I'm so happy.
I keep playing little scenes in my head from the next days. I can't wait to be sitting in the dark of some St. Louis dive, telling my friends story after story about my life here. I'm going to tell them about things people have told me--about life, and Jesus, and politics, and sex, and movies. I know now that they're going to be shocked. And I can't wait. Oh, man. I so can't wait to be with people who understand how shocking all of this is. I'm smiling so big right now. I can't wait.
I keep telling my friends down here that they don't understand how other they are. And after awhile, I started to doubt myself. Is it really that different? But then my conversations with friends and family jolted me back, and I remembered...it is that different, really. The way that my friends and family reacted to not only the stories I told, but to the changes in me, reminded me of how far this world is from that.
I can't wait to get back to that world. Even if only for a few days with my friends over this weekend. :-) To be understood. To tell stories of some of this craziness, and have them gasp, and say "what the what?!?!" They'll totally get it.
It's not even just the Christian culture I'm talking about. James River, and my friends are of a different stripe. I really am in the Christian Right. These are the people who believe that the earth is only 6000 years old, and that Sarah Palin was a valid candidate. In college, we heard of these people, but regarded them somewhat mythically. Could they really exist? They do. And I love them.
But I can't wait to be amongst my own.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
a Tuesday, and some tongue-lashings
It's a Tuesday night, and I'm on my couch, eating ice cream, and watching romantic comedies. Because I have no life. Wait, I do have a life. It's just not here. Perhaps it would behoove me to make one here. It occurs to me that the task would be easier if I stopped using words like "behoove."
I'm liking this freedom to write without an audience. I find myself moving around in it, trying it on like a new jacket in the store. At the same time, it scares me that I feel as though I can't be honest unless no one is watching. It means that something went wrong along the way.
I think about the more sentimental entries of the previous four months, and I cringe at how my intellectual friends would read them. I'm scared to show that much of myself. It's easier with strangers. Though even with them, I mostly try to forget how self-disclosive I've been. Though that sentimentality is real, I also cringe to think of how hard I've fallen for this culture. How much of a follower I had become, in my writings. I didn't lie, but I did hold back. I did begin to accept as true and normal a number of things, without adequate reason. What I was writing, thinking, feeling, and saying didn't all match up. I don't like that.
But.. I also don't like that I'm hiding now. That I got spooked because I got a few tongue-lashings from my friends and family, and now I'm afraid to have the public evidence of the more emotional aspects of my faith. They are right about some of what they said, and I needed to resurface, and refocus. But they're wrong about some stuff, too. And it's not good for me to hide because I'm afraid of being seen a fool. I'm going to be a fool. Many, many times. I've already been a fool many, many times. My journey with Christ started 10 years ago, and since then, I have covered a lot of ground, and been wrong a majority of the time. I can't live my faith in arrogance or certainty, on either side. Maybe shutting down the blog wasn't the best route. Maybe the exercise of humility requires a little humble self-disclosure.
I'm liking this freedom to write without an audience. I find myself moving around in it, trying it on like a new jacket in the store. At the same time, it scares me that I feel as though I can't be honest unless no one is watching. It means that something went wrong along the way.
I think about the more sentimental entries of the previous four months, and I cringe at how my intellectual friends would read them. I'm scared to show that much of myself. It's easier with strangers. Though even with them, I mostly try to forget how self-disclosive I've been. Though that sentimentality is real, I also cringe to think of how hard I've fallen for this culture. How much of a follower I had become, in my writings. I didn't lie, but I did hold back. I did begin to accept as true and normal a number of things, without adequate reason. What I was writing, thinking, feeling, and saying didn't all match up. I don't like that.
But.. I also don't like that I'm hiding now. That I got spooked because I got a few tongue-lashings from my friends and family, and now I'm afraid to have the public evidence of the more emotional aspects of my faith. They are right about some of what they said, and I needed to resurface, and refocus. But they're wrong about some stuff, too. And it's not good for me to hide because I'm afraid of being seen a fool. I'm going to be a fool. Many, many times. I've already been a fool many, many times. My journey with Christ started 10 years ago, and since then, I have covered a lot of ground, and been wrong a majority of the time. I can't live my faith in arrogance or certainty, on either side. Maybe shutting down the blog wasn't the best route. Maybe the exercise of humility requires a little humble self-disclosure.
And He loved him.
How do I get back up onto the path?
I don't know. How far off am I? In what direction?
The beautiful thing about the system down here is that when you feel yourself changing, you can attribute that change to maturing in Christ (and be upheld socially in doing so). So, as you slide slowly into the culture, there is a reward for giving in. Social acceptance. Feelings of comfort, and security. But that change might not be Christ. It could just be culture.
As I've watched this happening in myself, I've known, to a degree. Some of the changes were good, so I opened the doors for them, thanking God along the way for good things. Spending more time with people who would bring me away from the collegiate drinking culture, and less time with those who would bring me into it. Reading scripture with an understanding of God's sovereignty, and not just with a desire to be well-versed. Coming to love people with whom I had little in common, and had felt were destroying the faith.
Some of the changes were not so good, but I let them happen because they seemed so comfortable, and I could hide behind others in accepting them. I have found myself making excuses for the financial aspects of the culture. Buying into the "it's ok to be rich" arguments, even as every part of my being thinks that's not true. Thinks that none of us has earned the right to have over-abundance, when others among us are dying. I have changed myself, in response to implicit social pressure. I don't actually think that cursing is wrong, in itself! I don't think that drinking is wrong. I think this dating scene these people have going is whacked out. And it's more than just preference. I have intelligent things to say about these issues, but have kept a lot of it under wraps so as not to rock the boat. Though the Palin thing is too much for me--I have spoken out on that topic several times.
I have started to give in to the culture. Because it feels good. To be accepted. To have a church home, finally. To get a chunk of that certainty, and security.
But I don't think that's real. Deep down. I've known it. Christ is real. In so far as I can discern Truth now, atonement is real. But this modern megachurch, capitalistic culture is not real. It's a construct. And, if I'm honest with myself, though it feels terrific, I don't think it's the end point for me.
I've always felt that the power of Christ is a radical power. But that the majority of us are choosing to live outside of it. So we create these big experiences, with music and lights, to convince ourselves we've tapped into the power. When in reality, the power of Christ is so much closer, so much simpler, and perhaps quieter than that. I thought that James River's Christmas show was majorly problematic, for that reason. The people were wicked talented. But the focus was off. It felt so empty. Beautiful, but empty. I kept thinking, Shut all of that noise down, and just tell people the story. Tell them why it matters.
Someone would come along, and point out that the show is an outreach, and people enjoy those things. Those are the methods these days by which people are changed. Guess what? They're not. Not really. Maybe the church has lost some of its truly saving power, and resorted to that nonsense, because The Church is not doing what it ought to do.
We think we need light shows and music to catch peoples' attention, and change them. But how much more powerful could the church be if a millions-strong movement of people who were truly sacrificial? Who gave so much that they all lived without the majority of creature comforts? Who could point to real change in the world, and not just the drops in the bucket?
I think this is what we're called to. To redefine the concept of "need." To slash through our lives with a determination to save the world, and not just a half-hearted resolve to give our 10%, and live the American Dream.
One of my favorite stories in the bible is the parable of the rich man. And my favorite version is in Mark. The guy comes to Jesus, and he asks what he can do to inherit eternal life. And Jesus says, (skipping some stuff), that the kid should go and sell all of his crap, and then come back to follow Him. The guy is understandably upset, he has a lot of junk. And Jesus turns and says that it's hard for rich men to get into the Kingdom of God, so hard that it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.
Now the reason that Mark's account is my favorite is because as Jesus is talking, it says that He looked at the guy, "and He loved him." And I love that. It kills me every time, because it's so compassionate. It's not judgmental. He looks, He sees the predicament, He understands what he's asking of the guy. And He loves him. There are only two other parts of the gospels that I love as much--when Jesus weeps with the crowd at Lazarus' tomb, and His cry to His father on the brink of death. Good stuff. Anyway, when I read this, I wonder why we are so arrogant as to think that if Jesus seemed to think it would be near impossible for rich peeps to enter heaven, that we're up to the challenge.
Seems as though we're just trying to comfort ourselves. To hold on to what we want. That's not very humble. It's not teach-able. Also, it's just downright funny to me that people will not drink, for fear of tempting themselves or others. The single ones won't be alone in certain situations with the opposite sex, for the same reason. But, with regards to wealth, they will put themselves directly in the line of a temptation that Jesus and the gospel writers felt so strongly about that there's a parable to warn against it! That's effed up. And a handy bit of loose (ultimately illogical) interpretation. But mostly effed up.
I don't know. How far off am I? In what direction?
The beautiful thing about the system down here is that when you feel yourself changing, you can attribute that change to maturing in Christ (and be upheld socially in doing so). So, as you slide slowly into the culture, there is a reward for giving in. Social acceptance. Feelings of comfort, and security. But that change might not be Christ. It could just be culture.
As I've watched this happening in myself, I've known, to a degree. Some of the changes were good, so I opened the doors for them, thanking God along the way for good things. Spending more time with people who would bring me away from the collegiate drinking culture, and less time with those who would bring me into it. Reading scripture with an understanding of God's sovereignty, and not just with a desire to be well-versed. Coming to love people with whom I had little in common, and had felt were destroying the faith.
Some of the changes were not so good, but I let them happen because they seemed so comfortable, and I could hide behind others in accepting them. I have found myself making excuses for the financial aspects of the culture. Buying into the "it's ok to be rich" arguments, even as every part of my being thinks that's not true. Thinks that none of us has earned the right to have over-abundance, when others among us are dying. I have changed myself, in response to implicit social pressure. I don't actually think that cursing is wrong, in itself! I don't think that drinking is wrong. I think this dating scene these people have going is whacked out. And it's more than just preference. I have intelligent things to say about these issues, but have kept a lot of it under wraps so as not to rock the boat. Though the Palin thing is too much for me--I have spoken out on that topic several times.
I have started to give in to the culture. Because it feels good. To be accepted. To have a church home, finally. To get a chunk of that certainty, and security.
But I don't think that's real. Deep down. I've known it. Christ is real. In so far as I can discern Truth now, atonement is real. But this modern megachurch, capitalistic culture is not real. It's a construct. And, if I'm honest with myself, though it feels terrific, I don't think it's the end point for me.
I've always felt that the power of Christ is a radical power. But that the majority of us are choosing to live outside of it. So we create these big experiences, with music and lights, to convince ourselves we've tapped into the power. When in reality, the power of Christ is so much closer, so much simpler, and perhaps quieter than that. I thought that James River's Christmas show was majorly problematic, for that reason. The people were wicked talented. But the focus was off. It felt so empty. Beautiful, but empty. I kept thinking, Shut all of that noise down, and just tell people the story. Tell them why it matters.
Someone would come along, and point out that the show is an outreach, and people enjoy those things. Those are the methods these days by which people are changed. Guess what? They're not. Not really. Maybe the church has lost some of its truly saving power, and resorted to that nonsense, because The Church is not doing what it ought to do.
We think we need light shows and music to catch peoples' attention, and change them. But how much more powerful could the church be if a millions-strong movement of people who were truly sacrificial? Who gave so much that they all lived without the majority of creature comforts? Who could point to real change in the world, and not just the drops in the bucket?
I think this is what we're called to. To redefine the concept of "need." To slash through our lives with a determination to save the world, and not just a half-hearted resolve to give our 10%, and live the American Dream.
One of my favorite stories in the bible is the parable of the rich man. And my favorite version is in Mark. The guy comes to Jesus, and he asks what he can do to inherit eternal life. And Jesus says, (skipping some stuff), that the kid should go and sell all of his crap, and then come back to follow Him. The guy is understandably upset, he has a lot of junk. And Jesus turns and says that it's hard for rich men to get into the Kingdom of God, so hard that it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.
Now the reason that Mark's account is my favorite is because as Jesus is talking, it says that He looked at the guy, "and He loved him." And I love that. It kills me every time, because it's so compassionate. It's not judgmental. He looks, He sees the predicament, He understands what he's asking of the guy. And He loves him. There are only two other parts of the gospels that I love as much--when Jesus weeps with the crowd at Lazarus' tomb, and His cry to His father on the brink of death. Good stuff. Anyway, when I read this, I wonder why we are so arrogant as to think that if Jesus seemed to think it would be near impossible for rich peeps to enter heaven, that we're up to the challenge.
Seems as though we're just trying to comfort ourselves. To hold on to what we want. That's not very humble. It's not teach-able. Also, it's just downright funny to me that people will not drink, for fear of tempting themselves or others. The single ones won't be alone in certain situations with the opposite sex, for the same reason. But, with regards to wealth, they will put themselves directly in the line of a temptation that Jesus and the gospel writers felt so strongly about that there's a parable to warn against it! That's effed up. And a handy bit of loose (ultimately illogical) interpretation. But mostly effed up.
Monday, December 28, 2009
tweet me!
Evangelical megapastors tweet more than any group of humans on earth, outside of 14-year-old girls. I'm convinced of it. What's interesting is that they think we care. More interesting still, is that we do care. They're celebrities. Lisa Bevere is making a mocha (again)? I wonder how she makes them. Aww, Jonathan Falwell's dog fell asleep on his computer. How cute.
We read. We care. We kinda idolize. What does that mean? The leader-worship of this culture is bizarre. I don't say much about it down here, because people are primed to say one of a dozen things, all in the neighborhood of, "Yeah, at some places, they do really put pastors on a pedestal, but I don't think we do that here." Right, of course not.
When John Bevere spoke at JRA a couple of months ago, he went so far as to suggest that this country doesn't respect pastors in the way they should. They (gasp) sometimes question them. They sit back, and say "What do you have for us?" Far be it from me to question the likes of John Bevere, but um, helllooooo. Jerry Falwell. Oral Roberts. Pat Robertson. Ted Haggard. We should be questioning a little (or a lot) more. The non-Christians get it. They see these people, and say "Hey, sheeple-- what's up with your messed up leadership?" One of my non-Christian friends calls these people the "douchebags for Christ." This makes me laugh.
But she's right. Not that these people, and others like them, haven't done good things. But that their ratios tip in the negative direction. And a lot of the Christian community seems to brush that under the rug. To raise up their victories, and downplay their failures. I guess we all do that for ourselves. But in the twitter age, when someone like Falwell dies, and the "He was a great man," megatweeters start thumping the keyboard, people notice. And make no mistake, it's not an effective "witness." We need a more nuanced, loving, and critical voice towards our leaders.
Then again, I haven't been saying what I need to say either. I haven't been as nuanced as I'd like them to be. And the only reason I'm doing it right now is that no one can read this. So what does that mean? I've been seduced by the culture. I've held back on my true thoughts. I've been struggling to find a voice that isn't destructive. But in so doing, I've become passive and dismissive of true discourse. I've said some things, and framed others, in ways that are disingenuous. I haven't been walking that line I was talking about very well.
I saw this truly great bumpersticker on my way to Chicago last week. It said: "Jesus would slap the shit out of you." And it's great firstly because it poses an answer to the age old question, "What would Jesus do?" but also because it captures reality. The satire of the message is that it mocks everyone-- the overly-righteous super-Christians, the middle-of-the-road Sunday Christians, the anti-religion pseudo-intellects (all of which I have been, by the way). Notwithstanding the violence, I think the spirit of the sticker is intact. And it makes me wonder, how can I be the kind of Christian that Jesus would not slap the shit out of? Because that's the kind of Christian I want to be.
We read. We care. We kinda idolize. What does that mean? The leader-worship of this culture is bizarre. I don't say much about it down here, because people are primed to say one of a dozen things, all in the neighborhood of, "Yeah, at some places, they do really put pastors on a pedestal, but I don't think we do that here." Right, of course not.
When John Bevere spoke at JRA a couple of months ago, he went so far as to suggest that this country doesn't respect pastors in the way they should. They (gasp) sometimes question them. They sit back, and say "What do you have for us?" Far be it from me to question the likes of John Bevere, but um, helllooooo. Jerry Falwell. Oral Roberts. Pat Robertson. Ted Haggard. We should be questioning a little (or a lot) more. The non-Christians get it. They see these people, and say "Hey, sheeple-- what's up with your messed up leadership?" One of my non-Christian friends calls these people the "douchebags for Christ." This makes me laugh.
But she's right. Not that these people, and others like them, haven't done good things. But that their ratios tip in the negative direction. And a lot of the Christian community seems to brush that under the rug. To raise up their victories, and downplay their failures. I guess we all do that for ourselves. But in the twitter age, when someone like Falwell dies, and the "He was a great man," megatweeters start thumping the keyboard, people notice. And make no mistake, it's not an effective "witness." We need a more nuanced, loving, and critical voice towards our leaders.
Then again, I haven't been saying what I need to say either. I haven't been as nuanced as I'd like them to be. And the only reason I'm doing it right now is that no one can read this. So what does that mean? I've been seduced by the culture. I've held back on my true thoughts. I've been struggling to find a voice that isn't destructive. But in so doing, I've become passive and dismissive of true discourse. I've said some things, and framed others, in ways that are disingenuous. I haven't been walking that line I was talking about very well.
I saw this truly great bumpersticker on my way to Chicago last week. It said: "Jesus would slap the shit out of you." And it's great firstly because it poses an answer to the age old question, "What would Jesus do?" but also because it captures reality. The satire of the message is that it mocks everyone-- the overly-righteous super-Christians, the middle-of-the-road Sunday Christians, the anti-religion pseudo-intellects (all of which I have been, by the way). Notwithstanding the violence, I think the spirit of the sticker is intact. And it makes me wonder, how can I be the kind of Christian that Jesus would not slap the shit out of? Because that's the kind of Christian I want to be.
do it well.
So I shut down the blog. I'm writing this. Only I'm reading it.
I think that I've lost my voice. More directly, I've lost myself.
I've known for a while now that I'm shifting to the right. I've known, and I've let it happen, because I have felt that it needed to happen. Not that I expect to live in the right forever, but just that I wanted to step into the culture fully, to allow myself to be changed. So I saw the shift, and approved it, in a sense, not because I thought I was walking straight down the path, but because I think that this particular detour is an important one.
I doubt that all of my what I'm picking up now, that all of these changes, will continue on with me until the end. But the process is valuable. I am learning to love these people. And I do love them. They are teaching me about compassion and love and kindness. They're not perfect. Maybe the critical inquiry is lacking sometimes. Maybe this is a bubble, and they sometimes do mistake culture for faith. But truth cannot be without Love. And I don't want to be brilliant, but unloving.
Some of my friends from home are actually brilliant. They have sharpened my mind, and though I can't ever hope to reach the levels of their intellect, I have come a long way. But what is any of that if mired in anger, and judgment, and mean-spiritedness? Or, worst of all, arrogance? Fear? I don't want to be afraid to be a fool. I don't want to shy from the emotionalism because I'm scared that an intellectual will walk by, and scoff at my heart. Some of my friends from home judge the faith of my church as idiotic. These are not stupid friends. They are versed both in theology, and culture. And some of their accusations are valid. I'm not a relativist. If we can, we should discern Truth. And if what I see isn't Truth, I don't want to run from saying as much. But I pray for humility always.
I know that what I'm coming to accept down here is only one version, one opinion. I haven't forgotten. And maybe, yeah, maybe I am taking a break. Maybe I like all of this so much because they do claim certainty. Because I can rest for awhile. I've spent most of my life asking questions, trying to figure out what is true and what is not. It's hard. It's tiring. I've always envied Christians, particularly conservative ones, because they get to be certain. I remember a conversation with a professor-friend of mine. I was having a terrible time at it, and I ended up in his office, trashed, but unable to forget it all, sobbing, and telling him that I wish I could accept Christianity. If only I were able to, I could just tow the line. Get married to a great guy, have kids, a nice house, feel certainty about my life, and my faith, and how I should view the world.
Of course, Christianity isn't that easy, or so comfortable. Though many live as though it is. But the point stands that there is something comfortable and solid in the conservative Christian faith/culture. A set of mores, and opinions. And even if you haven't fought for the truth yourself, you get to stand behind others. Strength in numbers. I have been hiding in there a little bit. I've been taking comfort in the certainty. Taking rest. Even while thinking that what's being handed to me at James River isn't the whole truth. My friends are right to accuse me of that. Though they're wrong to do so with such venom, and arrogance. These conservatives could be right.
But I don't want to hold faith, and life(!) at arm's length just because I might be wrong. Maybe the Truth is in the process. In the action of faith. Of trusting. Of reading, and writing, and thinking, and getting as close as you can to certainty, and then embracing, even as you continue to read, and think, and talk. That's a dangerous line to walk. I know that's what my friends are worried about. I feel the pull myself. I accuse my Christian friends down here of it. To embrace, but still question is a tricky proposition. I pray to God for the strength, love, and humility to do it well.
I think that I've lost my voice. More directly, I've lost myself.
I've known for a while now that I'm shifting to the right. I've known, and I've let it happen, because I have felt that it needed to happen. Not that I expect to live in the right forever, but just that I wanted to step into the culture fully, to allow myself to be changed. So I saw the shift, and approved it, in a sense, not because I thought I was walking straight down the path, but because I think that this particular detour is an important one.
I doubt that all of my what I'm picking up now, that all of these changes, will continue on with me until the end. But the process is valuable. I am learning to love these people. And I do love them. They are teaching me about compassion and love and kindness. They're not perfect. Maybe the critical inquiry is lacking sometimes. Maybe this is a bubble, and they sometimes do mistake culture for faith. But truth cannot be without Love. And I don't want to be brilliant, but unloving.
Some of my friends from home are actually brilliant. They have sharpened my mind, and though I can't ever hope to reach the levels of their intellect, I have come a long way. But what is any of that if mired in anger, and judgment, and mean-spiritedness? Or, worst of all, arrogance? Fear? I don't want to be afraid to be a fool. I don't want to shy from the emotionalism because I'm scared that an intellectual will walk by, and scoff at my heart. Some of my friends from home judge the faith of my church as idiotic. These are not stupid friends. They are versed both in theology, and culture. And some of their accusations are valid. I'm not a relativist. If we can, we should discern Truth. And if what I see isn't Truth, I don't want to run from saying as much. But I pray for humility always.
I know that what I'm coming to accept down here is only one version, one opinion. I haven't forgotten. And maybe, yeah, maybe I am taking a break. Maybe I like all of this so much because they do claim certainty. Because I can rest for awhile. I've spent most of my life asking questions, trying to figure out what is true and what is not. It's hard. It's tiring. I've always envied Christians, particularly conservative ones, because they get to be certain. I remember a conversation with a professor-friend of mine. I was having a terrible time at it, and I ended up in his office, trashed, but unable to forget it all, sobbing, and telling him that I wish I could accept Christianity. If only I were able to, I could just tow the line. Get married to a great guy, have kids, a nice house, feel certainty about my life, and my faith, and how I should view the world.
Of course, Christianity isn't that easy, or so comfortable. Though many live as though it is. But the point stands that there is something comfortable and solid in the conservative Christian faith/culture. A set of mores, and opinions. And even if you haven't fought for the truth yourself, you get to stand behind others. Strength in numbers. I have been hiding in there a little bit. I've been taking comfort in the certainty. Taking rest. Even while thinking that what's being handed to me at James River isn't the whole truth. My friends are right to accuse me of that. Though they're wrong to do so with such venom, and arrogance. These conservatives could be right.
But I don't want to hold faith, and life(!) at arm's length just because I might be wrong. Maybe the Truth is in the process. In the action of faith. Of trusting. Of reading, and writing, and thinking, and getting as close as you can to certainty, and then embracing, even as you continue to read, and think, and talk. That's a dangerous line to walk. I know that's what my friends are worried about. I feel the pull myself. I accuse my Christian friends down here of it. To embrace, but still question is a tricky proposition. I pray to God for the strength, love, and humility to do it well.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
a coupla beers.
Life is good.
I'm in St. Louis. I love St. Louis. Love St. Louis. Since I first visited about seven years ago. I fell, hard, and for always. When I think of my perfect life, I think of it here. When I plan my wedding, I plan it here.
Tonight, I met a friend of mine for a beer. And it was redemptive. He ran a bible study up in the Chicago area. It was thoughtful, and intelligent, and was the first time that I saw a kind of Christianity I could accept for my own. Seeing him again was everything I could have hoped for.
I should mention first that both of us have experienced something of a major spiritual renewal in the year since we've seen one another. He has gone much deeper into his faith. And I have gained a new understanding of Christ, as a savior rather than just a behavioral model. So our getting together was almost like a meeting of strangers.
But then we were also both the same. Same humor. Same disregard for the conservative "rules," and affinity for beers, and off-color jokes that my James River friends would be appalled by. But also a deep and abiding love for Christ, and desire to understand His will in our lives. To understand what is culture, and what is faith, and how the church ought to go about dealing with each.
As we shared a couple of beers, and some good food at the archetype of a St. Louis bar, I felt so profoundly warm. We talked about authors, and preachers, and Christians. I told him stories of the people I had met, and of AG megachurch culture (good and bad). He told me about the great things that his church was doing (he works in the music ministry at a GREAT church down here), and how God was coming into his life in new and amazing ways. We laughed, and talked, and carried on until we both startled to realize it was 10 o'clock. And then we lingered for a few minutes on the sidewalk, planning on planning to see each other the next time I planned to be in town.
There must be a great and benevolent God to think to give me something so wonderful as tonight.
I realize, in the re-reading, that these seem like romantic statements. They're not. He has a girlfriend, and I'm kind of busy right now for yet another emotional/intellectual element. But to be with a Christian, outside the conservative culture of James River, felt so much better than good. To remember that there are different Christian cultures out there--ones that so suit me--is more than amazing. At the same time, I'm happy to be at James River.
Maybe that's the best part. I love the future. I love the present. I'm at peace with the past. Life is good.
I'm in St. Louis. I love St. Louis. Love St. Louis. Since I first visited about seven years ago. I fell, hard, and for always. When I think of my perfect life, I think of it here. When I plan my wedding, I plan it here.
Tonight, I met a friend of mine for a beer. And it was redemptive. He ran a bible study up in the Chicago area. It was thoughtful, and intelligent, and was the first time that I saw a kind of Christianity I could accept for my own. Seeing him again was everything I could have hoped for.
I should mention first that both of us have experienced something of a major spiritual renewal in the year since we've seen one another. He has gone much deeper into his faith. And I have gained a new understanding of Christ, as a savior rather than just a behavioral model. So our getting together was almost like a meeting of strangers.
But then we were also both the same. Same humor. Same disregard for the conservative "rules," and affinity for beers, and off-color jokes that my James River friends would be appalled by. But also a deep and abiding love for Christ, and desire to understand His will in our lives. To understand what is culture, and what is faith, and how the church ought to go about dealing with each.
As we shared a couple of beers, and some good food at the archetype of a St. Louis bar, I felt so profoundly warm. We talked about authors, and preachers, and Christians. I told him stories of the people I had met, and of AG megachurch culture (good and bad). He told me about the great things that his church was doing (he works in the music ministry at a GREAT church down here), and how God was coming into his life in new and amazing ways. We laughed, and talked, and carried on until we both startled to realize it was 10 o'clock. And then we lingered for a few minutes on the sidewalk, planning on planning to see each other the next time I planned to be in town.
There must be a great and benevolent God to think to give me something so wonderful as tonight.
I realize, in the re-reading, that these seem like romantic statements. They're not. He has a girlfriend, and I'm kind of busy right now for yet another emotional/intellectual element. But to be with a Christian, outside the conservative culture of James River, felt so much better than good. To remember that there are different Christian cultures out there--ones that so suit me--is more than amazing. At the same time, I'm happy to be at James River.
Maybe that's the best part. I love the future. I love the present. I'm at peace with the past. Life is good.
Monday, December 21, 2009
to continue on.
I'm going home tomorrow. For the first time in four months. My home, my hometown, my favorite places, all of my closest family and friends. My dog.
I'm smiling.
As I think about going home, the memory of all of that contrasts sharply with the reality of all of this. My life in southern Missouri. It shouldn't, really. I've kept close contact with family and friends from home. If I've changed, it hasn't been in isolation. This blog represents only a small fraction of the total processing of my experiences. I'm not unaware of the changes.
And yet. I'm nervous. Just the tiniest bit.
My life is here now. I count as friends people who are within the Religious Right that my friends at home (and I) have derided so often in the past. I now participate in a culture so wholly other from where I came that I often wonder what would happen if I brought my peer groups together.
Those on either side might read this, and bristle. Might think that I'm making too much of the divide. Creating significant differences where there really aren't. That's probably true on the surface. But the reality is that to dig down, and not just respect, but understand and appreciate each culture, takes more than most in each side are willing to give.
I treasure my life at James River. I mean that. The use of the word "treasure" is not just an artifact of our culture's affinity for verbal exaggeration, or a misunderstanding of the term. I use it intentionally. I treasure the sermons, and the friends, and my Tuesday afternoons in the atrium. They are of great value to me, as they aided in, and represent, something far greater. I think fondly of JRA. I would (and do) go to bat fairly often to defend the church, and its people.
But my experiences here are things that can not be fully understood by some of my friends from home. And in that sense, a large part of my life has become inaccessible to those with whom I have always been the most accessible. Though I can attempt to explain, and they are brilliantly intuitive, there are moments, and themes, and understandings that might not ever break upon them in the same way.
"I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion."
It seems that there is a point in this journey from which you continue on without men. That to move closer to God is not the complete exclusion of mortal relations, but the understanding that some steps can't be taken amongst men, they are necessarily moments of crisis.
I'm smiling.
As I think about going home, the memory of all of that contrasts sharply with the reality of all of this. My life in southern Missouri. It shouldn't, really. I've kept close contact with family and friends from home. If I've changed, it hasn't been in isolation. This blog represents only a small fraction of the total processing of my experiences. I'm not unaware of the changes.
And yet. I'm nervous. Just the tiniest bit.
My life is here now. I count as friends people who are within the Religious Right that my friends at home (and I) have derided so often in the past. I now participate in a culture so wholly other from where I came that I often wonder what would happen if I brought my peer groups together.
Those on either side might read this, and bristle. Might think that I'm making too much of the divide. Creating significant differences where there really aren't. That's probably true on the surface. But the reality is that to dig down, and not just respect, but understand and appreciate each culture, takes more than most in each side are willing to give.
I treasure my life at James River. I mean that. The use of the word "treasure" is not just an artifact of our culture's affinity for verbal exaggeration, or a misunderstanding of the term. I use it intentionally. I treasure the sermons, and the friends, and my Tuesday afternoons in the atrium. They are of great value to me, as they aided in, and represent, something far greater. I think fondly of JRA. I would (and do) go to bat fairly often to defend the church, and its people.
But my experiences here are things that can not be fully understood by some of my friends from home. And in that sense, a large part of my life has become inaccessible to those with whom I have always been the most accessible. Though I can attempt to explain, and they are brilliantly intuitive, there are moments, and themes, and understandings that might not ever break upon them in the same way.
"I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion."
It seems that there is a point in this journey from which you continue on without men. That to move closer to God is not the complete exclusion of mortal relations, but the understanding that some steps can't be taken amongst men, they are necessarily moments of crisis.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Second seeker.
Why have churches stopped posting their service times on their outside signage? That is useful information. I need the name of your church, so I know what kind of crazy you are. And I need the service times, so I can participate in the crazy promptly.
Just some thoughts from the drive down Battlefield this morning. I had set out to attend the second service at Second Baptist, but on the way, passed about 10 churches that might have lured me off my mark, had I been able to tell from the road what time their services started.
Anyway.
Kudos to the architect, this Second Baptist is a striking vision from the road. Though different in style, it reminds me of The Baha'i temple in Wilmette (IL)--the way it hits your eye, and explodes back through your brain, leaving you a little stunned with the beauty. That's how I felt when I first saw it. I remember swerving to the side, staring and trying to drive. Thinking, "those people get beauty."
For all of that, the inside is pretty standard stuff. I am met by a greeter. Not all of the churches I've visited have great greeters, but I think they're a must. Also a must--a newcomer meet'n'greet. Sadly, Second Baptist doesn't have one. No coffee for me, and no opportunity to ask all of my questions about what's offered for unmarried, 25-year-olds, or what makes the Baptists distinct from other denominations, and this church distinct from other Baptist churches. I am graciously given an email address, but that is so much work for a casual visitor.
The ground floor is PACKED, so I head up to the balcony. I've never liked sitting in the balcony of a church. The balcony is for slackers, and the congenitally late. I might have just been primed by my visit to Central Assembly, but the more traditional aspects of the sanctuary are not hitting me quite so hard this time. There's an odd hybrid here. Conservative surroundings, but contemporary feel.
There are pews, and very traditional decorative motifs, and hymnals. Many people are dressed up. But there's also a pretty impressive mix of ages. And a charisma oooooozing out of the guy up front. I love it when baby boomers use words like "cool," and "awesome." It's like watching my grandmother text. This guy does it well, though. In fact, it seems that his charisma accounts for a lot of this contemporary feel. It's not what he says. It's the way he says it.
Oh, a bell choir! Bell choirs are sexy. I was in a bell choir, once upon a time. The music here is more traditional than what I've become used to over the past four months. But they're tryin' to rock it, and I appreciate that. Not a raised arm in the place, though. But, wait for it, wait for it... a male octet takes the stage. They have very shiny shoes. They begin to sing. As verse builds upon verse, I feel the first emotional crescendo of the service (for me). And oh, holy rollers, I see an arm go up down in the second row. Ten seconds later, it comes down. This continues for a couple of minutes--one after another a Baptist sticks his/her arm up, holds for about ten-twenty seconds, and gets tired (I guess).
Then, suddenly, the swell of the music hits the crowd and pushes them up onto their feet, like a wave from the front of the sanctuary to the back, and up into the balcony. It's WILD. I see the balcony slackers looking at one another, silently asking, "Do I get up? Are you gonna get up?" The arm-raising never makes it out of the first five rows, but every one of those Baptists gave a good hearty clap at the end of the song. It was good times.
As I leave, I wonder why this feels so comfortable, so familiar. I wasn't raised in any church, but my family were Mississippi Baptists through and through for generations. My grandfather sent money to the 700 Club every month until the month he died. His daddy had been a Baptist preacher in Tupelo, Mississippi, and his daddy before him. My Mom toured the world with the Blackwood Brothers when she was just a few years younger than I am. She tells me stories of week-long tent revivals, spent silent on the hard-hewn boards of a wooden bench, while the preacher's voice rose and fell above the heads of the sinners assembled. Is there Baptist in my blood?
I don't know. Interestingly, there should be pentecostal in my brain. A friend lent me this amazing book about the pentecostal movement, called "The Century of the Holy Spirit," by Vinson Synan. From what I understand, this is required reading for Evangel seniors, and not all of them relish it quite the way I do. Well, friends, if that's you, be absolved of your boredom and go in peace, because I am enjoying it enough for all of us.
About my brain, though, turns out that John Alexander Dowie, a favorite historical topic of mine, had influence in the beginning of the pentecostal movement. Though I use the term "Chicago area" to relate easily to people, I'm actually from Zion, IL. Originally, Zion City, Reverend Dowie's settlement on the coast of Lake Michigan. And Christ Community Church, where I first heard the gospel, was first known as Christian Catholic Church, so named by Dowie. It was his church, hence my interest in him.
Interesting, huh? There's a nice bit of symmetry in my experiences. Also, this book is starting to make sense of some of the more charismatic elements to my AG involvement. I hate it when these people start to make sense. It either means that they weren't crazy to begin with, and I'm just catching onto that, or that they were crazy to begin with, and I'm just catching it.
Just some thoughts from the drive down Battlefield this morning. I had set out to attend the second service at Second Baptist, but on the way, passed about 10 churches that might have lured me off my mark, had I been able to tell from the road what time their services started.
Anyway.
Kudos to the architect, this Second Baptist is a striking vision from the road. Though different in style, it reminds me of The Baha'i temple in Wilmette (IL)--the way it hits your eye, and explodes back through your brain, leaving you a little stunned with the beauty. That's how I felt when I first saw it. I remember swerving to the side, staring and trying to drive. Thinking, "those people get beauty."
For all of that, the inside is pretty standard stuff. I am met by a greeter. Not all of the churches I've visited have great greeters, but I think they're a must. Also a must--a newcomer meet'n'greet. Sadly, Second Baptist doesn't have one. No coffee for me, and no opportunity to ask all of my questions about what's offered for unmarried, 25-year-olds, or what makes the Baptists distinct from other denominations, and this church distinct from other Baptist churches. I am graciously given an email address, but that is so much work for a casual visitor.
The ground floor is PACKED, so I head up to the balcony. I've never liked sitting in the balcony of a church. The balcony is for slackers, and the congenitally late. I might have just been primed by my visit to Central Assembly, but the more traditional aspects of the sanctuary are not hitting me quite so hard this time. There's an odd hybrid here. Conservative surroundings, but contemporary feel.
There are pews, and very traditional decorative motifs, and hymnals. Many people are dressed up. But there's also a pretty impressive mix of ages. And a charisma oooooozing out of the guy up front. I love it when baby boomers use words like "cool," and "awesome." It's like watching my grandmother text. This guy does it well, though. In fact, it seems that his charisma accounts for a lot of this contemporary feel. It's not what he says. It's the way he says it.
Oh, a bell choir! Bell choirs are sexy. I was in a bell choir, once upon a time. The music here is more traditional than what I've become used to over the past four months. But they're tryin' to rock it, and I appreciate that. Not a raised arm in the place, though. But, wait for it, wait for it... a male octet takes the stage. They have very shiny shoes. They begin to sing. As verse builds upon verse, I feel the first emotional crescendo of the service (for me). And oh, holy rollers, I see an arm go up down in the second row. Ten seconds later, it comes down. This continues for a couple of minutes--one after another a Baptist sticks his/her arm up, holds for about ten-twenty seconds, and gets tired (I guess).
Then, suddenly, the swell of the music hits the crowd and pushes them up onto their feet, like a wave from the front of the sanctuary to the back, and up into the balcony. It's WILD. I see the balcony slackers looking at one another, silently asking, "Do I get up? Are you gonna get up?" The arm-raising never makes it out of the first five rows, but every one of those Baptists gave a good hearty clap at the end of the song. It was good times.
As I leave, I wonder why this feels so comfortable, so familiar. I wasn't raised in any church, but my family were Mississippi Baptists through and through for generations. My grandfather sent money to the 700 Club every month until the month he died. His daddy had been a Baptist preacher in Tupelo, Mississippi, and his daddy before him. My Mom toured the world with the Blackwood Brothers when she was just a few years younger than I am. She tells me stories of week-long tent revivals, spent silent on the hard-hewn boards of a wooden bench, while the preacher's voice rose and fell above the heads of the sinners assembled. Is there Baptist in my blood?
I don't know. Interestingly, there should be pentecostal in my brain. A friend lent me this amazing book about the pentecostal movement, called "The Century of the Holy Spirit," by Vinson Synan. From what I understand, this is required reading for Evangel seniors, and not all of them relish it quite the way I do. Well, friends, if that's you, be absolved of your boredom and go in peace, because I am enjoying it enough for all of us.
About my brain, though, turns out that John Alexander Dowie, a favorite historical topic of mine, had influence in the beginning of the pentecostal movement. Though I use the term "Chicago area" to relate easily to people, I'm actually from Zion, IL. Originally, Zion City, Reverend Dowie's settlement on the coast of Lake Michigan. And Christ Community Church, where I first heard the gospel, was first known as Christian Catholic Church, so named by Dowie. It was his church, hence my interest in him.
Interesting, huh? There's a nice bit of symmetry in my experiences. Also, this book is starting to make sense of some of the more charismatic elements to my AG involvement. I hate it when these people start to make sense. It either means that they weren't crazy to begin with, and I'm just catching onto that, or that they were crazy to begin with, and I'm just catching it.
Friday, December 18, 2009
going Oprah.
Assemblies of God National Headquarters
1300 hours
I wish I could get that clickety-clackety typing sound to play when this entry pops up, like whenever the Pentagon is on a TV show or a movie. Though according to the books I'm reading, the true Pentagon of the evangelical movement is in South Barrington. Nonetheless, I feel some trepidation as I walk up to the building. Which is, by the way, an unmistakable relic of the 60s. Aaaand we're in.
Ohhh Lordy, it's my grandmother's living room. If grandma had a penchant for marble walls. The paintings are beautiful--though completely different in style, the use of light reminds me of what I love about J.M.W. Turner. I'm given a visitor's badge, and directions to the museum. There's a sign at the stairs notifying whoever would ascend that everyone requires badges beyond that point. I wonder why. Are there security concerns? How important is this place, exactly? Do people from outside the fold care what happens here? What does happen here?
After a few minutes of museum exploration (which, by the way, looks like ridiculous fun, and will claim more of my time when I'm not wearing heels that kill my feet), I am met by my tour guide. She has great shoes. And is ten different kinds of knowledgeable. We start in this old-timey chapel, with a video.
Did you know that the Assemblies of God were orginally started by a bunch of men who had been kicked out of their own churches for being too radical? This denomination just sky-rocketed in my esteem. The other thing I did not know-- the re-emergence (so to speak) of speaking in tongues only occurred within the last 100 (or so) years. More about that in a second.
So we continue on with our trek. Out of the chapel, through the printing press, and past a couple of the offices, up to the fourth floor, where I am given an opportunity to talk to a few of the employees. I can't help myself. I want to know more about this speaking in tongues phenomenon. I'm too polite to ask what I really want to ask. What does it feel like? Are you still wholly within your body, so to speak, or is it like you've been taken over? Can you understand it as it's coming out of your mouth? Does it sound the same as other peoples', or do you have your own "language?" How does it comes to you? Is it something that you are consciously producing, or is sort of flowing through you?
I keep those questions to myself, but I do go a little Oprah, and ask them if they have ever spoken in tongues themselves. They have. Huh. Interesting. I then wonder aloud at how tongues are viewed within the AG church. Do all people have that gift? Or just some? Is it the only proof of being baptized in the holy spirit? Basically what I'm getting at is: Is speaking in tongues considered an integral part of the faith?
Not having been raised in the church, and not having spent time in pentecostal churches before moving down here, tongues are a little...uh, strange. That's a lie. They're more than strange. They are a stronghold on "Ashley's List of the Top Three Weirdest Things These People Do." Right next to what I think of as "praying for the hearing-impaired" (God can hear you, no need to shout), and the near-convulsive displays of emotion during prayer.
I don't deny the passages of Acts that speak to the practice. But I also don't understand how the phenomenon has risen so quickly after almost two millenia in dormancy. On the way out, we stop by the archives in my attempt to find some answers. Apparently, the first modern "speaker" was Agnes Ozman, under the tutelage of Charles Parham. I'd be lying if I said I didn't question the event. One woman has what appears to be a fit of religious hysteria, and it kicks off a sudden encore of the Second Great Awakening that gives spark to a new branch of the Christian church? I don't know, man.
Then again, I'm all about sudden and unexpected revelations that turn the church on its ear. Truth will have its way. Is this true, though? And if so, why has it been suppressed for so long?
As I talk with the AGHQ-ers, I ask myself if I think I'll ever speak in tongues. The answer is a resounding "NO." I pray that if God wants to give evidence of the Holy Spirit working in me, let it be something, anything else...acts of kindness, or humility, good deeds done without laud, a supernatural affinity to pick up French.
Hell, I'll pray in German, if He so chooses. But please, no tongues.
1300 hours
I wish I could get that clickety-clackety typing sound to play when this entry pops up, like whenever the Pentagon is on a TV show or a movie. Though according to the books I'm reading, the true Pentagon of the evangelical movement is in South Barrington. Nonetheless, I feel some trepidation as I walk up to the building. Which is, by the way, an unmistakable relic of the 60s. Aaaand we're in.
Ohhh Lordy, it's my grandmother's living room. If grandma had a penchant for marble walls. The paintings are beautiful--though completely different in style, the use of light reminds me of what I love about J.M.W. Turner. I'm given a visitor's badge, and directions to the museum. There's a sign at the stairs notifying whoever would ascend that everyone requires badges beyond that point. I wonder why. Are there security concerns? How important is this place, exactly? Do people from outside the fold care what happens here? What does happen here?
After a few minutes of museum exploration (which, by the way, looks like ridiculous fun, and will claim more of my time when I'm not wearing heels that kill my feet), I am met by my tour guide. She has great shoes. And is ten different kinds of knowledgeable. We start in this old-timey chapel, with a video.
Did you know that the Assemblies of God were orginally started by a bunch of men who had been kicked out of their own churches for being too radical? This denomination just sky-rocketed in my esteem. The other thing I did not know-- the re-emergence (so to speak) of speaking in tongues only occurred within the last 100 (or so) years. More about that in a second.
So we continue on with our trek. Out of the chapel, through the printing press, and past a couple of the offices, up to the fourth floor, where I am given an opportunity to talk to a few of the employees. I can't help myself. I want to know more about this speaking in tongues phenomenon. I'm too polite to ask what I really want to ask. What does it feel like? Are you still wholly within your body, so to speak, or is it like you've been taken over? Can you understand it as it's coming out of your mouth? Does it sound the same as other peoples', or do you have your own "language?" How does it comes to you? Is it something that you are consciously producing, or is sort of flowing through you?
I keep those questions to myself, but I do go a little Oprah, and ask them if they have ever spoken in tongues themselves. They have. Huh. Interesting. I then wonder aloud at how tongues are viewed within the AG church. Do all people have that gift? Or just some? Is it the only proof of being baptized in the holy spirit? Basically what I'm getting at is: Is speaking in tongues considered an integral part of the faith?
Not having been raised in the church, and not having spent time in pentecostal churches before moving down here, tongues are a little...uh, strange. That's a lie. They're more than strange. They are a stronghold on "Ashley's List of the Top Three Weirdest Things These People Do." Right next to what I think of as "praying for the hearing-impaired" (God can hear you, no need to shout), and the near-convulsive displays of emotion during prayer.
I don't deny the passages of Acts that speak to the practice. But I also don't understand how the phenomenon has risen so quickly after almost two millenia in dormancy. On the way out, we stop by the archives in my attempt to find some answers. Apparently, the first modern "speaker" was Agnes Ozman, under the tutelage of Charles Parham. I'd be lying if I said I didn't question the event. One woman has what appears to be a fit of religious hysteria, and it kicks off a sudden encore of the Second Great Awakening that gives spark to a new branch of the Christian church? I don't know, man.
Then again, I'm all about sudden and unexpected revelations that turn the church on its ear. Truth will have its way. Is this true, though? And if so, why has it been suppressed for so long?
As I talk with the AGHQ-ers, I ask myself if I think I'll ever speak in tongues. The answer is a resounding "NO." I pray that if God wants to give evidence of the Holy Spirit working in me, let it be something, anything else...acts of kindness, or humility, good deeds done without laud, a supernatural affinity to pick up French.
Hell, I'll pray in German, if He so chooses. But please, no tongues.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
at the altar.
God is doing incredible things in my life.
What can I say? I know how lame that sounds to a secular ear. I know how hard it would be to explain or describe to someone who doesn't believe in the divine, let alone the divine interventionist. And there are places and times for a fine-tooth comb. For philosophical proofs, and "decisions and revisions," as T.S. Eliot might put it. But credit where credit is due, my experience is my own, and God is working through it.
Often over the past couple of months, I'll have made a decision about some facet of my understanding or involvement in the Christian faith and body. And then I'll be faced with its antithesis. For instance, I had decided yesterday that maybe I wasn't meant to be in the body. I've always been a bit of a wild card. Maybe that's my role now, too. Maybe I'm meant to sit outside the church, on the steps, saying hello happily to people who pass in, but not joining in, not playing a part. Why is it so hard for me to get along with the church, I wonder?
But then, as has happened so many times, God brings me in, opens my eyes, and says, "Look." And I see. How incredible.
I was at prayer meeting tonight. As I stood, the woman next to me started crying. I'm no stranger to people in extreme emotion, but this is church. I know what to do when someone calls for a counselor, and I'm on the clock. I don't really know what to do when a stranger next to me in the pew cries for help. How sad is that?
So, she's crying, and somehow I put my arms around her. Then she sobs, and leans into me. And tells this most unbelievable story about what she's doing in SOMO. Her loss overwhelms us both. We spend the service together. As I lean close to her, she rests her head on my shoulder, and I begin to understand. I didn't want to come tonight, but I came. And had I not come, God would have used someone else to minister to her, but He didn't want someone else. He marked me.
I've been wondering what work the church can do in me. That's not wrong. I need the wisdom and encouragement offered there. But I should also be wondering what work I can do in His church. The woman keeps telling me how grateful she is for the love she's being shown in this place. It would take too long for me to fully explain to her that God is giving to us both right now, abundantly.
It doesn't end there.
I have written on several occasions about my... inhibitions.. involving laying of hands, and approaching the altar. God must have decided that tonight was the night. Curt Cook opened the altar, and the woman said she'd like to go. Before my brain could catch up, I heard myself asking her if she wanted me to help her there (she was in a lot of physical pain). She said yes, and in the millisecond that it took me to catch up to what I was about to do, I thought I'd pass out. We made it out of the row, and I almost laughed as we walked forward. The only place open was dead center, in the spot light. No hiding this one.
So I found myself at the altar, kneeling, and with my hand on a complete stranger. And in that moment, I felt, "I want to do this for the rest of my life." What's "this"? I don't know. Love people? Serve God? Both.
Driving home, I thought, "I can't believe you touched someone, held someone, and went to the altar. See? You can do this stuff when you need to." And then, "Is that really how you want to live your life? How you want to serve Him? I will if I have to?" No. It's not. And it's not the lesson He gave me tonight.
God isn't saying, "You can do this when you need to." I think He's saying something more like, "Love me. When you do, I'll give you every ounce of the strength and courage you need to love others."
I've been so worried about whether I can do this, whether I can make it all work. How do I be humble? How do I be loving? To say the words doesn't seem a task. But to think about the full import of what it means to follow Christ to those ends is staggering.
Tonight, He reminded me that I'm not the one making it all work.
What can I say? I know how lame that sounds to a secular ear. I know how hard it would be to explain or describe to someone who doesn't believe in the divine, let alone the divine interventionist. And there are places and times for a fine-tooth comb. For philosophical proofs, and "decisions and revisions," as T.S. Eliot might put it. But credit where credit is due, my experience is my own, and God is working through it.
Often over the past couple of months, I'll have made a decision about some facet of my understanding or involvement in the Christian faith and body. And then I'll be faced with its antithesis. For instance, I had decided yesterday that maybe I wasn't meant to be in the body. I've always been a bit of a wild card. Maybe that's my role now, too. Maybe I'm meant to sit outside the church, on the steps, saying hello happily to people who pass in, but not joining in, not playing a part. Why is it so hard for me to get along with the church, I wonder?
But then, as has happened so many times, God brings me in, opens my eyes, and says, "Look." And I see. How incredible.
I was at prayer meeting tonight. As I stood, the woman next to me started crying. I'm no stranger to people in extreme emotion, but this is church. I know what to do when someone calls for a counselor, and I'm on the clock. I don't really know what to do when a stranger next to me in the pew cries for help. How sad is that?
So, she's crying, and somehow I put my arms around her. Then she sobs, and leans into me. And tells this most unbelievable story about what she's doing in SOMO. Her loss overwhelms us both. We spend the service together. As I lean close to her, she rests her head on my shoulder, and I begin to understand. I didn't want to come tonight, but I came. And had I not come, God would have used someone else to minister to her, but He didn't want someone else. He marked me.
I've been wondering what work the church can do in me. That's not wrong. I need the wisdom and encouragement offered there. But I should also be wondering what work I can do in His church. The woman keeps telling me how grateful she is for the love she's being shown in this place. It would take too long for me to fully explain to her that God is giving to us both right now, abundantly.
It doesn't end there.
I have written on several occasions about my... inhibitions.. involving laying of hands, and approaching the altar. God must have decided that tonight was the night. Curt Cook opened the altar, and the woman said she'd like to go. Before my brain could catch up, I heard myself asking her if she wanted me to help her there (she was in a lot of physical pain). She said yes, and in the millisecond that it took me to catch up to what I was about to do, I thought I'd pass out. We made it out of the row, and I almost laughed as we walked forward. The only place open was dead center, in the spot light. No hiding this one.
So I found myself at the altar, kneeling, and with my hand on a complete stranger. And in that moment, I felt, "I want to do this for the rest of my life." What's "this"? I don't know. Love people? Serve God? Both.
Driving home, I thought, "I can't believe you touched someone, held someone, and went to the altar. See? You can do this stuff when you need to." And then, "Is that really how you want to live your life? How you want to serve Him? I will if I have to?" No. It's not. And it's not the lesson He gave me tonight.
God isn't saying, "You can do this when you need to." I think He's saying something more like, "Love me. When you do, I'll give you every ounce of the strength and courage you need to love others."
I've been so worried about whether I can do this, whether I can make it all work. How do I be humble? How do I be loving? To say the words doesn't seem a task. But to think about the full import of what it means to follow Christ to those ends is staggering.
Tonight, He reminded me that I'm not the one making it all work.
Monday, December 14, 2009
(not) real simple.
I've been praying for wisdom. Every day for weeks. Across several Wednesday night prayer meetings. Today again, with Tim Keene. And tomorrow. The day after...
It seems to me that all of the questions I have about scriptural interpretations, and what to do in this or that situation, and how to live, and pray, and be Ashley--all of those would rest with wisdom. In fact, anything I could pray for might seem fairly less troubling, if founded on His wisdom. A close friend could die. I could be in an accident that takes my vision. I could be kicked out of school, and left penniless, and homeless, and unloved. And what would any of it be if I lived secure in His wisdom? If I knew, wholly, His love, and His grace.
And so I ask for wisdom. I ask for understanding. I say, "Father, help me to understand who You are, and what it means that You are both the Creator of ALL of this, and also the One who loves me. Me, one human amidst the bazillions who have lived and died, and live and breathe, and live in the promise of tomorrow." I don't really understand that. I want to. I don't completely understand salvation, either. Not even my own. I pray constantly, "Help me understand..."
People keep telling me that all of this is simple. But it's not really simple at all.
It seems that Christianity, lived purely, is one of the more difficult paths that can be taken. And that's just the small corner I have on what it means to live the faith purely. How much more daunting will this all seem as my small corner gains ground (if in fact I am granted that wisdom)? As I begin to understand more of His love, and His morality?
I don't say that to play the part of the suffering Christian. I chose this, in a sense.
But I'm not very good at it.
Some people are born meek and gentle. I was not. I was born with an opinion, and a voice. I don't know yet, how to use them in His service. I need wisdom.
It seems to me that all of the questions I have about scriptural interpretations, and what to do in this or that situation, and how to live, and pray, and be Ashley--all of those would rest with wisdom. In fact, anything I could pray for might seem fairly less troubling, if founded on His wisdom. A close friend could die. I could be in an accident that takes my vision. I could be kicked out of school, and left penniless, and homeless, and unloved. And what would any of it be if I lived secure in His wisdom? If I knew, wholly, His love, and His grace.
And so I ask for wisdom. I ask for understanding. I say, "Father, help me to understand who You are, and what it means that You are both the Creator of ALL of this, and also the One who loves me. Me, one human amidst the bazillions who have lived and died, and live and breathe, and live in the promise of tomorrow." I don't really understand that. I want to. I don't completely understand salvation, either. Not even my own. I pray constantly, "Help me understand..."
People keep telling me that all of this is simple. But it's not really simple at all.
It seems that Christianity, lived purely, is one of the more difficult paths that can be taken. And that's just the small corner I have on what it means to live the faith purely. How much more daunting will this all seem as my small corner gains ground (if in fact I am granted that wisdom)? As I begin to understand more of His love, and His morality?
I don't say that to play the part of the suffering Christian. I chose this, in a sense.
But I'm not very good at it.
Some people are born meek and gentle. I was not. I was born with an opinion, and a voice. I don't know yet, how to use them in His service. I need wisdom.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Extreme confusion: Future edition.
I'm starting to get this funny feeling that I'm not leaving Springfield any time soon.
The deal was 2 years. At this point, if all goes well with my program, I should graduate with my Master's and be moving along in 18 months.
So why do I feel funny about that? Hmm...am I just feeling rootless in general, because I'm not sure what's coming next? Ph.D. in psychology? Work field, part deux? Should I make a run on the div school at U of C? Yeah right, as if. Those people are brilliant. I'm something closer to mildly intelligent.
I just bawled through an entire episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I usually don't watch television, but my roommate is gone now, and I'm feeling lonely. But anyway, as I watched, I kept thinking... what do I do to help? Well, that depends on what He has called me to. But I have no idea. I have no stand-out skills. I don't really think that tutoring some kids in psychology, or giving flute lessons are really callings.
What are my gifts? I refuse to believe that I don't have any. It defies logic that God would have such love for me, but not endow me with gifts, or purpose. So, I must have gifts, and purpose. Right. What are they?
I read. I walk around my apartment, arguing with the imaginary Francis Shaeffer who lives with me, sometimes out loud. I write. I marvel at Christian culture. I say inflammatory things in groups of Christians. I talk about God with people a lot. I spend a lot of time praying for wisdom. I like to visit churches and find out what makes them tick. I watch romantic comedies. And I cook, and read Real Simple like it's my job. Oh yeah, I do my job, which is to consult people on research design and statistics. I love to socialize. I've been told that I'm kind of funny--though that humor is not so well-received down here.
Hmm... That is not a cohesive skill set.
Law school?
The deal was 2 years. At this point, if all goes well with my program, I should graduate with my Master's and be moving along in 18 months.
So why do I feel funny about that? Hmm...am I just feeling rootless in general, because I'm not sure what's coming next? Ph.D. in psychology? Work field, part deux? Should I make a run on the div school at U of C? Yeah right, as if. Those people are brilliant. I'm something closer to mildly intelligent.
I just bawled through an entire episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I usually don't watch television, but my roommate is gone now, and I'm feeling lonely. But anyway, as I watched, I kept thinking... what do I do to help? Well, that depends on what He has called me to. But I have no idea. I have no stand-out skills. I don't really think that tutoring some kids in psychology, or giving flute lessons are really callings.
What are my gifts? I refuse to believe that I don't have any. It defies logic that God would have such love for me, but not endow me with gifts, or purpose. So, I must have gifts, and purpose. Right. What are they?
I read. I walk around my apartment, arguing with the imaginary Francis Shaeffer who lives with me, sometimes out loud. I write. I marvel at Christian culture. I say inflammatory things in groups of Christians. I talk about God with people a lot. I spend a lot of time praying for wisdom. I like to visit churches and find out what makes them tick. I watch romantic comedies. And I cook, and read Real Simple like it's my job. Oh yeah, I do my job, which is to consult people on research design and statistics. I love to socialize. I've been told that I'm kind of funny--though that humor is not so well-received down here.
Hmm... That is not a cohesive skill set.
Law school?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
that miraculous, magic math.
The music of John Lee Hooker is a gift from God. As is coffee. Also, Real Simple magazine, hot bubbly brie, and the writings of N.T. Wright--all gifts from God.
I believe that God put these things on earth, and introduced me to them, because He loves me. There's no other explanation. Have you ever had brie baked with strawberry jam on top on the salty side of a triscuit? It's a religious experience. Every time.
Though I have no problems naming these small miracles, I am consistently bothered by some of the "miracle math" that is talked about in the church. Not just at James River. This is something that goes way back for me, and has popped up in almost every church I've been to. Suddenly it occurs to me that I should take some humility--if it pops up everywhere, maybe I'm the wrong one. Maybe not. I should probably take the humility anyway.
Either way, I have heard some variation of this story about a hundred times now:
"I really needed $50 and I prayed, and it just showed up."
I hate this story. I do. I'm sorry. I think it's representative of a much larger complex of Christian finance. That's probably best illustrated with another common narrative:
"We started giving our 10%, and we were so blessed in our bank account--there was just money there that had never been there before!"
I despise this story as well. Both of them have a sort of gee-whiz attitude towards money, and both are generally related as though something astounding happened. It didn't. There are no magic tricks in math.
By God's grace and with His prompting, you decided to get serious about giving. With His love, and wisdom, you learned to be more disciplined, and picked up the skills necessary to better manage your money. As He richly rewarded your discipline and devotion to gaining those skills, you were blessed.
We don't have to pretend that something is opaque in order to call it a miracle. Some miracles are transparent. And that doesn't make them any less good, or any less God. Not every miracle has to be a complete mystery. Though I'll concede that the nature of the miraculous, even the every-day variety, provides that almost every miracle is in part a mystery. (If for no other reason than that our very existence is miraculous).
Two aspects of this "miracle model for money" in the church are troubling to me. Firstly, I see it get caught up in a discussion of "Godly v. Wordly" wisdom in very odd ways. The outcome is that irresponsibility is passed off as Godly wisdom. Thus, poor decisions become systemic, and spiritually-rewarding (internally anyway).
A friend of mine was telling me that in her church, the pastors decided to instate a "double-giving December." They are asking the congregation to give twice what they normally give, during the month of December. To underscore their own devotion to the effort, the lead pastor and his wife announced that they'd be giving their entire month's salary back to the church. He told the congregation, with some glee apparently, that they were trusting the Lord to come through on their needs ("Godly wisdom"). My response to her was: "The Lord already came through. He gave them a paying job, and a calculator." ("Worldly wisdom").
The problem here is that the Lord "coming through" becomes practically translated into other people coming through. There's a deeper problem in this case, actually, which is that this church has had past issues with fiscal irresponsibility. So you have a pastor who has been involved in financial mismanagement of the church's money, coming back to the congregation for double-portions, making a personal decision that might cause his own life to become a microcostic example of the macrocostic problem area that has been his spreadsheet.
Even in the absence of a pattern in the red, the second problem ought to be apparent. When we as individuals show less than full responsibility for ourselves, we put the onus on our church to fill the gap. In cases of emergency and unexpected pitfalls, this is 100% appropriate. Churches ought to be places that take care of their own, just as should families. But when that care-taking is brought on by carelessness or irresponsibility, it holds back the church from keeping the great commission. It forces the focus from reaching outward to continually handing inward. The church as a place, and a process becomes a self-serving one.
Does that mean that we oughtn't share stories of a much-needed check in the mail? Or of the blessing that has come upon us as we tithe? Absolutely not what I'm saying. But I do wonder if we ought to be more nuanced in the way that we relate these stories and blessings. If by discussing them openly, and honestly, and in detail, we might lead ourselves out of the "miracle model" and to a more mathematical model. And that in changing the way we talk about these "miracles," we can then take on a more practical relationship with money, in the church. Not because I think that God is not involved in our finances, but because I think that He gave us the tools, and the abilities to use our cash for His kingdom. And to use it well.
We are not of the world, but for now, we're livin' it.
I believe that God put these things on earth, and introduced me to them, because He loves me. There's no other explanation. Have you ever had brie baked with strawberry jam on top on the salty side of a triscuit? It's a religious experience. Every time.
Though I have no problems naming these small miracles, I am consistently bothered by some of the "miracle math" that is talked about in the church. Not just at James River. This is something that goes way back for me, and has popped up in almost every church I've been to. Suddenly it occurs to me that I should take some humility--if it pops up everywhere, maybe I'm the wrong one. Maybe not. I should probably take the humility anyway.
Either way, I have heard some variation of this story about a hundred times now:
"I really needed $50 and I prayed, and it just showed up."
I hate this story. I do. I'm sorry. I think it's representative of a much larger complex of Christian finance. That's probably best illustrated with another common narrative:
"We started giving our 10%, and we were so blessed in our bank account--there was just money there that had never been there before!"
I despise this story as well. Both of them have a sort of gee-whiz attitude towards money, and both are generally related as though something astounding happened. It didn't. There are no magic tricks in math.
By God's grace and with His prompting, you decided to get serious about giving. With His love, and wisdom, you learned to be more disciplined, and picked up the skills necessary to better manage your money. As He richly rewarded your discipline and devotion to gaining those skills, you were blessed.
We don't have to pretend that something is opaque in order to call it a miracle. Some miracles are transparent. And that doesn't make them any less good, or any less God. Not every miracle has to be a complete mystery. Though I'll concede that the nature of the miraculous, even the every-day variety, provides that almost every miracle is in part a mystery. (If for no other reason than that our very existence is miraculous).
Two aspects of this "miracle model for money" in the church are troubling to me. Firstly, I see it get caught up in a discussion of "Godly v. Wordly" wisdom in very odd ways. The outcome is that irresponsibility is passed off as Godly wisdom. Thus, poor decisions become systemic, and spiritually-rewarding (internally anyway).
A friend of mine was telling me that in her church, the pastors decided to instate a "double-giving December." They are asking the congregation to give twice what they normally give, during the month of December. To underscore their own devotion to the effort, the lead pastor and his wife announced that they'd be giving their entire month's salary back to the church. He told the congregation, with some glee apparently, that they were trusting the Lord to come through on their needs ("Godly wisdom"). My response to her was: "The Lord already came through. He gave them a paying job, and a calculator." ("Worldly wisdom").
The problem here is that the Lord "coming through" becomes practically translated into other people coming through. There's a deeper problem in this case, actually, which is that this church has had past issues with fiscal irresponsibility. So you have a pastor who has been involved in financial mismanagement of the church's money, coming back to the congregation for double-portions, making a personal decision that might cause his own life to become a microcostic example of the macrocostic problem area that has been his spreadsheet.
Even in the absence of a pattern in the red, the second problem ought to be apparent. When we as individuals show less than full responsibility for ourselves, we put the onus on our church to fill the gap. In cases of emergency and unexpected pitfalls, this is 100% appropriate. Churches ought to be places that take care of their own, just as should families. But when that care-taking is brought on by carelessness or irresponsibility, it holds back the church from keeping the great commission. It forces the focus from reaching outward to continually handing inward. The church as a place, and a process becomes a self-serving one.
Does that mean that we oughtn't share stories of a much-needed check in the mail? Or of the blessing that has come upon us as we tithe? Absolutely not what I'm saying. But I do wonder if we ought to be more nuanced in the way that we relate these stories and blessings. If by discussing them openly, and honestly, and in detail, we might lead ourselves out of the "miracle model" and to a more mathematical model. And that in changing the way we talk about these "miracles," we can then take on a more practical relationship with money, in the church. Not because I think that God is not involved in our finances, but because I think that He gave us the tools, and the abilities to use our cash for His kingdom. And to use it well.
We are not of the world, but for now, we're livin' it.
Monday, December 7, 2009
He is There, but sometimes He seems silent.
"But I am not in control. I wasn't four months ago. I wouldn't have decided to take James River seriously. I wouldn't have decided to believe what was being said about Christ. To drop some of the cynicism and sarcasm for long enough to begin to love the people. To accept Christ. To be baptized. Those were not part of my plan."
That is explosive.
Because I wasn't in control, even before I gave up control. Because I acted in ways that were part of my own ends, but that ultimately resulted fully in His perfect end. Mostly because it suggests that we have to somehow commit ourselves to a will, and a plan, that is not our own. A seemingly invisible one.
As I re-read that passage of yesterday's post, I see immediately how my non-Christian friends could view it. And that reminds me of how I would have read it, in August, or September, maybe October. How thin it would seem. How frightening, and weak it might read. Has she been brainwashed? Is she giving up her right to free-thought? Free-speech? So now she's just going to submit to everything her pastor says? If she wasn't in control, who was?
My own moment of salvation hinged upon the understanding that the change was not only in the decision to accept a truth claim, but then to act accordingly. To say "His Will be done..." and, necessarily, "...not my own." But what does that mean? I struggled, and struggle, against the notion that it means accepting whole-sale the prescriptions of our pastors. Pastors can be wrong. Interpretations can be wrong. Churches, and movements, and best-selling authors can be wrong.
So, at its core, that leaves me. And the Bible. And God. Me, an imperfect being with imperfect understanding. The Bible, an oft-debated collection of teachings. God, a very real, and very personal, but invisible deity.
It's not hard to see why non-Christians are incredulous.
What does it mean when we say that we are entrusting ourselves to His will? That we're waiting on Him? I fear that too often, it means that we are surrendering ourselves to the opinions of our pastors (and by pastors I mean to include all those whom we consider wise), without discourse nor debate. But in the absence of a God who would speak to us directly, in full English with perfect grammar, and at just the right volume--what do we do when we're not sure whether to stay or to go, and neither option is backed by a verse?
What does it mean to say, "His will be done," when His will is not obvious, as it so often is not. I wonder if the answer to this question, or the absence of one, is one of the harder intellectual leaps for non-Christians. And for Christians.
At least the Christians have a frame of reference. All of us, by definition, can point to at least one decision in our lives in which God guided us in experience and scripture, maybe invisibly, maybe in full view, but definitely with incredible precision, towards an unbelievable end. The unbelievable end.
For the non-Christian, the very concept of giving up control to some ethereal God might seem synonymous with giving up control to a pastor (or an ideology), and why is he any smarter than I am? Why should I believe what that Christian has to say about Truth?
Maybe you shouldn't. Then again, maybe you should. I pray that God helps you decide.
Don't be surprised if He does.
That is explosive.
Because I wasn't in control, even before I gave up control. Because I acted in ways that were part of my own ends, but that ultimately resulted fully in His perfect end. Mostly because it suggests that we have to somehow commit ourselves to a will, and a plan, that is not our own. A seemingly invisible one.
As I re-read that passage of yesterday's post, I see immediately how my non-Christian friends could view it. And that reminds me of how I would have read it, in August, or September, maybe October. How thin it would seem. How frightening, and weak it might read. Has she been brainwashed? Is she giving up her right to free-thought? Free-speech? So now she's just going to submit to everything her pastor says? If she wasn't in control, who was?
My own moment of salvation hinged upon the understanding that the change was not only in the decision to accept a truth claim, but then to act accordingly. To say "His Will be done..." and, necessarily, "...not my own." But what does that mean? I struggled, and struggle, against the notion that it means accepting whole-sale the prescriptions of our pastors. Pastors can be wrong. Interpretations can be wrong. Churches, and movements, and best-selling authors can be wrong.
So, at its core, that leaves me. And the Bible. And God. Me, an imperfect being with imperfect understanding. The Bible, an oft-debated collection of teachings. God, a very real, and very personal, but invisible deity.
It's not hard to see why non-Christians are incredulous.
What does it mean when we say that we are entrusting ourselves to His will? That we're waiting on Him? I fear that too often, it means that we are surrendering ourselves to the opinions of our pastors (and by pastors I mean to include all those whom we consider wise), without discourse nor debate. But in the absence of a God who would speak to us directly, in full English with perfect grammar, and at just the right volume--what do we do when we're not sure whether to stay or to go, and neither option is backed by a verse?
What does it mean to say, "His will be done," when His will is not obvious, as it so often is not. I wonder if the answer to this question, or the absence of one, is one of the harder intellectual leaps for non-Christians. And for Christians.
At least the Christians have a frame of reference. All of us, by definition, can point to at least one decision in our lives in which God guided us in experience and scripture, maybe invisibly, maybe in full view, but definitely with incredible precision, towards an unbelievable end. The unbelievable end.
For the non-Christian, the very concept of giving up control to some ethereal God might seem synonymous with giving up control to a pastor (or an ideology), and why is he any smarter than I am? Why should I believe what that Christian has to say about Truth?
Maybe you shouldn't. Then again, maybe you should. I pray that God helps you decide.
Don't be surprised if He does.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
cheating on my church.
Salacious. Torrid. Sexy.
I had an affair this morning. I did. I cheated on James River.
I stepped into my favorite jeans, put on the pretty beads given to me by my mother, applied and re-applied layers of lip gloss. All in preparation to leave the house for some other church.
A drive down Campbell. And then, on my right, Central Assembly of God. It looks like a small hospital. Hmm. I step into the sanctuary. Not at all what I expected, given the website. They must be in the process of trying to hip themselves up. Man, they could start with dropping those suits. I feel a tiny bit self-conscious. Am I underdressed? The website said casual. I don't know if a church can have an identity crisis, but... Maybe this is just the blue-hair service. But the bulletin says that both services are the same.
The service is a mix of traditional and contemporary music, and rhetoric. They must be in the hipping-up process--there are hymnals everywhere, but the lyrics are coming up on the screen behind the choir. The very large and very robed choir. A few people are out front with mics, just like James River, ok ok.
As I look around, I think...this is how it could have started. And then realize...no, it's not. I struggle against some of what is said and done by my friends at James River, but my presence there four months ago was no mistake. Oddly, I think that what drew me to visit James River is exactly what kept me there long enough to change everything. Had I walked into Central Assembly that first Sunday, I would have left unchanged. Not that everyone does. But I would have.
All of this stuff going on right now. It's hard. I feel alone, and confused, and like I've suddenly got this whole new identity based on this one decision I made, to accept Christ. And I feel myself reacting against that, trying to fit the decision into who I am, instead of tailoring who I am to that decision. But I am not in control. I wasn't four months ago. I wouldn't have decided to take James River seriously. I wouldn't have decided to believe what was being said about Christ. To drop some of the cynicism and sarcasm for long enough to begin to love the people. To accept Christ. To be baptized. Those were not part of my plan.
Some guy is up there talking now. The sermon seems forever long. I have heard dozens of sermons, across several denominations, and have only really been moved by six pastors. This guy does put together a few clever phrases. But also tells a perfectly atrocious story about a man's dog burning alive.
I spend the last fifteen minutes of it trying to figure out what makes Lindell so good. I think it's flow. He must be an excellent writer to be such a great speaker. It's all about the construction of the thing--how the ideas flow from one to the next, and back to the beginning at the end. It also has to do with the use of volume and inflection. I wonder if he took a class on how to do that holding out the "s" thing at the end of wordsssss...
As we close in worship, they sing a song that is one of my favorites at James River--it's called "When I Speak Your Name," and it's beautiful. Something about the moment rises up to overwhelm me. This song, at this time, in this sanctuary, reminds me that God is everywhere. That my faith is not just a James River thing. Not just a southwest Missouri thing. That my place in the body transcends place and time. And suddenly, I realize that part of my backlash against JRA has been out of a fear that I'm being "taken." I'm afraid that my faith is nothing more than a product of the emotionalism, of the moment. But here, singing these words I love so much, I know that's not true. God is here at Central Assembly, just as He's at James River. He's everywhere. I can trust my faith. I can trust Him.
I close my eyes. And feel this incredible urge to lift my arms to Him. The song ends, and I pray aloud, joining the murmur I once found so jarring. Two things I never do at James River. What's the deal, A? Why will you show yourself here amongst these strangers, and not at your own church? I'm afraid. I don't want to humble myself. These people wouldn't know that I'm new to this style of worship, to a different understanding of the Gospel. My pew-mates and friends at JRA do. I'm afraid to humble myself, to bare myself to God, in front of them. In a sense, I'm afraid to be vulnerable not only with God, but with the people He has put into my life.
I think for a moment that maybe I should just change churches--start again somewhere new, where I could express myself in these new ways without self-consciousness. But no. That's not right. I won't leave James River without working through that. It seems important.
After the service, I go to the visitor's room. The best thing about checking out new churches is the free coffee. Brenda sits down with me for a chat. She's sweet. She asks me what kind of church I went to before coming down here. I say Episcopal, and her husband takes that as his cue to word-vomit every negative critique of the Episcopalians that he has in him.
I leave feeling oddly happy. I think to myself, "time to go home," get in my car, and drive to my regular 11:30 service at James River.
I had an affair this morning. I did. I cheated on James River.
I stepped into my favorite jeans, put on the pretty beads given to me by my mother, applied and re-applied layers of lip gloss. All in preparation to leave the house for some other church.
A drive down Campbell. And then, on my right, Central Assembly of God. It looks like a small hospital. Hmm. I step into the sanctuary. Not at all what I expected, given the website. They must be in the process of trying to hip themselves up. Man, they could start with dropping those suits. I feel a tiny bit self-conscious. Am I underdressed? The website said casual. I don't know if a church can have an identity crisis, but... Maybe this is just the blue-hair service. But the bulletin says that both services are the same.
The service is a mix of traditional and contemporary music, and rhetoric. They must be in the hipping-up process--there are hymnals everywhere, but the lyrics are coming up on the screen behind the choir. The very large and very robed choir. A few people are out front with mics, just like James River, ok ok.
As I look around, I think...this is how it could have started. And then realize...no, it's not. I struggle against some of what is said and done by my friends at James River, but my presence there four months ago was no mistake. Oddly, I think that what drew me to visit James River is exactly what kept me there long enough to change everything. Had I walked into Central Assembly that first Sunday, I would have left unchanged. Not that everyone does. But I would have.
All of this stuff going on right now. It's hard. I feel alone, and confused, and like I've suddenly got this whole new identity based on this one decision I made, to accept Christ. And I feel myself reacting against that, trying to fit the decision into who I am, instead of tailoring who I am to that decision. But I am not in control. I wasn't four months ago. I wouldn't have decided to take James River seriously. I wouldn't have decided to believe what was being said about Christ. To drop some of the cynicism and sarcasm for long enough to begin to love the people. To accept Christ. To be baptized. Those were not part of my plan.
Some guy is up there talking now. The sermon seems forever long. I have heard dozens of sermons, across several denominations, and have only really been moved by six pastors. This guy does put together a few clever phrases. But also tells a perfectly atrocious story about a man's dog burning alive.
I spend the last fifteen minutes of it trying to figure out what makes Lindell so good. I think it's flow. He must be an excellent writer to be such a great speaker. It's all about the construction of the thing--how the ideas flow from one to the next, and back to the beginning at the end. It also has to do with the use of volume and inflection. I wonder if he took a class on how to do that holding out the "s" thing at the end of wordsssss...
As we close in worship, they sing a song that is one of my favorites at James River--it's called "When I Speak Your Name," and it's beautiful. Something about the moment rises up to overwhelm me. This song, at this time, in this sanctuary, reminds me that God is everywhere. That my faith is not just a James River thing. Not just a southwest Missouri thing. That my place in the body transcends place and time. And suddenly, I realize that part of my backlash against JRA has been out of a fear that I'm being "taken." I'm afraid that my faith is nothing more than a product of the emotionalism, of the moment. But here, singing these words I love so much, I know that's not true. God is here at Central Assembly, just as He's at James River. He's everywhere. I can trust my faith. I can trust Him.
I close my eyes. And feel this incredible urge to lift my arms to Him. The song ends, and I pray aloud, joining the murmur I once found so jarring. Two things I never do at James River. What's the deal, A? Why will you show yourself here amongst these strangers, and not at your own church? I'm afraid. I don't want to humble myself. These people wouldn't know that I'm new to this style of worship, to a different understanding of the Gospel. My pew-mates and friends at JRA do. I'm afraid to humble myself, to bare myself to God, in front of them. In a sense, I'm afraid to be vulnerable not only with God, but with the people He has put into my life.
I think for a moment that maybe I should just change churches--start again somewhere new, where I could express myself in these new ways without self-consciousness. But no. That's not right. I won't leave James River without working through that. It seems important.
After the service, I go to the visitor's room. The best thing about checking out new churches is the free coffee. Brenda sits down with me for a chat. She's sweet. She asks me what kind of church I went to before coming down here. I say Episcopal, and her husband takes that as his cue to word-vomit every negative critique of the Episcopalians that he has in him.
I leave feeling oddly happy. I think to myself, "time to go home," get in my car, and drive to my regular 11:30 service at James River.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
gone God.
Sometimes I feel like my time with the church is like a tightrope act. A little too much to either side, and I'm going to fall. Hard.
Not that I'll fall from my beliefs. The reality of Truth is that honestly sought, it will be found. I think that I've made some pretty steady progress over my life thus far. I'm not in any imminent danger of deciding that I was all wrong to accept Christ, or be baptized. Those were good decisions. They were true, in every sense of the word.
But The Church.
I feel like Goldilocks, in a search for the "just right" church. Most of the "liberal" denominations give up too much ground--they accept unTruth for Truth, and in so doing, the logical fallacies involved undermine the integrity of their core beliefs. The conservative denominations have something of the same problem, but in the other direction. They allow cultural norms to skew the interpretation of scripture, and then set cultural norms in line with those skewed interpretations.
Who am I, anymore? I hated the idea of James River. Then I "converted." I was baptized there. I don't want to miss a sermon because I think the preaching is so sound (if not always as nuanced as I'd like). What can I trust? Who can I trust? Can I trust myself? My impressions of God?
I live in two worlds, and it's tearing me apart. Being around my "James River Friends" gives me so much anxiety I can barely stand it. The culture is so out of touch, in so many ways. I'm alternately angry and heart-broken around them. But my "secular" (gag me, that phrase) friends have some beliefs and ideas that I don't agree with. Unfortunately, now, because of my link to JRA, I can't voice my opposition to them openly because I'm a religious wild card.
That's another thing. I get crap from all sides now. My non-JRA friends judge my opinions harshly because they think I've "gone God," and assume then that any of my more conservative beliefs are nonsensical. My JRA friends judge my opinions harshly because they think I'm spiritually immature, and assume that my liberal beliefs are automatically untrue, and contrary to the faith. Both sides believe I've been brainwashed by the other.
I feel as though I have to leave the church, for the sake of my sanity. My happiness. The group psychology is powerful, but I can't mistake that for God. Historically, doing so has not led to positive outcomes.
Not that I'll fall from my beliefs. The reality of Truth is that honestly sought, it will be found. I think that I've made some pretty steady progress over my life thus far. I'm not in any imminent danger of deciding that I was all wrong to accept Christ, or be baptized. Those were good decisions. They were true, in every sense of the word.
But The Church.
I feel like Goldilocks, in a search for the "just right" church. Most of the "liberal" denominations give up too much ground--they accept unTruth for Truth, and in so doing, the logical fallacies involved undermine the integrity of their core beliefs. The conservative denominations have something of the same problem, but in the other direction. They allow cultural norms to skew the interpretation of scripture, and then set cultural norms in line with those skewed interpretations.
Who am I, anymore? I hated the idea of James River. Then I "converted." I was baptized there. I don't want to miss a sermon because I think the preaching is so sound (if not always as nuanced as I'd like). What can I trust? Who can I trust? Can I trust myself? My impressions of God?
I live in two worlds, and it's tearing me apart. Being around my "James River Friends" gives me so much anxiety I can barely stand it. The culture is so out of touch, in so many ways. I'm alternately angry and heart-broken around them. But my "secular" (gag me, that phrase) friends have some beliefs and ideas that I don't agree with. Unfortunately, now, because of my link to JRA, I can't voice my opposition to them openly because I'm a religious wild card.
That's another thing. I get crap from all sides now. My non-JRA friends judge my opinions harshly because they think I've "gone God," and assume then that any of my more conservative beliefs are nonsensical. My JRA friends judge my opinions harshly because they think I'm spiritually immature, and assume that my liberal beliefs are automatically untrue, and contrary to the faith. Both sides believe I've been brainwashed by the other.
I feel as though I have to leave the church, for the sake of my sanity. My happiness. The group psychology is powerful, but I can't mistake that for God. Historically, doing so has not led to positive outcomes.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
who's on first?
I need a break.
The Christians are getting me down.
I've had enough. This has gone too far.
So, another church? No church? What's next?
The Christians are getting me down.
I've had enough. This has gone too far.
So, another church? No church? What's next?
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