Keeping Time with the Spirit
When faith means trusting the tempo of change.
Over the last seven years, I’ve served what I sometimes call four different congregations, though they’ve all shared the same name. There was the pre-Covid congregation, the one that learned to breathe through the shutdown, the one that rebuilt after it all, and now the post-Covid congregation learning how to live and serve in new ways. Each had its own rhythm. Its own heartbeat. Its own way of being the Body of Christ in the world.
Those years weren’t shaped solely by the pandemic. The larger church was struggling with its own identity — what it means to belong, to include, and to make room for difference. The tension that permeated our denomination also affected local congregations, and it wasn’t easy.
As I’ve reflected on those seasons, I’ve realized that the church doesn’t simply change over time. It moves. It keeps time with the Spirit’s rhythm—sometimes steady, sometimes syncopated, sometimes silent; but always pulsing with life.
The Rhythm of Gathering and Scattering
Before Covid, the church’s rhythm was one of gathering. We met in familiar spaces, at familiar times, surrounded by familiar faces. We had calendars full of meetings and ministries. We knew our steps.
Then, almost overnight, the rhythm came to a halt. Sanctuaries fell silent. Fellowship halls emptied. Choirs stopped mid-song. But something else began to emerge beneath the silence. Connection took on new forms — through screens, doorstep visits, and quiet acts of care. Prayers traveled through phone lines and Zoom screens. Neighbors cared for neighbors. The church scattered—and in that scattering, discovered a new rhythm.
It was slower, less polished, more fragile — and somehow, more genuine. We learned to find God in pixelated faces, in drive-through prayers, in the ache of absence that became its own kind of presence. That season taught me something I never want to forget: The rhythm of the church is not limited to the walls where we gather. It’s the rhythm of gathering and scattering, breathing in and breathing out. The church comes together to be filled and scatters to be poured out again.
The Rhythm of Grief and Grace
When we returned to our sanctuaries, the rhythm was different. Some chairs sat empty. Some voices were gone. Some ministries never came back. We mourned what we lost — the people, the routines, the sense of ease. We also mourned who we used to be. The way things once “worked.” The certainty we once had about what church should look like.
There were moments when harmony felt impossible—when voices within the same body of Christ sang in different keys. We struggled with who we were becoming and who some longed for us to remain. These tensions hurt. They still do. But grace keeps inviting us to listen for the deeper melody, the one that embraces even dissonance within its beauty.
But even as grief lingered, grace began to hum beneath it. We started singing again. We began to rebuild, this time with more humility, more creativity, and, I hope, more love. I believe that’s what grace does: it sets a rhythm we don’t always notice until we stop trying to lead. Grace teaches us to sway with the Spirit’s tempo, rather than force our own.
Every season of the church has its own time signature. Some are written in minor keys, others in joyful refrains. But together, they form a living song — one that tells the story of resurrection again and again.
The Rhythm of Change and Continuity
If you’ve ever played in a band or sung in a choir, you know how easy it is to lose the beat when the tempo shifts. You start a little too fast or drag behind, and suddenly the harmony falters. The church is like that too. Every time the rhythm changes — new leadership, new structure, new mission — it takes a moment to find the downbeat again.
Over the past seven years, the rhythm has shifted multiple times. We’ve learned to adapt, to simplify, and to collaborate in ways that challenge us. Sometimes, amid all that change, we’ve wondered: Is this still the same song? But the truth is, the melody remains unchanged. The mission of the church — to make disciples, to love God and neighbors, to embody grace in the world — has always been the steady note beneath the shifting rhythms. Change is not the enemy of continuity; it is how continuity endures. The rhythm of the church is less about returning to what once was and more about listening for what God is doing now.
And yet, every time the rhythm shifts, there’s a part of us that wants to pull it back, to return to the tempo we once knew. Change unsettles us. We mistake the unfamiliar for the unfaithful. But staying in rhythm with the Spirit means learning to trust the new measure God is setting before us, even when it feels offbeat at first. Faithfulness isn’t found in keeping the old tempo; it’s found in following the Conductor — trusting that even in the unfamiliar, God is still writing the next verse of the song.
Every generation contributes its own rhythm to the life of the church. Some rhythms carry wisdom and depth — the steady pulse of faith that has sustained the song for decades. Others bring energy and imagination — the new improvisations that keep it growing. The challenge is not choosing one over the other, but learning how they can work together in harmony. Renewal occurs when the familiar beat makes room for the new, when the elders’ faith and the dreamers’ hope find a way to stay in sync.
The Rhythm of Belonging
Today, the rhythm feels different again. We’re learning — slowly — to resist the rush and make space to listen. We don’t always get it right, but we’re learning that listening itself is a form of love. We’re becoming less focused on perfect programs and more drawn to authentic relationships. We are discovering that belonging doesn’t happen on a schedule; it develops through rhythm — by showing up again and again, even when it’s inconvenient or uncertain.
Belonging is a long walk in the same direction, a steady heartbeat of presence that keeps time with God’s love. Sometimes the rhythm is strong and clear, like a hymn sung aloud. Other times it’s a quiet hum of hope that barely breaks the silence. But either way, it’s real, and it’s enough. Through every change, one truth has remained: the Spirit never stopped keeping time.
The Rhythm of the Spirit
Looking back, I can see how each of those four “congregations” taught me something about the rhythm of the Spirit:
The first taught me steadiness.
The second taught me surrender.
The third taught me resilience.
And this one — this post-Covid, ever-evolving community — teaches me trust.
Trust that God’s Spirit knows the rhythm even when we can’t hear it. Trust that the church’s song is bigger than any one instrument. Trust that resurrection keeps time with every breath of faithfulness.
Maybe that’s why I love the metaphor of rhythm so much. It’s not static. It’s not something you master. It’s something you live into, over time, until it becomes part of you. The church’s rhythm has always been cyclical, like seasons that turn, like tides that rise and fall, like breath that flows in and out.
Each season teaches us something:
Winter teaches waiting.
Spring teaches hope.
Summer teaches joy.
Autumn teaches release.
And through them all, the Spirit keeps conducting the unseen symphony that is God’s redeeming work in the world.
A Closing Reflection
If you’ve felt the rhythm of your own faith change in recent years, you’re not alone. The church is learning, right alongside you, how to listen again. We are learning to make room for the pauses, to trust the rests, to welcome the new melodies God is composing among us.
Maybe the question for all of us is this: What rhythm is the Spirit inviting you to live by now? Because the song of faith doesn’t end when the beat changes. It moves into a new measure — one that invites us to listen, to trust, and to play our part with courage and grace.