Millennials are being lured back to church
KANSAS CITY, Mo. — A few months after becoming pastor of Parkway Baptist Church, a 21-yearold Armour Stephenson III sat down with his deacons — almost all men over 40 — and laid out plans for his own version of the great flood.
“The entire dynamic of our church was about to change,” Stephenson recalls of the fateful 2006 meeting. His first decree: “Stop wearing suits on Sundays.”
No suits? In a black Baptist church? One deacon later compared it to an NBA coach telling his players they could no longer wear sneakers. Stephenson was just getting started: Services would be shorter and start later. Hymns would give way to contemporary gospel. And the choir would now be called “the worship team.”
The congregation’s response? An exodus. Membership dwindled from about 300 to a low of 85. “Any time you’re shifting culture, there’s going to be some casualties,” Stephenson says.
But now? The church, rechristened City of Truth, has bounced back, and then some, with a congregation of more than 1,000 — so many that Sunday services were moved this year to the nearby Southeast High School auditorium. And, strikingly, in a time of millennial apathy and aversion to church, a vast majority of the worshippers are under the age of 35.
“The role of the church is to see a need, meet a need,” Stephenson says, sitting next to his wife, Jessica, in their Lee’s Summit, Mo. home. “Those changes were about doing an introspection on what the need was and being willing to do everything it takes to meet that need. If that meant tearing down walls of tradition, so be it.”
The Kansas City Star reported that in 2015, a Pew Research Center study concluded that America was becoming less religious due in part to millennials distancing themselves from organized religion. Only 27 percent of Americans born between 1981 and 1996, the study found, regularly attended weekly services.
As a result, some area churches and synagogues have created special programs that cater to younger members.
But a handful, most notably, perhaps, City of Truth Church on the East Side and The Cause Church on the West Plaza, now cater almost exclusively to millennials.
“I think millennials get freaked out by the rules and rituals of traditional religion,” says Jenna Felsen, a 20-year-old University of Missouri at Kansas City student who was part of a good crowd of young worshippers who didn’t bolt for their cars after the Sunday night service but, as is typical
at The Cause, lingered in the lobby.
Despite their differences — City of Truth is a mostly black congregation while The Cause is mostly white — the two nondenominational churches share a similar, modernized approach to worship that has made them formidable anomalies.
“A lot of times tradition is employed by the church at the expense of turning people away, at the expense of unnecessarily offending people,” Stephenson says. “At the expense of souls into the kingdom.”
By updating long-considered immovable church mores — dress codes and preaching styles, attitudes toward the secular, a willingness to discuss the taboo — and embracing modern music and technology (Stephenson preaches not from a Bible but from his iPad), these churches brim with youthful vivacity.
“The best way to engage millennials is to be as unique as they are,” says Scott Chrostek, author of The Kaleidoscope Effect: What Emerging Generations Seek in Leaders and pastor of the Church of the Resurrection Downtown, itself a growing hot spot for 20-something worshippers. “When you talk about the ministry and trying to resonate with younger folks, you’ve got to meet them where they are.”
The Revs. Kyle Turner, 36, and wife Liz, 37, say they had “discerned a call” to build a church for younger people when they moved to Kansas City from Oklahoma in 2009.
But they knew only two other people in town.
“At first it felt like a fool’s
errand,” Kyle said. They began small, with a four-member prayer group operating out of their midtown apartment. Friends began inviting friends, and within months the Turners were holding weekly mini-services out of a rented room in a nearby church.
Not long after, with help from a national organization that specializes in church startups, The Cause began its first services for more than 300 at the Cinemark Palace movie theater on the Country Club Plaza.
Today, The Cause has its own digs that feel more like a tech startup than a place of worship. To the right of the entrance is a small workspace and complimentary coffee bar. To the left, a sign proclaiming “Jesus Over Everything” beams in an aqua neon light. In one corner is “The Welcome Spot,” a teal room where prospective members can learn more about the church. Across from there is the sanctuary, with rows of chairs facing a stage festooned with a neon-beamed backdrop.
Each Sunday, around 1,400 millennials — college students and young workers, midtown hipsters and sleekly dressed kids from Johnson County and downtown — pile into The Cause for church, coffee and community during any of the five one-hour services. The most popular is the 6:30 p.m. service, which usually attracts about 300 worshippers.
The session, part church and part pep rally, begins with the overhead lights low and the neon high as the worship team — electronic keyboard, bassist, guitarist, drummer and a couple of vocalists — begins strumming the chords to “This Is Living” by Hillsong Young & Free, the popular Christian music group that got its start
at Hillsong Church in Australia. Hillsong now has churches worldwide, including a New York branch famously attended by Justin Bieber. The Cause is an affiliate.
The song sends the packed sanctuary into a frenzy; the crowd jumping along and clapping in unison, a clear explanation of why the “The SixThirty” is known as “the rock star service.”
Like City of Truth, The Cause strives to free younger people from the rigid rituals and judgment of more traditional churches.
“So often people approach topics putting the focus on sin,” Kyle says. “For people to change their life, they need to see that God is good, not that God is a tyrant. We have to authentically care about people. I’m not worried about your sexuality right now. I’m not worried about what you did Saturday night. I’m worried about what do you know about Jesus and how can I tell you more about him. Not let me tell you why God is upset at you.”
Said Stephenson, “A lot of people in the church believe if you adjust your approach, you’re forsaking the gospel or dishonoring God by undoing traditions. But that’s not true.”
“We’re going to meet you where you are,” Kyle said.
And where they are early on Sunday mornings is probably in bed asleep. So both churches offer later start times.
“You can’t tell me you’re serious about reaching millennials and your service starts at 8:30 on Sunday,” Stephenson said. Both have a “come as you are” dress code. One November Sunday, Stephenson preached in khakis, a denim shirt and a pair of retro Air Jordans, while Pastor Kyle wore
a black shirt, jeans and a pair of Vans.
LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON
For years, tradition was the guiding principle of Parkway Baptist.
But in 1995, when Stephenson’s father, Armour Stephenson Jr., became pastor of the church on Swope Parkway, he set about tweaking that tradition. For the first time, women could hold church positions. The choir could sing without the ceremonial robes from time to time.
But still, men were expected to wear a suit and tie, the same way women were expected to come in a modest, respectable dress. High-ranking church officials sat in chairs on the stage, flanking the minister, and deacons and other exalted officials filled the front pews.
January 2005 brought a sudden, tragic catalyst as Stephenson Jr. and his wife, Shirley, were killed in a small-plane crash in Johnson County. The accident devastated Parkway and thrust a young Stephenson, who had practically no pastoral experience, and his wife of just six weeks into a daunting leadership role.
“I’m 21. My wife [was] 19,” Stephenson recalled. “We had to begin thinking how we could attract people our age into the church. I wasn’t trying to force anyone in the church to become younger. I just wanted those we were trying to reach to feel welcomed.”
So he nixed the choir robes completely and told the new worship team they would lean toward a more contemporary gospel sound (think less Mahalia Jackson, more Kirk Franklin).
“The same spirit that was in the father, was in the son,” said Deacon Earl Bradshaw,
53, a 20-year member of the church. Though the initial tension was understandable, he says, Stephenson’s actions were necessary.
“You can’t speak in caveman terms and expect to get new people.”
Still, the church strives to make older members such as Bradshaw feel appreciated and welcome.
Veteran members train or run a number of church programs, including the deacons, ushers and outreach team. Each month the church holds “Connect 40,” a meet-up that allows Stephenson and his wife to share meals and fellowship with members 40 years and older.
“There is strength and value in every generation,” Stephenson says. “But even with that in mind, we all should be more focused on who we’re trying to reach instead of who we’re trying to retain.”
Traditional churches alienated younger worshippers, said Kyle at The Cause, because they were “talking about stuff that wasn’t relevant to people’s problems.
“We have to authentically care for people and have conversations that actually matter to them. How do they deal with their self-image when everything is so plastered in this Instagram society we live in? How do they find worth?” And how do they find God? “For those of you wondering if I’m the youth pastor,” Stephenson says, walking across the Southeast stage one Sunday morning, “no.” He pauses as muffled laughter from about 800 congregants dies down. “No, I am not.”
He’s in the middle of the “Trust Issues” sermon series, aimed at helping the hesitant fully place their faith in God.
“A lot of us want what only faith can produce,” he says in the middle of the sermon, “because we believe getting it will promote the faith we need.” The line resonates well enough to catapult nearly a dozen worshippers to their feet in jubilation.
“This is what works for us,” Da’Juan Beard, a 29-year-old City of Truth member, says later. “People come to the City, they get to see us. The real us.”
Stephenson finishes the sermon with an ironic pivot.
As he prepares the benediction, Stephenson looks out to the congregation and says, “I don’t know if y’all know this one or not, but it’s on my spirit.” And then he begins singing.
“Pass me not, O gentle savior, hear my humble cry.”
Many in the congregation, it seems, recognize the lyrics and join along.
“Pass me not O gentle savior, hear my humble cry.”
Then, upon Stephenson’s beckoning, the City of Truth congregation — a few baby boomers, Gen Xers and a mass of millennials — in all their modern splendor — feverishly sing the lyrics to, of all things, a hymn, penned in the 19th century, but still relevant as ever:
“While on others Thou art calling, do not pass me by.”