Ten Things I Wish More People Knew About the Church

This morning as I sat fiddling on Facebook, unwinding after a long overnight shift, I ran across this picture in my newsfeed, posted by a friend. Now, I've seen dozens of these kinds of things over the last few years, and I generally ignore them. But for some reason today, I felt compelled to respond.

Maybe it's because the author bills this list as "Ten Things I Wish the Church Knew..." Which Church is that? The one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church? The Church that includes dear friends of mine who also happen to be gay or lesbian? The Church that a friend of mine stuck it out in, even through the years when he couldn't be officially rostered because he was in a committed same-sex relationship? The same Church that now recognizes both his gifts for ministry AND the gift of the publicly accountable relationship he and his partner share?

Maybe it's the Church full of little old blue-haired Lutheran ladies, in the backwoods of Minnesota, who told me, in effect, that they didn't think the Jesus they knew would cast anybody out of the Church?

Maybe it's the church full of fumbling, bumbling, stumbling sinners and saints that regularly breaks my heart but has also quite literally saved my life?

I don't know, but for whatever reason, I felt compelled to share this list, which I'm calling, "Ten Things I Wish More People Knew About the Church":

1) We're not all the same.

2) A lot of us actively support completely equal rights for all human beings, including the full inclusion of members of the LGBTQ community.

3) This support can be found among both the clergy and the laity, at the personal, congregational and denominational level in many denominations.

4) This support has cost us dearly. Many of us have been called apostates, heretics and worse, and have people we love dearly who will no longer speak to us, because of this support.

5) Many of our denominations have hemorrhaged members, congregations and funds over the last decade because we even dared to raise the question of the place of gay and lesbian people in the family of God.

6) We have taken this stand of conscience anyway, not because we see any possible benefit to ourselves, our congregations or our denominations, but because we believe with all our hearts it is simply the right thing to do.

7) To say that "it is no longer your personal view when you're bothering someone else with it" seems to imply that it is okay for the church to speak out publicly on questions of social justice as long as we agree with you. But then, the people who disagree with you would say the same thing. Should the church then fall silent? I think Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Corrie Ten Boom, Martin Luther King, Jr., Mother Theresa, Father Greg Boyle and thousands of other faithful Christian witnesses who laid it all on the line to fight injustice and suffering in the world would beg to differ. I know I do.

8) Lots of us don't make the Leviticus argument, either for or against. The issue is a lot deeper for a lot of genuinely honest, thoughtful, non-closed-minded and non-bigoted people that you think. Talk to some, and you might see what I mean.

9) Tarring and feathering all Christians because some are homophobic is really not much different than what some Christians do in lambasting all members of the LGBTQ community because some members of that community engage in sexual behavior that is risky and hurtful (and would be equally risky and hurtful if it were engaged in by heterosexuals).

10) Prejudice is prejudice, and it's wrong no matter who holds it. When Jesus forbade judging, that included you, too.

Why Bother?

Every so often, I have one of those moments that make me remember why I keep my Facebook account. It doesn’t happen very often, but every now and then, between all of the political posts designed more to silence discussion than engage issues, rants about sports teams and updates on what people are having to eat at the moment, one of those conversations opens up that really engages an important question. I’ve been blessed to be part of such a conversation in the last couple of days, and it has gotten me thinking enough to dust off this blog for the first time in over three years. The question, distilled down to its essence and stated by my friend Phil, is this: “If grace alone is sufficient for salvation, then why bother with church, or for that matter religion, at all?”

My initial, off the top of my head response, given between slurps of coffee on my way to work, was “Love.” But even as I posted that response, I could hear the voice of my theological mentor and friend Robin Steinke challenging me, as only she can do, to “say more about that.” So, without further ado, here are a couple of reasons why I think church matters, even (especially?) for those of us who stake everything on grace.

1. Worship – It’s important to remember that when we talk about “going to church,” 90% of the time, we’re talking about going to worship. Words matter, and these words matter. We go to worship, because “it is right to give our thanks and praise.” While a lot of other things happen in the course of a worship service, things like confession and the declaration of absolution and sermons and offerings and such, fundamentally we gather together to give God our thanks and praise, to worship God for not only for the really amazing things God has done, but perhaps even more so for who God is. (Prime example: the wise guys in Matthew 2.) We worship, because God is worth it; we worship as an expression of our love and adoration for God.
   
2. Community – Right about now you may be asking, "Okay, granted, but if that’s the case, why not worship on the golf course, or on the lake, or at the Church of the Holy Mattress?" Well, this may come as a shock, but I don’t think it’s the worst thing in the world if every once in a while we spend our Sunday mornings in one of those places. As somebody famous once said, “the Sabbath was made for humanity, and not humanity for the Sabbath.” (Mark 2:27) But, it is important that our worship take place in church on a regular basis, too. Why? Because we need each other. As somebody else famous once said, “it is not good for a human to be alone.” We were created as relational, communal beings; in fact, I’d go so far as to say that part of what it means for us to be created “in the image of God” is that we are created for relationship. Martin Luther is supposed to have said that while denying the doctrine of the Trinity might put one’s salvation at risk, trying to comprehend the doctrine of the Trinity might put one’s sanity at risk. Be that as it may, if the doctrine of the Trinity doesn’t mean anything else, it means that God’s fundamental nature is one of relationship, a relationship, in the words of Episcopal bishop and theologian Mark Dwyer of “Father, Son and Holy Spirit in perfect, self-giving, self-receiving love.” Like it or not, we need each other, and it is built into us as human critters to live in community with one another and with God.
3. The external Word – I was born and raised Lutheran, and I just don’t quite know how to be anything else. (No doubt this stems largely from a profound lack of imagination on my part, but whatever.) As Lutherans, we believe that the phrase “Word of God” has a threefold meaning: 1) Jesus Christ, the Word made flesh, 2) the proclaimed Word, the Word made real for us through the voices of others and 3) the written Word of God contained in the Holy Scriptures. We also believe that this Word is external to us, that it comes to us from outside of us. (This is, for example, why Lutherans are somewhat skeptical of private revelation.) If I’m doing all of my worship by myself at the beach or the lake, I’m not putting myself in the way of this external Word. But if I’m willing to go sit in a hot, non-air-conditioned sanctuary on a hard, uncomfortable pew between a couple of gossipy little old ladies and some flat-out, stiff-necked, holier-than-thou Pharisees, singing hymns I don’t like and listening to a boring, predictable, three-points-and-a-poem sermon, I’ve got a really good chance of getting smacked with this Word even when I least expect it. I hear the Law, convicting me of my sin and driving me to my knees, and I hear the Gospel, reminding me that my sins were forgiven before I even knew they needed forgiving and inviting me to live a new life of love and service to God and neighbor, on this side of the grave as much as on the other. And here’s the really cool part: I never know when it’s gonna happen. It may be one line in that boring, predictable sermon or one verse in some tired old hymn that I hear in a way I never heard it before. It may be something I overhear one of those gossipy little old ladies say, or it might be one of those stiff-necked Pharisees saying they’re glad I’m there, no matter where I’ve been before. I don’t know where or when or how it will happen, but I’ve been promised that if I show up, it will happen (cf. Matthew 18:20), and it has happened often enough that I’ve come to trust that promise.
4. Taking my medicine – The church is absolutely infested with sinners. Which is why I need to be there, ‘cause I are one. To quote another famous person (this time it’s either Abigail Adams, Martin Luther or one of a handful of other folks, depending on who you believe), “the church is not a museum for the saints, but a hospital for sinners.” Whoever said it, I think it’s true. And hanging out on the ward in community with the other sinners, taking regular doses of the External Word, keeps me centered and grounded. Quoting Tom Cochrane here, “life is a highway.” (That song will now be stuck in your head the rest of the day. I’m sorry or you’re welcome, whichever is more appropriate for you.) On either side of the highway is a ditch. Being a beloved child of God who is at the same time a sinner, I can take that belovedness thing to mean that I can do whatever I want with my life and it doesn’t matter. That’s when I start veering towards the ditch labeled “Selfishness and Self-Centeredness”. And when the consequences pile up, as they inevitably do, and the wheels start to come off and my whole life starts to look like the crash scene at the end of The Blues Brothers, it’s very easy for me to grab the steering wheel, over-correct and veer off into the ditch on the other side of the road, the one marked “Hopelessness and Despair”. When I’m pinned in the mangled wreck, upside down in that ditch, it’s real easy for me to forget the whole beloved child of God thing, to forget grace and forgiveness and all of the other stuff I believe even to the core of my being. That’s when I need some other gossipy, stiff-necked, fallible, sinful, beloved child of God to say again those life-giving, life-saving words: “…in the name of Jesus Christ, your sins are forgiven.” “…I therefore declare to you the entire forgiveness of all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” “Bob, you’re an idiot, but Jesus loves you, and so do I, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” When the whole rest of the world and (especially) all of the little voices in the back of my head are telling me I’m hopeless, I need my sisters and brothers to remind me that that is a lie, and that there is hope, and that I am loved unconditionally and forever. It’s one thing to know it, but it’s another to hear it, and to feel it, and to have it made real for me by other sinners who’ve been in that ditch, too.

I have all kinds of issues with the church and with organized religion. (Personally, I think Jesus was more into disorganized religion anyway, but that’s another topic for another day.) The church regularly makes my head hurt, my stomach churn and my heart ache. Being part of the church is sometimes a lot like being one of the passengers on Noah’s ark: if it wasn’t for the storm outside, you’d never be able to stand the smell inside. But it’s the only place I know where a sinner like me can get the medicine I need. It’s the only place I know where, on a good day, I can be reminded both that I am a sinner and that I am a saint, because God says so. And every so often, I can catch a glimpse of what I think heaven is going to be like: gossipy little old ladies and holier-than-thou hypocrites, arm in arm with punks and prostitutes, belting out tired old hymns of worship and praise and adoration and love for this amazing God who just won’t stop loving us no matter what. So maybe that word that popped into my head this morning really wasn’t too far off the mark. It really is all about love after all.

The Truth That Makes Us Free

Jesus said to the Jews who had believed in him, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” They answered him, “We are descendants of Abraham and have never been slaves to anyone. What do you mean by saying, ‘You will be made free’?” Jesus answered them, “Very truly, I tell you, everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin. The slave does not have a permanent place in the household; the son has a place there forever. So if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed. (John 8:31-36)

I got an interesting comment after my sermon this morning. Sitting at the Easter breakfast, one of the people at my table said to me, "I loved your sermon this morning. Except that bit about about we're all sinners. Couldn't you have just left it as 'we all mess up'? Even when you baptize a baby, you throw in that bit that we're all sinners. And I like to think that mostly I'm okay."

I think most of us like to think that mostly we're okay. Sure, we mess up sometimes, but mostly we're okay. The problem is, deep down, in our guts, "in that place we don't like to talk about at parties," we KNOW that we're NOT okay. We have indeed sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. We have sinned in thought, word and deed, by what we have done and what we have undone. We have not loved God with our whole heart, or our neighbors as ourselves. We have grieved the heart of God, and deep in our hearts, we know it.

Pretending otherwise only aggravates the problem. Not talking about sin only gives sin more power over us. Talking about "brokenness" is all well and good, but if we don't admit that our brokenness includes our broken relationship with God, we're simply whitewashing over a problem that won't go away. A doctor who treated a patient for indigestion when he or she knew the patient had stomach cancer would be guilty of malpractice; a pastor who talks about "brokenness" without ever talking about sin is guilty of the same.

There are some who feel that sin shouldn't be talked about, especially on Easter. If we don't name the problem, however, then the solution makes no sense. No sin, no cross. No cross, no Easter. There can be no resurrection without a crucifixion. Soft-pedalling the gospel, turning into some kind of mealy-mouthed, "I'm okay, you're okay" feel-good pop psychology, is not only unfaithful to Christ, it is unfaithful to God's people. Not talking about sin makes the cross a cruel joke, and robs Easter of all meaning whatsoever.

Admitting our sin, however, has just the opposite effect. Speaking the truth, about God's righteousness, about our sinfulness, and about Christ's grace, sets us free. Admitting that we can't bridge the gap between us and God caused by our sin leads us to the truth that we don't have to, because Christ already has. The truth of our human problem is that we are sinners. The truth of God's solution to that problem is Christ. That is the truth of Good Friday, and the truth of Easter. It is the truth that makes us free.

It's ALWAYS Personal

Okay, so I haven't posted in almost two months. Mostly that's because I've been insanely busy, but it's also partly because I haven't been inspired to write until today. Well, no more.

Here's the thing. In seminary, we're taught boundaries. Keep your distance. Don't let it become personal. In fact, the whole CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) process is designed to help you know "where your buttons are" so you know how to "shield them", so that your "ministry with people in crisis" isn't "negatively affected" by having those buttons pushed.

But here's the thing. It IS personal. It's always personal. When you are sitting with a person whose spouse is dying, it's personal. Even if it's not personal for you, it's damn sure personal for them. When you're talking to someone who is camped out in the valley of the shadow of death, it's personal. When you walk into an ICU, or an funeral home, or a living room, it's personal. Whether you knew the person or not, whether they were eight or eighty, whether they were Mother Theresa or the Marquis de Sade, it's personal. It's personal to them, it's personal to the people who love them (even if you can't figure out why), and it's personal to Jesus. If you're wearing the collar, daring to be called pastor, it damned sure better be personal to you, too.

If it's ever NOT personal, you need to ask yourself why, and you need to think about that.

Jesus and Yoda

Sometimes I think the philosophy in a lot of congregations is closer to Yoda than Jesus. In The Empire Strikes Back, Luke Skywalker goes to the swamp-planet Degoba to learn the ways of the Force from the ancient Jedi Master Yoda. At one point, frustrated by Luke's failures in his attempts to use the Force, Yoda scolds, "Control! Control! You must learn control!"

Does this sound like the leadership structure of any congregations you know? In some congregations, this could practically be the title of the annual council leadership retreat. Rather than rewarding creativity and initiative, too often our structures squelch new ideas and keep ministry following in the same grooves it has always followed. We laugh at the joke about "We've always done it that way!", but only because we know that the sentiment expressed by those words does in fact drive much of our ministry. Members feel the need to seek permission to do anything, with the presumption often being in favor of continuity with the past rather than faithfulness to our future. Deep down, we fear that if someone isn't in control, there will be anarchy and somehow our congregation will implode and die like a planet hit by the Imperial Death Star.

The irony is, few if any congregations die because of a lack of control. Far more likely is that a congregation will decline or die because of too much control, too little willingness to encourage people to follow the Spirit and too little permission granted for God's people to use their gifts to glorify God. I'm willing to go out on a limb and bet that no congregation ever suffered because the council didn't vote on and approve the menu for the annual luncheon. In far too many of our congregations, however, councils are engaged in just such minutiae rather than in seeking God's vision for the congregation and leading the charge in pursuit of that vision.

In contrast to Yoda, Jesus has a very different perspective. In Matthew 16, Simon confesses Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of the living God, and Jesus responds, "Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it." Built on the rock of Peter's confession, the church will stand! Built on the rock of faith in and obedience to Jesus, not even the gates of Hell can stand against the church! If the gates of Hell, all the forces of sin and evil in the world won't prevail against a church standing firm on that confession, then neither will a little creative chaos now and then. In fact, ever since the creation of the world, God has been at work bringing order out of chaos! We don't need to fear chaos; if anything, we should be more afraid of sacrificing faithfulness and obedience to Jesus in a vain search for unchanging stability and order.

This is what freedom in Christ means for our congregational structures and leadership ethos. We are free to step out in new ways as we follow Christ's calling to be disciples who make disciples. We are free to try new ministries, to do things we've never done before. We're free to throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks, not worrying about the things that don't. We're free to give up control; free, in fact, to give up control, recognizing that control was never supposed to be our primary preoccupation in the first place. Control of the church belongs to Christ, working through the Holy Spirit. Our preoccupation should be with fidelity to our confession of Jesus as Messiah, with conforming our lives to his in radical, self-giving love, and with being open to all of the gifts God has given to the church (not just with the gifts that fit our time and talent sheets or our organizational chart).

Granted, this kind of permission-giving is risky, and a little scary, but our freedom in Christ is also freedom to fail. It's the freedom to lay it all on the line, to risk even the very existence of our congregations, if that's what it takes to be faithful to Christ's calling. We really don't have near as much to lose as we have to gain. After all, if we're committed to faithful followership of Christ, and if the gates of Hell itself won't prevail against the church, then how bad can we really mess it up?

Incurvatus In Se

Martin Luther defined our predicament as humans as homo incurvatus in se, that is, being “humans curved in on” ourselves. In this definition, he was following the great theologian of the early church, Augustine (no surprise, since Luther was himself a member of the Augustinian order). Luther was followed, in turn, by Karl Barth, one of the most prolific and influential theologians of the 20th century. While I disagree with their assertions about the fundamental nature of sin (pride for Augustine and Luther; falsehood, pride and sloth for Barth; personally, I vote for idolatry), I think the metaphor of being curved in on ourselves illustrates some profound truth. Not only are we as humans homo incurvatus in se, but often the congregations made up of humans are examples of ecclesia incurvatus in se, the church curved in on itself.

This “incurvature” is evident in both the embedded theology and, by extension, the practical life and ministry of many congregations. Our incurvature makes us obsessed with our own sin and salvation and deafens us to all that Christ had to say about living the gospel in this life. We speculate endlessly about who is in and who is out, whether God will forgive this or that person or this or that sin. This speculation is, I believe, born out of the fact that we don’t really trust Christ to redeem us, and so we want to know just exactly where the line is. Because of our worry about our own salvation, we don’t give a thought to the salvation of those around us. Our incurved theology is all about what we hope God will do for us and what we fear God might do to us; there is little thought and less energy expended on what God is calling us to do on behalf of the other.

Our incurved theology leads inevitably to incurved ministry. Our worry over our own salvation makes us oblivious to the spiritual needs of those outside the church. Pastoral ministry is focused on meeting the needs of the congregation, not on carrying the gospel out into the community. Lay ministry is focused on keeping things inside the congregation’s running smoothly, not on leading it out into the world in mission. We’re more concerned with who made a mess in the church kitchen than with the thousands right outside our doors who have not heard the gospel. We boldly proclaim that we want our congregations to grow, but rarely are we willing to make the changes that will require; even more rarely do we think about embodying the gospel for others purely for the other's sake. To be sure, there are exceptions to what I am describing. The vast majority of ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America; my own particular tribe) congregations, however, are indeed curved in on themselves, more concerned with their own well-being, size and budgets than with the huge numbers of people right outside our doors who have never heard that Jesus loves them enough to die for them.

The irony is that the more inward focused a person or a congregation becomes, the less likely it is that things will stay healthy inside that person or that congregation. Like black holes, the ultimate cosmic example of incurvatus in se, people and congregations can become sucking vortexes of anxiety and neediness. Like black holes, such people and congregations absorb light rather than emitting it; like black holes, they can become enormously destructive to those around them (and ultimately to themselves).

So what are we to do? How do we keep ourselves and our congregations from being incurvatus in se? The short answer is, we don’t. As so many of us repeat week after week, “we are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves.” We cannot free ourselves! The answer to our predicament, the only one who can bend us out, curving us outward in love for each other and for the world, is Christ. As Paul writes in Romans 6,

“We know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body of sin might be destroyed, and we might no longer be enslaved to sin. For whoever has died is freed from sin. But if we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him. We know that Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him. The death he died, he died to sin, once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God. So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 6:6-11)

We cannot transform ourselves, but Christ can. We cannot break our addiction to self-centeredness and self-justification; only when we fully accept our own powerlessness are we prepared to let Christ do what we cannot. Only when we accept our own idolatrous self-absorption can we, as individuals and congregations, find the courage to die to self, trusting that Christ will indeed make us more fully alive to God and to one another in him. It is only by letting go that we can receive; it is only by dying that we can rise; it is only by admitting our slavery to sin and self that we can be made free; it is only by accepting and confessing our incurvature that we can open ourselves to being re-bent by Christ. For that to happen, we must be willing to let our old self die. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer so profoundly put it, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” The same is true for congregations. If we are to live the life Christ offers, a life of freedom and meaning and abiding joy, we must first die to life incurvatus in se. There is no resurrection without crucifixion.

Free Theology

I can't help but note the two-fold vanity of creating a blog. Either I recognize that my blog will be like most of the 110 million other blogs out there and will be read by no one, which makes the act of writing it vain in the futile sense; or I think that my blog will somehow be different from tens of millions of other blogs, which makes it vain in the sense of self-conceit. Either way, it seems somewhat ridiculous, but hey, it's far from the most ridiculous thing I've ever done, so why not?

So just what is "Free Theology"? (And no, it's not a reference to the obvious point that no one would actually pay to read this.) It is a theology that starts from the foundation of our freedom in Christ. As Paul writes in Galatians 5, "For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery." (Galatians 5:1) We have been set free! Free from slavery to sin. Free from despair and the dominion of death. Free from selfishness and self-justification. Free from all the things that separate us from God. Moreover, our freedom is not just freedom from, it is also freedom for and freedom to. It is freedom for lives of love and service to God and neighbor. Freedom for mission and service and discipleship and ever-deepening communion with God. It is the freedom to be vulnerable, to admit our sins and our flaws and our failings, to trust God loves us anyway and is at work making us holy through the work of the Spirit. It is the freedom to love unconditionally, to serve passionately, to take risks and fall down and fail, knowing that God loves us and can use our frailties and failures just as surely as our triumphs. It is the freedom to hold fast to the treasures of two thousand years of the life of the church while at the same time being open to discovering what new thing the Holy Spirit is doing today. It is, above all, freedom from fear, born of a faith that nothing in all the universe can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

And, that, I suppose, is why I'm bothering to write a blog. As I look across the church today, I see an awful lot of fear. I see a lot of faithful pastors and laypeople, working their guts out and wondering why their churches are still shrinking and their kids are wandering away. I see congregations hunkering down, hoping they can survive, when God calls us to thrive. I see people who want to share their faith, but are afraid they don't have the right words or that someone will think they're a whacko or a religious nut. I see congregational leaders who honestly want to engage in mission but are afraid that doing things to share the gospel in their communities or welcome newcomers will upset too many of their members. I see congregations edging towards slow death, afraid to stay as they are but even more afraid to change. I see people afraid to let acquaintances or co-workers know that they are Christians because too often in our society Christianity has come to be associated with bigotry and intolerance and a rigid moralistic judgmentalism that looks more like the Pharisees than the Messiah. Fear is rampant in the church today, and we were destined for more than that.

To quote Paul again, "For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ—if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him." (Romans 8:15-17) We are God's beloved children and joint heirs with Christ! We have been given a spirit of adoption so that we may be free from fear! Through the cross of Jesus Christ, we have been named children of God, and it is Almighty God who holds us close, soothes our fears and give us the promise that, even though it might not be easy or comfortable or safe, it will be okay. We've been set free in Christ, and nothing will ever separate us from him. Whatever else happens, however badly we fail, however the sharing of our faith is received, whatever the results of the risks we take to engage in the mission Christ calls the church to, no matter what, it will be okay. That's free theology: theology built on the foundation of our freedom in Christ and our adoption as beloved children of God.