinner is going forward. Actually, I'm headed next door. In less than a minute, I'm inside the Methodist church and resting in a vintage, velvet-bottomed theater seat. There are fewer than 100 in a sanctuary built for 500. Except for the nine-year-old girl visiting her grandmother, I am by far the youngest person in the room. Me and maybe the pastor. After a quiet organ prelude, the pastor approaches the pulpit and offers a few usual announcements. Then, the last: "This has been a difficult decision for us all, one that has come with a lot of prayer and discussion. On Wednesday evening, at our congregational meeting, we voted to close. We all know this has been coming for a long time. It's not easy on any of us, especially after over 100 years of ministry here. The last Sunday in January will be our last Sunday." No one seems surprised. |             |
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