church got your tongue.

Everybody's a critic. Unless you're in church. Then nobody's a critic. Because being a critic in the church is like being a democrat at a Bunnell family Christmas. No one wants to hear what you have to say. (I'm not bitter or anything.)

I don't think I'm being critical in pointing out that it is a well-worn stereotype of the christian church that it doesn't like criticism. If you think I am being critical, what I had meant was...the church is great!

Actually, I think the church is great. I also think that stereotypes are often earned. At least in part.

So, when it comes time to talk about criticism in the church, the issues are hefty and numerous, and you should proceed at your own risk.

This post, though, isn't critical of the church (the church is great!). It's actually about how far is too far. Where's that line between criticism and discussion? Is there ever an appropriate time to publicly criticize yours, or any other church?

When I came to Springfield, I started this blog expressly to critique all of the churches I planned on visiting. I didn't know that I'd plant myself in one, make friends with all the people I was set to judge, and "buy in." I had no idea that I'd eventually silence my criticism in service to unity, and start asking questions like "how far is too far?".

And yet...that's what's happened. And I think I know why.

Charles Fox Parham (one of the early leaders of Pentecostalism) wrote that you shouldn't go around knocking down other peoples' houses. If you think those houses are faulty, the best route is to come alongside them, build a better house, and invite those people over to yours. In essence, this is what the most effective James River Christians did for me. The smart ones didn't argue with me about theology and culture. They just came alongside me. They showed me their lives. They loved me. And eventually, I wanted to move in.

Because they loved me, I began to understand Christ's love. And when that happened...my old house fell down. Love built me a new one. Suddenly, my criticism seemed petty. Why was I going around, trying to knock down other peoples' houses? Why did I think it so important that people know exactly what I thought about the way that people dressed on stage, and the style of music, and the way so-and-so preached, and how wrong he was about social justice?

I destructed unity, in service to some ideals of justice, or rightness, or Truth. Even if I was right about every thing I ever said, I was wrong about the most important thing. I wasn't loving. I tore down houses.

When I talk like this, I start to think, "But Ash, isn't there a real need for discussion? Shouldn't we sometimes voice real dissension? That's important." I agree with myself. I just have a more nuanced view than I once did. Now, I always want to ask myself, "What's the purpose of saying this out loud? Will it help? Or will it do far more damage? Is what I'm about to say just noise pollution? Just the pride of wanting to be heard?"

Most of all, I think back to my surrender to Christ. I remember that logic couldn't save me. That for all of the books I read, and all of the discussions I had, and all of the criticisms--none of it could save me. Logic never saved anyone. Love saved me. I surrendered to Christ, not an argument for the existence of Christ.

So, when I start to think there's something I'd love to weigh in on, I wonder, at that moment, which will be more effective: words, or acts. Is it a situation in which a well-placed word will advance His kingdom? (There are those situations.) Or one in which I should keep my mouth closed, let the house stand, and quietly begin the work of building another one next door?