There is always someone praying for you… always! Someone in heaven is praying for you… and He is praying for you because you are upon His heart! Isn’t that a wonderful thought, also? In fact, the more that we come to see, and understand, about God’s love, the more we are also able to see why the Apostle John says quite simply, “God is love” (1 John 4:8).

So Aaron shall bear the names of the sons of Israel on the breastplate of judgement over his heart, when he goes into the holy place, as a memorial before the Lord continually. Exodus 28:29

Have you ever tried to read through the Bible from start to finish, perhaps with the aid of a reading plan or perhaps just jumping right in at Genesis 1:1?
How did you get on? For many (if not all) of us, reading the Bible through just isn’t as easy as we perhaps feel it ought to be.
Take the chapters upon chapters of Exodus, Leviticus and Numbers that deal with the building of the tabernacle (with the lists of dimensions and materials and so on); or that deal with the priestly clothing (again, with the lists of dimensions and materials and so on); or that list the various censuses (with the numbers upon numbers upon numbers)…
Now, I’m sure that there are people will enjoy reading those parts – architects, engineers, mathematicians perhaps, who have an interest in such things; or who will have a great understanding of such things;
But some of you may be like me and the words seem just to all blur together and, to be honest, I generally get very little out of these sections of the Bible by just reading through them by myself, without the help of experts explaining the importance and relevance of what I am reading.
However, in my experience of reading through these portions of the Bible I find that every so often, in the midst of all this blurriness, something will just shine out, like a bit of metal suddenly catching the sunlight…
And Exodus 28:29 is an example of exactly that.
 Now, we know that in the design of temple, the design of the sacrifices, and even in the design of the priestly clothing God is teaching us something about salvation; and as the priestly clothing applies specifically to the priest, so this teaching applies specifically to the Person of Jesus Christ – who is, of course, our Great High Priest –
So when we find ourselves reading about the names of the people of God being placed especially over the priest’s heart we do not necessarily need so great a theological mind to understand the meaning.
 We know what it means for someone to be ‘upon our heart’. We might have found ourselves saying to someone, “I just want you to know that you’re very much upon my heart”. It means to love, to care and even to cherish.
We know what that means. It means we are loved. And so, we can know immediately from this verse that we are loved by Jesus – our names (the names of ‘the people of God’) are written upon His heart!

I am having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I get asked all the time, by pastors, denominational leaders and interested observers, about ways to grow a church. I guess people assume that since I spend my days digging through religion data, that I should have been able to uncover the secret to getting people back into religion. It takes everything in my power to not say to them, “My church went from 50 people to less than 10 under my watch. If I knew anything about how to grow a church I would have done it by now.” But I know where they are coming from because many of them are in the same boat that I was in. 

How do you get rid of a pulpit? Or a communion table?
Does anyone want 30-year-old choir robes?
What do you do with the baptismal records of a church that dates back to the 1860s?
I never thought I would be asking myself these questions, but here I am, like many other pastors across the country as the number of Americans who belong to a faith community shrinks and churches that once housed vibrant congregations close.
What’s happened at my own church is especially poignant since in my day job I research trends in American religion. And when I first became a pastor, right out of college, there were ominous signs, but I did not foresee how quickly the end would come, hastened by a pandemic.
I first took the pulpit of First Baptist Church of Mount Vernon, Illinois, in the fall of 2006. The church was a part of the American Baptist denomination, a mainline tradition that welcomed women into leadership and tended to take a more moderate stance on theological and social issues. I was 24 years old, pursuing a master’s degree in political science, and I needed a job that would give me the flexibility to focus on my studies. It seemed like a good fit at the time, both theologically and logistically, although it was inconceivable to me then that I would still hold the same position into my early 40s.
I preached in a sanctuary that could easily accommodate 300 people. That first year or two, I could count about 50 people scattered around the pews. It felt sparse, but not empty — a relief, since I wasn’t the most credentialed pastor in the history of the church. As an undergraduate, I took a couple of classes that focused on theology and ministry, but that was it. I did my best to not say something heretical during my Sunday sermon. What I lacked in education and experience, I was sure I could make up with enthusiasm. There’s an apocryphal quote from John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, that I thought about often in those first couple of years: “Light yourself on fire with passion, and people will come from miles to watch you burn.”
I tried to light that match every Sunday morning. People didn’t show up.
I don’t know if the members of my congregation thought I was going to be the one who turned around the fortunes of the church, but there was lots of talk of growth in those first few hopeful years. Many faithful members had been sitting in those pews for decades. They had seen the church in its heyday, when there were so many people in Sunday School that they had to install movable dividers in the fellowship hall so they could add more classrooms in the 14,000-square-foot building.
But the church’s membership began to dwindle in the 1970s and 1980s. If you talked to five members of my church about this period of time, you would get five different reasons for the decline: An ill-advised sermon drove off a few key families. Lots of kids who grew up in the church went off to college and didn’t return to rural Illinois because of the lack of employment opportunities. Other churches in town seemed more attractive with their drums, guitars and high-energy worship. Regardless of the cause, the membership of First Baptist dipped below 100 by the late 1990s.
After a couple of years, the discussion about revitalizing the church began to grow quiet. A sense of resignation started to creep in. I came to a disheartening conclusion: I wasn’t going to be able to turn things around. I think at that point most members knew in their hearts that the end was coming for the church. We were just all afraid to speak that truth into existence. It was better to keep our heads down and focus on the next worship service and not worry about what would happen in three or five years.
The Rise of ‘The Nones’
On one of my first Sundays as pastor, the older adults had invited me to their Sunday School class. We sat around a table with Styrofoam cups of coffee and tried to find common ground across a five-decade generational divide. They were glad to have me, and I was honored that they trusted me enough to be their pastor. About a year ago, I was looking at an old church directory and realized that every person in that classroom back in 2006 had met their eternal reward over the previous 15 years, and I had presided at many of their funerals.
But as my church was dying, my academic career was starting to accelerate. I began to plunge headlong into data about American religion. I had earned a Ph.D. in political science with a dissertation that focused on religion and politics while I held the pulpit at First Baptist, and I had landed a job at a university that was within driving distance of my home base. I could be a professor during the week and pastor on the weekends.
I wrote a couple of academic articles about American religion in an effort to secure my employment in academia, but I didn’t want to produce scholarship that only a dozen or so people in my subfield would read.
So I decided to take the things I was seeing in the data and help the average person understand the changing American religious landscape. I began posting graphs on my Twitter account. Most of them got little attention until I created a simple line graph that traced American religion between 1972 and 2018.
The point was simple: The share of Americans who were nonreligious was now the same size as evangelicals. The post went viral, and the trajectory of my life changed. That graph appeared in nearly every major media outlet in the United States, and it led to me writing a book about the rise of nonreligious Americans, a book entitled “The Nones.”
What I was seeing in the data was unmistakable and mapped perfectly onto what I was seeing every Sunday — mainline Protestant Christianity was in near free fall, and the numbers of nonreligious were rising every single year. Members of the media found my career combination of pastor and social scientist fascinating.
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As image bearers, we were designed to behold wonderous things. Indeed, a continual perception of glory is necessary if we are to fulfill our role faithfully. To this end we must give our attention. According to this privilege, we must order our steps. There are no shortcuts or quick fixes. To be a vice-regent, we must ponder the songbird.

Ponder with me, the migratory behavior of birds—the beauty and wonder of avian flight patterns. Think, for example, about the bar-tailed godwit. Weighing just 10 ounces, it boasts the longest nonstop migration path of any bird. Every year, this stoic wader covers around seven thousand miles, flying from Alaska to New Zealand without pausing for food, water, or sleep. Ponder the ruby-throated hummingbird. In preparation for its biannual journey of two thousand miles, this colorful creature will feast for a week, doubling its bodyweight in fat. Then, flapping its wings approximately three thousand times per minute, it carefully manages the calories so as to arrive at the target destination without a hint of surplus podge. Muse upon the bar-headed goose. Though its migration path is relatively short, the journey from Mongolia to India involves a pass over the Himalayas. Thus, soaring to altitudes of 7,000 meters, this fearless member of the two-winged community must fly on only 10 percent of the oxygen available at sea-level.

These fun anecdotes (and many more) come to us courtesy of countless ornithologists who have worked tirelessly to understand their subject matter. The migratory behavior of birds is a fascinating field of study. At the same time, each discovery has been met with some fresh unknowns—questions about flight paths, the answers to which are hibernating in some far-away land. How do birds navigate across land and sea with such immense precision? Why do some birds fly clockwise, while others (from the same flock) counterclockwise? And why exactly do most songbirds migrate at night? Do they forgo the navigational advantages offered by light for a less turbulent atmosphere, cooler flying conditions, fewer predators, or all the above? As the collation of data persists, and new hypotheses abound, our curiosity only grows. The migratory behavior of birds is an awe-inspiring phenomenon to behold.
At this point, you may be double checking your URL. Like a sparrow confused, did you accidentally land on the wrong website? What relevance is bird migration to the pastor, seminary student, or average church member? Certainly, the annual routines of the great snipe do not impinge directly on your daily decisions. Whether a bird migrates to Africa or Australia does not change your choice of coffee in the morning. But such does not render the information irrelevant. The migratory behavior of birds is worthy of our contemplation. Why? Because it is an example of what might be termed serendipitous learning.
Pertaining to the incidental acquisition of knowledge, wisdom, or beauty, serendipitous learning is a unique kind of education. Rarely do we seek it (in any formal sense). And seldom do we anticipate its trajectory. We do not sign up for a class in serendipitous learning. Nor do we foresee its effect on our lives. Most often, this kind of instruction seeks us out. It overtakes and confronts us with the happy end of broadening our limited horizon and increasing our perception of the world. Two minutes ago, you were probably ignorant of the behavioral patterns of the godwit. Now you are not. You’re welcome.

Commenting on the value of serendipitous learning, Yuval Levin draws attention to its distinct form, and effect:
Among the most valuable benefits of living in society is the miracle of serendipitous learning: finding ourselves exposed to knowledge or opinion or wisdom or beauty that we did not seek out and would never have known to expect. This kind of experience is not only a way to broaden our horizons and learn about the ways and views of others, it is also an utterly essential component of what we might call socialization. Being constantly exposed to influences we did not choose is part of how we learn to live with others, to accept our differences while seeing crucial commonalities, to realize the world is not all about us, and at least abide with patience what we would rather avoid or escape.1
What is required for serendipitous learning? By virtue of its incidental nature, the question is difficult to answer. On the part of the student, we might simply say, an inquisitive mind. Indeed, a hunger for learning is perhaps the only prerequisite necessary to stand as the ready recipient of unsought out wisdom. (For this reason, it is often children who are the most frequent beneficiaries of serendipitous learning. Not yet saddled with responsibility, their minds prove fertile soil for beauty or the wisdom to seek a harvest.) But there is more. Beyond an inquisitive disposition on the part of the student, his environment must be rightly configured. Since the whole enterprise depends on a unique intersection of knowledge and the mind, society must play its part. There is an unstated yet necessary layout to the classroom of serendipitous education. And it is with respect to this detail that we begin to notice some problems.
Levin points to the deleterious effects of social media. Governed by algorithms that continually narrow our experience of the world, we are guaranteed to see only that which we already know and affirm. Levin writes:
Such algorithms are a particularly important source of this loss of serendipity online. They are designed to predict our preferences, and so to ensconce us in exposures and experiences we might have chosen, rather than ones we would never have known to want. They affirm us rather than shape us. Therefore, they are forms of expression more than means of formation. We might say that in moving large portions of our social lives from the streets of the city to the arena of social media, we move ourselves almost literally from a mold onto a platform.2
Our submission to these algorithms comes by way of the social media “feed”: a brilliantly constructed series that deceptively presents itself as a fully orbed picture of the world. And their effect on us can be seen by considering our response, the “post.” With the Alps, the pyramids, or Sistine Chapel as a backdrop, the twenty-something influencer submits the next selfie. Well-meaning, he intends to show something of his experiences. “Look at me!” “Better than a day in the office.” “#loveitaly.” In reality, he confirms that he is a product of his time. His perspective is narrow. And his interpretive grid meanders between self-affirmation and self-elevation. “The grandeur of the world is my backdrop. Unfathomable beauty is my stage. I stand at the center.”
Again, the blame for this ironic inversion cannot rest wholly with its proponent. Though not altogether naive, the egophile also is not as adamantly self-absorbed as we might suspect. Rather, he has been conditioned to think according to a particular logic. His virtual utopia continually upholds his convictions and shields him from all others. Thus, over time his perception of the world is one that only ever acquiesces to his thoughts. He is the focal point of all that goes on. When this is his reality, how else would he view the Great Wall except as a mere backdrop?