My name is Ashley, and I’m a Millennial Christian. (Hi, Ashley.) Being a Millennial means I’m on my smart phone all the time; I talk to my friends more on Facebook than I do face-to-face; I tweet; I Instagram; and I complain.
I am an expert complainer: I complain to my friends that all the guys my age aren’t grownups. I complain that I never have any money. And I complain, oh boy, do I complain about my church.
You see, I attend a great church, but there are a lot of things that bother me about it, and a lot of things I don’t understand. But week after week, I show up (at the 11 o’clock service, of course), find the same five friends I always sit with, listen to the sermon, and then leave with my head filled with a little bit more Bible knowledge. I almost always find a few extra criticisms about the worship music, the overdone stage, or the way it seems like nobody reaches out to newcomers.
The same goes for my “young adults” group. I attend feeling cynical about the speakers and less than hopeful about the after-activities. I usually leave early, discouraged, mumbling something about how it’s all headed downhill and how “nobody goes anymore.”
I complain. I criticize. I worry. But I do nothing, because it’s not my job.
Or at least, I didn’t think it was my job.
Alas, God has a funny way of smacking me over the head when I’m skipping merrily down the wrong path, as I so often do.1