This is the third blog in a series I’ve called “Being church”. In this series I’ve tried to describe how church is actually a verb. When Christians gather together, we are not ‘church’ because we call ourselves a church or because we belong to a congregation or because we built a nice building with a steeple. We become church when we gather and live together in Christ-likeness. We become church as we bear-forth or incarnate the life and ministry of Jesus the Christ.

I’ll have more to say about what it means to be church in the next blog, but now I would like to move on to a description of a community in whom I experienced Christ and the Christian life more intensely, more intentionally, than anywhere else. Note especially how the Bishram community is made up of oppressed people who are reaching out to others who are oppressed. They sustain their communal life through fellowship, sharing whatever they have in common, giving to those who have need, reaching out to those beyond their community, and also through much prayer and study.

My encounter with Bishram Ministries in Nepal began vicariously a few years ago. My sister Patti had visited Nepal on a mission trip, worked with Sister Asangla and Pastor Dan of Bishram Ministries. She returned aglow with the radiant enthusiasm of a new convert. As she told me of their evangelistic ministry in Nepal, I tried to be an attentive brother to her, but truth be known I was rather dismissive of the whole thing. For one thing, Nepal is pretty far away from my daily concerns in Kansas City. And another, Patti and I are on different ends of the theological spectrum, and I was not too interested in her “brand” of evangelism. Proselytizing Hindus and Buddhists and converting them to Christianity is out of my spiritual comfort zone. Over the years, as she repeatedly asked me to travel with her to see Bishram ministry for myself, I politely but resolutely refused. After a while, however, my excuses were running out (especially since I was going to be on sabbatical for a year) and I finally said to her that I would need to hear about the ministry from someone more…well…more academically legitimate. Immediately, she replied that “Billy” “who taught somewhere in Dallas” could tell me about it. Well, the name “Billy” did not strike me as very authoritative, but I reluctantly agreed. Shortly, I received an email from Patti that was in effect a virtual handshake between “Billy” and myself. When I inspected the name on the email, it was none other than the respected theologian, William Abraham. Now, she had my attention.

Soon, Billy and I had a conversation about Bishram, and he convinced me that for many reasons I needed to go. So, I did in January 2008. And the rest of this story is about my experience of an amazing community that is the closest approximation of the early church in Acts chapter 2 that I have ever encountered. Do I now sound like a convert?

If I was going to go halfway around the world, I didn’t want to be just a spectator, so I offered to teach and preach as it would be useful to them. It was arranged for me to teach students in their school of ministry, to teach church leaders in a village, and then to preach whenever needed. I would arrive on Saturday, have Sunday to relax and recover from travel, then start teaching in the school of ministry on Monday. Patti would join us the following Thursday. Then we would travel to western Nepal so that Patti and I could teach in a 2 day conference.

Nepal is a study in stark contrasts. Fertile valleys and rich, biodiverse jungles stretch out  between majestic peaks of the Himalayan range. Nepal is an ancient civilization and slowly making its way into the 21st Century. With 80% of Nepali people being Hindu, Nepal is the only official Hindu state in the world. 10% are Buddhist; 4% are Muslim; and Christians are lumped in the “other” category with less than 1%.

Nepali culture is as beautiful and attractive as the awe-inspiring natural environment. The people are gentle, friendly, and family-oriented. Everywhere you see people walking arm in arm, talking freely, smiling and laughing easily. Their hospitality is legendary; as a culture, they give freely of whatever they have.

However, Nepal is one of the poorest countries in the world that faces seemingly intractable obstacles. Their government is nearly incapacitated by incompetence, political infighting, insurgencies, and corruption. Fuel is scarce and only intermittently available. Electricity is on for a maximum of 16 hours a day. Maoist and Tarai factions extort money from people and businesses on a regular basis, and their political rallies can shut down whole sectors of the country. Nepali culture is highly stratified by a complicated and rigid caste system and an absolute hierarchy of men over women.

Sister Asangla, her family, and everyone in Bishram ministry were the Christian incarnation of that Nepali graciousness, attending to my every need. Without exaggeration, without hyperbole, the community of Bishram ministry is a communion that challenges what we have come to call “church” here in the US. Their faith is born and sustained in struggle, in lack, in suffering. They experience and witness to God’s miraculous and transformative power in very real and tangible ways. To be with them – even for a short while – is to be convicted of my (our) idolatrous need for material goods and financial security. They give sacrificially; whereas, for the most part we give out of our surplus. The grace by which they live day to day amidst hardship exposes the materialistic poverty of our faith. As I returned to the US, I left convicted of my many spiritual limitations.

What exactly is Bishram Ministries? I must confess it took me a while to understand it, to get the whole picture. Structurally, Bishram is centered in Kathmandu, the capitol city of about 800,000, and is founded and led by Sister Asangla and Pastor Dan, both of whom were working in different churches prior to founding Bishram in 2001. Their mission was to form disciples in a transformative community that is always in mission. As I have said, Nepali society is highly stratified between classes and genders. Sister Asangla and Pastor Dan (of Brahmin lineage) joined together to create a biblical community where there is no division in Christ, and that is exactly what they are doing. As I experienced their communal life in the school of ministry and during the conference, I saw men serving and women leading, and people from all castes joined together in a common life. What the Spirit has done through them is to transform small bits of Nepali society into egalitarian communions that aim to accept, nurture, and disciple each person in the community. It is truly humbling and inspiring to experience such a transformative communion, in which people’s lives are radically changed and through which the community becomes a ‘city on a hill’ that itself proclaims the gospel by the sacrificial love of one for another (John 17:21).

Right now, the central community in which Sister Asangla and Pastor Dan are the leaders is the mother church of a loosely structured Bishram organization. There are other smaller congregations in the Kathmandu area, and still more church communities that have been founded in villages and towns across Nepal. Over the few years since the founding of Bishram, the Bishram mother church has prepared and sent ministers to start new Christian communities, and these become ‘daughter’ churches. These daughter churches range from very small in number to 150 or so believers. Each of the congregations are unique, for each is a manifestation of the indigenous culture of their specific context. This is to say that Bishram does not try to duplicate itself; it doesn’t franchise itself. Rather, their intention is for the gospel to be planted within a particular community and for the church to emerge organically as a Christian incarnation of that culture.

The Bishram mother church is the hub of several important ministries. First, there is the school for ministry that Brother Temjen, Asangla’s very capable brother, directs. This is primarily a residential school that trains people to be leaders in existing churches or to start church communities in other areas. People who have the potential and the drive to serve the church in leadership are sent to live in the school for 2 – 3 years. Of course, these students are poor and have no livelihood while they are in school, so they must depend upon Bishram ministries to support them for all of their needs.

The school has an academic curriculum that itself is challenging and transformative for the students, many of whom have only minimum education when they arrive and very little if any theological training. But the school is a community in and of itself in which the students learn a very different, and more communal, way of life. They live together and share just about everything in common. They unlearn the oppressive divisions of caste and gender. They practice spiritual disciplines of study, prayer, and mission. Words fail to convey the intensity and transformative power of the school of ministry. I’ve seen the lives that have been radically changed: a drug addict who writes and performs Christian music that is used in many of the churches, an untouchable woman (the lowest caste) who has become a leader and teacher in a church. These are only two of many whose lives have been radically reoriented and redeemed, whose gifts and talents are now contributing to the church’s life and mission.

The school for ministry is like the heart of the Bishram organization for it takes in those whose lives seem to be depleted and used up. The school involves them in a redemptive community in which they discover their gifts and are given the skills to use their gifts effectively. They are equipped and sent out into the body of Christ to build it up, to edify it, to renew it.

A second focus of Bishram ministries is to administrate and develop the network of churches. Sister Asangla and Pastor Dan are in regular communication with the pastors and leaders of their daughter churches, in order to train them and to support them in any way they can. Bishram has developed a creative network of teachers who travel among Bishram churches and other churches to teach and encourage the people in their faith and daily life. Most of these pastors need supplemental income to survive, and the mother church supports them as much as possible. However, funds are very tight as you might imagine, so pastors and church planters have to be self-reliant as well.

Bishram has always been concerned with not only the spiritual but the material needs of people. The third aspect of their ministry is to cultivate external relations (e.g., other ministry organizations) to bring in medical missions and job training, for example.

These three forms of ministry are all evangelistic and missional; they are means of spreading and incarnating the Word of God. Because it is illegal to proselytize and to evangelize through mass media, the primary way that people hear the Word of God is for Christians to witness to them, personally, by word of mouth. So, the believers in Bishram churches share their faith, they share their experiences of God’s transforming power, they talk about the new way of life they find in Christ, and they invite others to experience it for themselves in worship services and bible studies. In this respect, each believer is cultivated to become an evangelist.

Bishram churches are like congregations, but I hesitate to call them congregations because to American ears that word may give a wrong impression. In America we have so compartmentalized our lives that we tend to think of congregations as institutions that exist side-by-side with other institutions and to which we dedicate part of our time. Because daily life is very difficult in Nepal, and Christianity is a very small minority, I cannot stress enough the life-giving nature of their Christian community, a communion in which they share a common life and share one another’s burdens, and lift each other up in love. Of course, there are degrees of involvement among the ‘believers’ and others who attend (they emphasize belief and discipleship rather than ‘membership’).

But it is important to get a sense for the intense and sustained life these people share with each other throughout the week. Obtaining basic necessities is a daily struggle, and most people endure great hardship and suffering. Because of grossly inadequate sanitary conditions, many are quite ill. There is an interdependence in the Bishram community that most Americans can scarcely imagine: they depend upon one another for their very lives. They are in small groups together and talking to one another throughout the week. In many respects, the Bishram churches are their life. For those who have converted from other religions and have been shunned by their families, the Bishram community has become their closest family and provides a life-line of survival.

Ok, I am a convert. This is the real deal. I have never encountered a Christian community that so closely approximates Acts chapter 2, in which an oppressed community gathers daily to break bread, shares their possessions, studies and prays, ministers in the marketplace, and rejoices in the gracious love of God who does great and awesome things among them. My experience with Bishram has profoundly affected me; I have returned a better disciple of Christ.

In the next blog, I will try to draw these three examples together and come up with some principles for what the church is and how we can be more fully the church.

What makes the Bible such an interesting collection of writings is also what makes them so maddeningly frustrating at times.  The fact that the Bible holds together so many different documents and different theological perspectives is precisely what makes it so timeless.  At times, however, the more peculiar theological trajectories contained in these pages rears its head in some really quite disastrous ways.  Take this pastoral call I received for instance…

In my place of ministry, the pastoral staff alternates weekends of being the recipient of messages from our on-call answering service.  It’s our way of making sure that people can always get in touch with a pastor if need be.  Several weeks ago, I received a message from the service from a woman who I knew to be mentally ill in some way, but I really had no understanding of her condition as I dialed her number.  For the next thirty minutes I listened to her agonize over the guilt she felt for failing to remain in a constant state of prayer, for being constantly lured away from her spiritual duty by the everyday acts of eating or sleeping.  It broke my heart to hear her speak of the depths of her sinfulness and how tired she was of being tested by God.

As I listened, I began to wonder where she internalized these messages of what is good and what is bad and why the Lord is constantly testing her faithfulness.  Then it occurred to me that it would not be so very hard to internalize such expectations and theological convictions from simple reading of the Bible or an attentive ear to a sermon.  1 Thessalonians exhorts us to “pray without ceasing,” which given free reign in a legalistic faith would easily translate to a guilt over not praying without ceasing.  Then there is Job, of course, where a totally faithful servant of the Lord is put through countless tests, all with God’s permission, to see if he will in time come to despise the Lord.  Again, at a naïve read, it would be all too easy to hear in this story that God tests us without ceasing to ensure that we are in fact faithful. 

I know that these texts are complex and that, with proper exegesis, we can deduce valuable insights from the wisdom contained therein.  I do not want to say that we should avoid these texts or any difficult texts for that matter.  But there is also another level at which these texts are heard, and sometimes that is the straightforward sense of the text.  It grieved me to see an already troubled woman further damaged by her association with the Christian faith, a faith that I would hope could offer comfort and peace to her already fragile mind. 

I feel as if there is some lesson to be learned here for homiletics.  When dealing with a particularly multivalent text, especially one where the logical conclusion of the text leads us down a dangerous theological and psychological path, we owe it to our communities to say up front, in plain speech, what the text is and is not about.  If there is a harmful conclusion to be drawn from that reading, let’s refute it right up front and not defer that task to the delicate matters of rhetoric and homiletic style.  After all, we really must come to grips with the fact that, for many listeners in a worship pew, the first five minutes is all they’re going to give us.

A decisive moment in my shift to understanding church as a verb, as enacted, as an incarnational reality, occurred as we were tromping through the wilderness. Literally. In the middle of a North Carolina forest near Ashville, I had taken a group of divinity students on a wilderness adventure in which a near-disaster was redeemed.

At the time I was a professor at Yale Divinity School teaching a course entitled, “Encountering God in Creation.” The course was designed around a ten-day camping trip in a wilderness area where there would be no showers, no electricity, no take-out; nothing but raw nature. Somehow we had the crazy idea that we would come to encounter God in a deeper way if we loaded ourselves up like pack mules and left all traces of civilization. By the end of the first day of arduous hiking with seventy pound backpacks, we had become a collective voice crying in the wilderness, hoping for our path to be made straight, wishing we were anywhere but there, praying that around the next bend a Holiday Inn would appear.

As a boy scout, I had done a little camping in my youth, but my most recent experience of sleeping outdoors was in our backyard with my children, neither of whom lasted the night. I was certainly not qualified to lead anyone off the beaten path, much less into a wilderness area where we would be setting up camp, cooking, and avoiding wild beasts. So the camping trip was organized and led by two wilderness guides, both of whom were rather hardcore Outward Bound drill sergeants. Their idea of fun was marching every day from dawn till dusk up and down steep mountainous terrain, finding our “limits”. What even our guides had not anticipated was the capricious temperament of Mother Nature, who blessed us with every form of precipitation possible. We marched through snow, slid on ice, and slogged through torrential rain. It was awful and we were miserable, and our frazzled spirits reflected our harsh conditions. We growled and snapped at each other as we set up tents, cooked our gruel, and collapsed from utter exhaustion in soggy sleeping bags.

By the way, God was nowhere to be found.

On the eighth and gloomy morning of our wilderness ordeal, the day’s agenda was to break camp, pack up, celebrate eucharist, and head home. A few of the young men traipsed off to a nearby river for a swim. While the rest of us were cleaning up from breakfast, we could hear their howls of pleasure and pain in the distance as they played in the frigid water. Their delight lifted our spirits and washed away our melancholy. When they returned from their icy baptism and we began to pack up for our departure, the mood of our entire troop lightened, and in agreement, the clouds parted and the sun shone lovingly on us.

If we had left then, without celebrating communion, I daresay the entire experience would have been considered a failure. There were some among us, including myself, for whom God was distant and inaccessible. I thought that perhaps the ritual of communion would be experienced as an empty gesture, but since I had carried the bread and juice all the way, I did not want it to be for nothing. So, I instructed everyone to go off by themselves for a while, and at the appointed time to return with a symbol of what they had discovered and who they had become during the week. While they were away – probably getting in touch with their inner couch potato –  I set up a make-shift altar out of rocks and arranged some logs in a circle for us to sit on.

One by one, the members of our group walked back and took their places around the circle. When we had all gathered, I initiated what I thought would be a rather perfunctory ritual. I was unprepared for the liturgical drama that ensued. Each person placed a symbol on the altar. Referring to a piece of tree bark, or moss, or rocks, or an unexpected flower, they testified about what had happened to them over the week, that their lives were intertwined with the others, that in retrospect the struggles with nature and with each other vividly demonstrated their interdependence upon one another for their very survival. They recognized that the community they had formed over the week was one in which they helped and hurt each other, their interactions were both nourishment and poison, the community they formed was both life-giving and toxic. In all the ambiguity of the journey, they had offered themselves to one another, and time after time, they saw the face of Christ in one another.

When it came time to invoke the Holy Spirit and say the words of institution, I realized several things. First, I did not have to invoke the Spirit, who had been hiding and working among us all the time. Second, as I looked at the altar that was covered with the debris of our journey along with bread and cup, I realized that we had been offering ourselves to one another the entire week. Sometimes we held back, sometimes we rejected each other. But more often than we had realized, we had given of ourselves for the sake of another and for the group as a whole. We had, to greater and lesser extent, placed ourselves on the altar, hoping and praying that the Holy Spirit would transform our meager offering for the sake of the body of Christ. Over the week and at this moment in particular, not only was bread and cup changed, but more importantly we were changed. It was apparent in hindsight that deus absconditus had been at work among us, but surreptitiously. Through our trials, little by little, God was transforming the ambiguity of our lives into living bread for one another such that we came to share a common life.

Our communion in Christ – only now recognized as such – was not a life of leisure and plenty but rather entailed hard work, conflict, and suffering. We came to understand the week as a baptism – of water and snow and ice – into a new life. Viewed mainly in retrospect, we were being raised to new life in the Spirit and shedding sinful preoccupations with ourselves and with things that do not ultimately matter. Our journey together had been a kind of baptismal death to self that prepared us for this moment, for this sharing, for a transformation and resurrection into new life.

After breaking the bread and raising the cup, we shared the common meal by giving and receiving, each to another. The bread and cup were passed from hand to hand around the circle. Through tears and laughter, each gave to the other; each received from another. In so doing, we were following Christ’s admonition to “do this in remembrance of me.” We re-membered Christ. By grace we participated in his life more fully.

After singing a hymn, we were dismissed and sent forth. We gathered our belongings, removed all traces of our presence from the site, and departed for home. We were very different persons and a very different community. That is no romantic, idealistic exaggeration. What I haven’t said yet was that there were two agnostics and one atheist on the trip (in divinity school, you ask??). In the months following the trip, each of these young people professed their faith and (re)dedicated their lives to Christ.

We had been changed but of course not completely and not forever. Shortly after our return, some of the conflicts of the trip surfaced again to cause dissention and pain. Much to my shame and dismay, the most serious of these conflicts occurred between one of the wilderness guides and myself, which to this day has not been reconciled.

Communion in Christ does not make us into saints overnight or over a week. Our community together will still be marked not only by joy, peace, and mutual understanding, but also by tensions, conflicts, and suffering. But this journey through the wilderness into communion taught me more about being church than just about anything else. It helped me to see how during the most ordinary activities of our lives, we give and receive from each other. In our families, in our schools, in friendship and with enemies, we are embedded in a matrix of relationship, an economy of sharing. So much of what we share is colored by sin. But quite a bit of what we give and receive is also beautiful and loving.

Our wilderness experience of communion helped me to understand more clearly what Jesus meant when he said to his disciples, “this is my body given for you.” He had indeed given of himself to his disciples during their three year journey together. He lived with them, taught them, admonished and blessed them; he poured himself into them. Each day, every day, the disciples had taken a little more of Jesus into themselves. Sharing the bread and the wine symbolized that very giving and receiving that the disciples and Jesus had experienced with each other.

And this is what is meant by following Jesus and to gather in his name: To place ourselves on the altar so that the Spirit of Christ can transform the ambiguity of our lives into holy nourishment for one another and for the world. And in giving and receiving from each other – in the Spirit – we become more fully the body of Christ for the sake of the world’s redemption…and our own.

The Season of Passion has always been the most significant rhythm of the year for me as a spiritual pilgrim. One of my earliest memories of the church is sitting in the three hour Good Friday service – my Dad preaching one of the “seven last words” – and my mother singing, in her rich pain filled voice, “he was despised and rejected – a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. (I found out years later that my mother felt despised at the core of her being, deeply acquainted with the grief of having been beaten and bruised by her father when she was a little girl). What I remember about those three hour marathons was how I felt. For me, sitting in those dark pews in dark sanctuaries with dark music and dark words was very comforting. Somehow I felt safe – sure that the love of God in the story of a sad and suffering Jesus was enough to protect me, no matter what. And, that nothing could ever separate me from the dependable arms of a dependable God..

And yet, as I’ve grown in the Christian faith, I have found myself very uncomfortable with the traditional theory of atonement. The idea that Jesus suffered FOR me simply doesn’t match that childhood experience of Jesus suffering/living/ fearing WITH me. And so, a theory of substitutionary atonement simply doesn’t work for me. In addition, as a decades old feminist, I am all too aware of how “suffering for others” has become the expected Christian script for women in a way it has never defined men.

And yet, I am also beginning to realize that when we turn Jesus into a fellow sufferer, instead of a mighty savior, we can also fall into a diminishment of God that leaves our faith strangled by human finitude.

Recently, as I march resolutely toward the age of 60, I am all too aware of my human finitude. My back gave out in November – and I had to actually cancel out on a pastor’s trip to Nicaragua – a humiliating realization that I am not in charge, and that my leadership is expendable. And my now daily routines of stretching and sitting a certain way and anticipating twinges of pain have permanently destroyed the illusion that I am still a “young woman.” Combine that with a daily glimpse of wrinkles and brown spots - and the horrifying experience of trying to find a mother-of the-bride dress that doesn’t scream “matronly” – well, I now know in a new and visceral way that I am not omnipotent and eternal. So, thank God, God is!

And so, I am even more grateful for the story – for the reality – of the cross, Yes, as the arms of the cross continue to hold me tight, I know that God is WITH me in every moment of sorrow and suffering, pain and disappointment, anger and doubt – and in every moment of sin and brokenness and violence and greed in this badly bruised world. God does not do FOR us what we must and can do as the image of God in the world. God does not rescue us from the darkness of living, but holds and pushes and prods and challenges and saves and loves in the midst of it all.

BUT, as a seasoned servant of life, I also know that there is a kind of darkness and brutality and tragedy and horror that I simply can’t endure as a finite human being – and it is at those moments, that God suffers FOR me and FOR you and FOR the world which God loves.

AT-ONE-MENT with God. Sometimes it’s up to you and sometimes its up to me. Sometimes it’s up to God and us together. And sometimes it’s only up to God. AT-ONE-MENT is a dance – and it is a dance that celebrates the complexity and confusions of life. And it is a dance where the human and divine partners share the privilege of taking the lead – as the music and patterns continue to unfold.

May it be so!

Last week, the session at my Church had the privilege of examining a young woman who was seeking our endorsement for Inquirer status within the Presbytery.  While some may see this as a burdensome requirement of Presbyterian polity, I like to think of it as one of the great privileges of the call process, for both the individual pursuing ordination as well as the Church offering its endorsement.  For the Church it is an occasion for celebration – one of your own is beginning an important journey of discernment as to the shape of the calling God has placed on her life.  For the individual, with any confidence in the connection between yourself and the Church of your membership, this is perhaps the place where you can be the most honest with yourself and with others concerning the state of your readiness for ministry.  After the Session comes the seminaries and the divinity schools who will put a grade on your best efforts at ministry and theological articulation, not to mention the Presbytery Committees who will read your initial attempts at sermon-writing and your earliest constructions of a faith statement and offer their critical feedback.  All of this is important and helpful, but it is also frightening and intimidating, which gives the home Church an opportunity to be a place of grace for inquirers and candidates for ministry.

The young woman we briefly examined and happily endorsed for Inquirer status took avail of such grace in her paperwork, particularly when she confessed “I am a work in progress.  I am a student – still exploring, still learning about God, about myself, about the world around me, and the relationships between each of these.”  I was glad that the Church could be a place where she could feel comfortable expressing her incompleteness as a disciple.  I should like to believe that we all could identify with that feeling, even if we count our time in the ministry by decades rather than years.  As I imagine this young woman’s journey ahead, I know she will meet those who will encourage that sense of humility just as surely as she will meet those who will make her feel inadequate for it and for every tiny misstep she might make as she learns about her place in this strange and God-given calling.

I am reminded of a time when I was exploring my own call to ministry.  My story is one of constantly pushing myself into new arenas of ministry as a challenge, which was in a sense my own way of asking for an endorsement of what I took to be a call to ministry.  Through my college years, I challenged my call by applying for internships at churches in places wholly unfamiliar to me.  I worked in Chattanooga, TN, I worked in Allentown, PA…all the while seeking validation of my call to ministry.  One summer, this North Carolina native decided to really step out and apply for a youth-ministry internship in Colorado.  I remember filling out the unusually large application and wondering at the scope of the questions they were asking.  The one question that still persists in my memory today went something like this: “Describe briefly your beliefs about God, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, the Bible, Sin, Forgiveness, the Church, and the resurrection of the dead.” 

I don’t remember what I wrote in response to that question, nor do I remember what I wrote for the other eight essays, but what I do remember as a young man of 20 years old is the phone call I received declining my application.  I remember with clarity how the pastor at this Church hastily explained that the beliefs I expressed did not line up well with those of the Church.  I was too young to recognize it at the time, but I had just been subjected to my first litmus test, and I was found lacking. 

Since that time, I have had the burden of having to choose one applicant over another for a sought after opportunity and so I understand the need for criteria, but it seems strange to me that my best attempts at articulating my beliefs at the age of 20 became the reason why I was not chosen.  While I was disappointed at the time for missing out on what was to me another chance to test my call to ministry, ten years later I am a bit disappointed that this Church used an unspecified orthodoxy to separate the wheat from the chaff.  I am disappointed that this Church would not let itself be a place for shaping the “work-in-progress” that I was at the time, and that I continue to be.

I am reminded of a certain disciple of Jesus who, in the days after the resurrection, heard a crazy report from his fellow disciples that the Lord had risen.  In response to this unbelievable news, he said “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”  These words earned him the title of “Doubting Thomas,” which may carry some measure of judgment in it, but it seems to me that Jesus does not judge Thomas.  A week later, Jesus comes to Thomas and gives him exactly what he needed in order to believe.  Jesus tells him “Put your finger here; see my hands.  Reach out your hand and put it into my side.  Stop doubting and believe.”  Jesus does not strip Thomas of his disciple status, but rather treats him like the work-in-progress that he was, still seeing the faithful disciple that he would be one day.  Jesus does what it takes in order to form faith within Thomas.

Young adults are supposed to doubt…it is developmentally appropriate for them to do so.  Young adults are works-in-progress, and if we’re honest with ourselves, no matter what age we are and no matter how long we’ve been in the Church, we are all works-in-progress – mixtures of deep faith as well as doubt.  I wonder if the Church might take a clue from Jesus, though, and stop treating one another with the expectation that we should have faith all figured out by the end of adolescence.  I wonder if, instead, we might own the fact that we are all works-in-progress, and expect that Jesus would work with us and through us to form faith within the most doubtful of individuals. 

Just last week, I returned from a 3 week trip to Nepal. Yes, that Nepal, one of the poorest countries in the world, sandwiched between India and China, split from its spiritual cousin, Tibet, by the towering majesty of Mount Everest and the rest of the Himalayan range. If you have perused the “World” section in the New York Times last week, you will have seen that Nepal is convulsing with political unrest as violent protests erupted in the capital, Kathmandu.

The trip was very difficult in many ways, but it was also one of the most inspirational of my life. I went to teach in a Christian church and school for ministry (Bishram Ministries) that was founded only 7 years ago. I’ll have more to say about that in a later blog, but as I reflected on my experiences with that wonderful and amazing community, I realized that I was returning a very different person. For you see, the ministry I visited in Nepal was the closest I’ve ever come to experiencing the church as described in Acts 1-4. Now, I realize that there are problems and conflicts in every community, even in the early church (remember that Ananias and Sapphira were struck dead in Acts 5; so much for spiritual harmony in the church!), but the Bishram community is the most vivid example I’ve encountered of a people in communion, giving their all, and transforming their world.

My experience in Nepal brought to mind other experiences I’ve had of church,
    of church as a verb,
           of being church,
                 of church as a sacrificial and shared life in Christ.

So in this and the next 2 blogs, I’ll talk about 3 experiences of being church in ways that are somewhat different from traditional, congregational life. Perhaps these reflections will help you recall your own experiences of spiritual vitality and challenge that you might not have associated with being church. And then perhaps, just perhaps, we can bring those experiences into our congregations, and shake up the usual suspects and usual practices and allow God to do a new thing among us.

1. Being Church as Doubting Believers

For just over a year I have been acting as the leader of a small covenant discipleship group. But it is a rather odd assortment of folks; they are not the usual suspects. When I think of the kinds of people who would gravitate toward one of these intimate settings of spiritual formation, I imagine that they are ardent believers who are looking for just a little deeper walk with God.

But in this group, it is safe to say only one person in our group might qualify, just barely, for the “ardent believer” type. The rest of them are struggling more with doubt than resting firmly in faith. These are people who are active in an urban congregation but who don’t feel all that spiritual. They want to believe, but the theology of their church doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to them. They believe in God but their concept of God is vague and it is difficult for them to talk about. They don’t know what to do with Jesus, especially the claim about his divinity. Forget the Holy Spirit; it’s just too spooky. When it comes time to pray, they don’t know how or even why to do it. Reciting the Apostle’s Creed makes them feel like they are lying or just going through the motions. For the most part, these folks are drawn to the moral and political mission of this congregation.  The greatest common denominator among this group is their passionate commitment to social justice, their love for one another, and the fact that they are all leaders in the congregation.

You might wonder: what in the world is this group of agnostics doing in the church, and how did they get to be LEADERS in the church? I don’t know. But the surprising thing to me is that when I get together with them for conversation, meditation, and study, I feel like I’m in church; that we are doing church. I feel that our gathering is more like church than anything else I do during the week – and I’m a seminary professor, ordained, and a regular participant in a congregation!

Before I came to Saint Paul School of Theology in Kansas City, I taught for 6 years at Yale Divinity School, where the student body was quite a bit more diverse. Because the Divinity School was part of the University, we had a good number of students who were agnostic and even atheist. They were usually the most interesting, engaged, and thoughtful students in the classroom. And I enjoyed them immensely. They asked the difficult questions and were not content with easy answers. They didn’t buy into the standard party line of churchy propaganda. For many of our more dogmatic students, they were trouble-makers and nay-sayers. In many respects, though, they were secular prophets in that supposedly “sacred” space. They were refreshing breeze that cleared away much of the traditioned fog that we churchy people feel so comfortable in.

When our Kansas City group of doubters and questioners gather, it is refreshing. There is less tolerance for fuzzy doctrine and irrelevant tradition. There is greater honesty and truth proclaimed, there is a greater sharing of life, and there is greater potential for transformation than just about anywhere I go throughout the week. They ask tough questions; they are not satisfied with routine answers. They are spiritually attuned without being able to readily describe it. They know God, but they don’t know what to call the mysterium tremendum. They serve God but in ways that traditional mainline Protestantism hardly recognizes as spiritual. And their lives reflect a strong commitment to shalom, to a peaceful wellbeing for all. When we pray together – despite its awkwardness – the Spirit visits.

I love – even crave – the time we share in covenant.

Like all communities, this group is not perfect; it is not ideal. Some are more committed than others; some are struggling to carve out enough time. For some, the spiritual practices of our covenant are not as meaningful as they would like. A few of our members are wondering if they should give up on “church” altogether because it is largely irrelevant and so much of what happens on Sunday and in “church” seems anachronistic.

But still, this little band of doubting believers meet week after week, sharing our lives with one another, exploring the faith, holding each other up before God, struggling with making sense of life and of our life in God, and striving to live more fully in the sacred dimension of this incredibly secular world.

Next blog: Being church in the wilderness.

Jim Burklo got me thinking. In his most recent post (Progressive Christian Elevator Speeches) he identifies the difficulty congregations have these days in knowing how to talk about ourselves.  Even more difficult is talking about ourselves in a way that makes sense to the community at large.  We used to be the “Mainline church,” but we held a memorial service for that term some time back.  Burklo speaks of the desire to describe himself as “progressive,” but acknowledges that this term is increasingly cluttered as well.  Lacking a general term, he opts for what he calls “tag lines.” I would encourage you to read the full list, but a sampling includes:

I’m a progressive Christian who
* keeps the faith and drops the dogma
* experiences God more than I believe in any definition of God
* thinks that God is bigger than anybody’s idea about God

These tag lines speak a fresh corrective to a church that at times has placed a premium on “faith” as belief, while downplaying faith as action.  The present day church has learned anew that Christianity is something that is practiced.  It is not simply believed; it is lived.
In addition, these tag lines question the historical conversation about who God is and how God has been understood and they prioritize the Christian’s personal experience of God. It was Isaiah who confessed, “I saw the Lord high and lifted up.”  This is experiential worship.  Far too often, the people of God gather for worship with absolutely no expectation that God will show up. Burklo rightly asserts experience matters.   

However, as much as I like these tag lines, I also find them raising troubling questions.  Why is it necessary to separate experience from tradition or creed? Our ideas about God are surely limited. Our language falters under the weight of the truth we seek to speak. No definition of God will be adequate.  But the same is true for our experience of God.  God is bigger than our experience. To suggest that God be defined by my experience alone is reductionist.  The present day church that fails to learn how to hold our experience of God in conversation with the tradition of the church impoverishes itself. After all, the tradition of the church is the testimony of how generations before have experienced God.

One suspects, that the tension between experience and tradition may have less to do with testimony that is deemed outdated or passé, and has more to do with problems that emerge when I cannot define God on my own.  The taglines are presented not as statements defining a “church” but rather a Christian.   American culture does individualism well.  The tradition is the voice of community. It is the shared conversation of how God has been known in generations gone by.  However, as long as my experience governs my understanding of God, I don’t have to be bothered with how others experience God.  Experience matters.  But the experience of an undefined God may run  the risk of experiencing an unknown God.  

If I were to add a tag line or two, I might suggest:

I am a progressive Christian who knows
-Tradition matters: the movement of God’s Spirit today has integrity with the movement of God’s Spirit yesterday, today and every day.
 -Community matters: a faith revealed as love cannot be lived alone.
-Ideas matter: God is bigger than but not removed from our ideas, and can be found in our testimonies.

Nine years ago – when I was 49 – I experienced the gift of a three month sabbatical. After 25 years of ministry and 25 years of marriage and 22 years of parenting, I was ready for a break. And so I put together 10 weeks of exploration – some into areas of uncomfortable discovery ( yoga and massage!), and some into retooling for a fresh commitment to ministry. 

At one of the seminars I attended, we spent five days studying the Enneagram – an ancient spiritual practice that invites us to explore the shadow side of our souls.  If you are not familiar with this frightening but life changing way of owning your own darkness, I strongly encourage you to investigate it. Coming face to face with my enneagram style/was the single most helpful discovery during my mid-life years. Which is saying a lot, because owning your enneagram is a way of acknowledging failure. An enneagram type is defined  by the weakness, the sin which is central to our lives – the single flaw that stands in the way of spiritual wholeness and radical dependence upon the grace of God. And the challenge of an enneagram discipline is to transform weakness into strength.

For those of you familiar with enneagram language, I am a Type One – sometimes called the Perfectionist or the Truth Teller. (Other well known Ones are the Apostle Paul, Martin Luther, Ralph Nader and Hillary Clinton. You get the picture!). We Ones are emphatic about truth, fairness, moral rectitude and social righteousness. At our best we can build transparency, accountability, order  and justice into the fabric of personal and social community. But at our worst, we are insufferable  - legalistic, judgmental, self-righteous, and unforgiving. And it is only when we see the pitch blackness of our ugly rigidity, that we can begin to let go – and realize that only God is perfect, only God is Truth, only God is Just. And if we invite God to be God, then our moral sensibilities can be subject to God’s grace, instead of our own stubborn certainty.

But enough of me. It has occurred to me, as I once again prepare for the journey of Lent, that exploring our shadow sides is the spiritual task of this season – perhaps the most creative time of the year for our souls. When Jesus wrestled with Satan during those 40 days of temptation, he was offered the opportunity to take virtues and turn them into self-serving vices. Feed the hungry – but do it miraculously with Super Bowl half-time tactics.( an excess of Enneagram Type Two!). Perform a miracle – but for your own aggrandizement instead of pointing to the power of God (an excess of Enneagram Type 4). Grab the authority over all the kingdoms – not for service but for power (an excess of Enneagram Type . Thank God that Jesus resisted – but it took 40 days of struggle and deprivation and brutal self examination before he survived the rigors of his shadow struggle.

My shadow side is just as strong at 58 as it was when I was 20 – but at least now I have the wisdom to recognize it.. And the temptations just keep coming – to judge others, to claim superior truth, to rail at the unfairness of life, to out do every one else’s righteousness – including God’s. And anger – the satanic force in the soul of a Type One – continues to gnaw at my soul.  I KNOW ALL OF THIS! But I still fall prey to the seduction of  the shadowy world. And so I must be brutally honest with my continuing failures. I must courageously explore this endless shadow. And I must earnestly cast my self upon the grace and mercy of God – who loves me – and needs me – failure and all. If my truth can somehow be filtered through God’s Truth, then maybe we can be partners in the ever continuing work of creation.

What is your shadow? Where is your failure? How do you separate yourself from God and pretend to BE God – in ways that distort the world, instead of love the world? And how can your flaw become a tiny flame of holiness in God’s ongoing work of redemption?

Exploring the wilderness of shadow is our Lenten Call.

May it be so!

(A good book to begin an Enneagram journey is called Parables and the Enneagram, by Clarence Thomson. 144 pages.)

The continuing relevance of the great blues song, Stormy Monday, popularized by T. Bone Walker and re-popularized by the Allman Brothers and—on any given weekend—by various bar bands across the country, is self-evident.  But what might it mean?  One listens to the narrator’s voice work through the (fatalistic?) week, declaring Tuesday “just as bad” as that Monday which gives the song it’s title.  What about the weekend—does it provide a welcome and renewing respite from the difficulties and challenges of the week, or simply a mundane, if perhaps a bit more playful, recasting of the same?  And Sunday—are those Church prayers which are referred to hopeful, thankful, confessional, desperate or some combination thereof? 
 
The brief period of time bookended by Super Bowl and Transfiguration Sunday, on one side, and Ash Wednesday, on the other, punctuated by Super-, or as some would have it, Super-Duper -, Tuesday and concurrently Shrove Tuesday or Mardi Gras, provide  us with quite an extraordinary, and arguably quite a stormy, set of days.  Political races, whether despite themselves or due to the possibilities they suggest, tend to provide some degree of hopeful, even inspirational, rhetoric; at the same time, they inevitably descend into, or even actively court, mudslinging and contemptuous rhetoric.   Transfiguration Sunday, for those who care—and dare— to engage it, provides some pretty heady, and very gutsy, stuff for our own, and our churches’, journeys.  The Super Bowl—well, is it even about football anymore?  I guess we do see some between the “dot.com,” junk food, and car commercials. Mardi Gras, by its very name, suggests— and by testimony of those involved includes—various “rich” offerings of (at least fleeting) delight.  And Shrove Tuesday, bless it’s quaint and foreign (to most Americans) sounding name, interestingly and insightfully suggests not a one-sided, solemn, guilt-ridden confession, but genuine relationship, consideration, sharing, and even dialogue on the way towards, one hopes and prays, forgiveness and recommitment to, and from, the community. 

Indeed one important and missing (from the lives of all too many in our world) ingredient which might tie together these seemingly disparate days and activities is related to the “shriving” and “shrift” from which Shrove Tuesday takes its name.  Too many individuals and organizations in our “communication age”—now there’s an irony!—give each other only “short shrift.”  That is, we—as a society, as a set of individuals, as consumers and as providers, as competitors on the gridiron or in the (far more ruthless) marketplace, and  even (sadly) as coworkers, team-members,  lovers, family members, etc— simply don’t listen to and engage one another as God intended and intends.  The full phrase in which “short shrift” is found in the old English saying is telling: “short shrift and a long rope.”  That is, as we might translate it into our vernacular, “don’t deal with him/her, let him/her hang.”  We’re good at that!

The Transfiguration Story, in marvelous fashion, joins the glorified Jesus on the mountaintop while he is “in conversation” with that deep and rich tradition of the law and the prophets which provides his religious identity and impulse (Luke 8:30).  And what was the conversation about?  Jesus’ “exodus” (the word is clear in the Greek , if not in most translations).  Peter wants to bottle the moment (v. 33)—not a bad impulse, arguably.  But, God knows, there’s work to be done “down” there (v. 37).  And so Jesus takes his followers there, to encounter and engage others. 

Returning to our song—Tuesday is indeed “bad” in that course of things in which “short shrift and a long rope” rules the day.  But insofar as it may offer some real playfulness along the way, and some real engagement and encounter for the journey, Shrove Tuesday offers a suggestion of God’s will and God’s way for God’s people and for the world.  In every exodus there is the high point of liberation and the low points of wilderness wandering.  Fellow travelers, let us be there for each other along the way in order to point the way to fuller and truer engagement of each other and of God!  Now that’s rich.  And super.

“Kingdom of God” may well be one of the most common phrases in Christian parlance.  According to the Gospel accounts, it was on Jesus’ mind and tongue a lot.  A whole generation (at least) of theologians, church leaders and members sought to “bring in” the Kingdom by applying the ethical teachings of Jesus.  One seminary I know has a “Kingdom Conference” once (or is it twice?) a year, bringing in well-known scholars, preachers, missionaries and representatives of all sorts of ministries, all seeking to describe, explain and embody the reign of God.

So, what about the psychology of the Kingdom?  An odd idea?  I’m reading a book by Robert C. Roberts: Spiritual  Emotions: A Pscyhology of Christian Virtues (Eerdmans, 2007).  In the chapter on humility, he reflects on the “psy-chological structure” of the kingdom of God, which is love: “That kingdom [of God] is a society in which each member is so surrounded by and conscious of focused love – both the love of his [sic] God and fellow creatures – that measures and inequalities of the kind that preoccupy us in the current order of things fade into the background of inattention,” (p. 90).  Here is a rendering of Jesus’ response to the religious leader about the greatest command-ment, to which Jesus added the second: “You shall love the Lord your God…and your neighbor as yourself.”  We get the ethics of this command, but do we get the psychology?   

Now, we cognitively “get” all the talk about love within the kingdom of God.  Christians are good at talking about love.  Maybe it’s because we don’t experience it that much, which is a true tragedy.  Maybe it is because it does not penetrate the psychological structure of our souls.  Admittedly, Roberts is really talking about humility, but he shows how the deep penetration of divine love into our hearts – into our psychological structures – is a necessary step on the way to what he calls the virtue emotions like humility. 

A quick aside: talk of humility can quickly elicit a suspicious response.  Feminist and other forms of liberation thought have shown us that when people in power start talking about humility, it mostly turns out to be something that others (i.e., not the ones advocating it) should take up.  I want to acknowledge this tendency.  But if I under-stand Roberts, then even the powerful in the kingdom of God, with psychological structures permeated by divine love, become willing to lose their lives (position, status, prerogatives, control), in order to have the life of the king-dom.

I’m not naïve (I think?  Hope?) about the radical change involved in this sort of Kingdom love transforming our psychological structures.  To experience it usually involves a prior and ongoing death struggle.  But I am taken by the vision: the transformation of psychological structures that show the love of God.  It is, after all, the heart of the Gospel. 

Editor’s Note: This is the transcript of a sermon preached on June 17, 2007. We have decided to publish it now, on the QTL blog, because of the on-going need for religion in America to allow itself to be defined by grace more than by hostility; by including rather than excluding; by humility rather than pious posturing. Some of the references are dated specifically to the week of June 17, 2007, but the point remains the same today as it did on June 17th.

Today’s lectionary reading (Luke 7:36-39), like all lectionary readings, is the reading that was heard in nearly every church around the world this week. Christians from all over the world heard, this week, about the woman who washed Jesus’s feet with her hair. It’s an amazing event that Luke records. This woman who had not lived her life very well….who was looked down upon by all, ignored, mocked…..she hears that Jesus – the only one in this woman’s world who did not ignore her or look down on her, but instead reaffirmed his love for her as someone who God made and loves – no matter how much she had marred that image of God – she hears that Jesus was going to be eating at a home nearby and she went there to wash his feet with the best oil money could buy. No one had asked her to be there, and the host certainly did not want her there. But there she was, weeping at Jesus’ feet…her tears of gratitude dropping on his feet which she wiped off with her hair.  Now, we don’t know when Jesus forgave her, Luke doesn’t say. The text, if I have read it correctly, makes clear that she is not forgiven because of the way she washes his feet that night. Her acts of love and gratitude are the result of having been forgiven at another time, and she was so moved, she is so grateful…that when she heard he was going to be nearby, she had to be there.

Now, Jesus often acknowledged and blessed people that the world deemed unworthy. And it was often the response of the religious leaders looking on to see such actions by Jesus, as they did in this case, as clear evidence that he was certainly not divine…certainly not holy….because such radical forgiveness was not a reflection of the God they wanted to know. For God to be so radical, so inclined to love a woman like this, was to expose in neon lights how little these religious leaders and the other guests that night were actually reflecting the God they claimed to know.

There is a message here – a call to each of us to think on how well we know and are willing to reflect the God of Jesus Christ. And it is this message that Jesus wants not only to underscore, but to help his host, the other guests and all of us here understand what it looks like to reflect the God of Jesus Christ.

And so he asks his host, who was clearly uncomfortable with the woman and how Jesus was handling everything…he asks his host about two men who owed debts to the same lender, one much larger a debt than the other, both of which the lender forgave. Now Jesus has talked about forgiving debts before, but on this night he asked his host which of the two men will love the lender more. The host answers correctly, Jesus says – the man who had more debt forgiven loved the lender more, which leads Jesus to say these truly revolutionary words: “He who has been forgiven little loves little.”

Now, it is important to note that there are many different kinds of love and many different Greek words for love. In this case, the word used to describe the love the men feel at having their debt forgiven is the same word Jesus uses when he talks about those who are forgiven little, love little. The word used means: moral love. In other words, being forgiven ignites in the forgiven a moral re-compassing, a gratitude that reflects not the relief one feels when they have gotten off the hook, but rather the transforming humility one feels as the recipient of a sacrifice they did not earn or deserve. 
When we forgive, we give someone the gift of grace….think of forgiveness as the wrapping paper on a gift called grace. And it is that grace, grace that reflects who God is, not who we are, it is that grace that moves, that reforms, that reignites a moral love in the human heart. To forgive is not always the option I want to choose. And if you’re like me, it’s not always the option you want to choose either. We get angry, it’s natural, we get angry when we have been wronged in some way, and if the other person has done nothing to earn my forgiveness….just my wrath, then to forgive – especially the big things - is not my first instinct. But Jesus never said we need to change the world, he said we need to allow God to change the world through us. To forgive, even when we don’t want to, is to do nothing less than take part in building God’s Kingdom on this earth. To forgive is to pave a road for God’s grace to become real in the life of another, who is moved to humility and gratitude as the recipient of a pardon they did not earn. It is a radical message. But this, if I understand it correctly, is the way Jesus says God works. It is the concept of the cross. Grace is limited to no one, is not earned and is by our worldly measures, not fair. I imagine this is what the host was thinking that night at his home, as this woman that he looked down upon in every respect was shown such grace and love by Jesus. I can hear him thinking, “You forgave her?” This forgiveness concept is so radical. Not many liked to hear it. It’s hard to hear today……unless you’re one of the people that is forgiven…or you’re one of the people who (though they may not know it) are held captive by the anger, the disgust they hold for another person who has wronged them in some way. Forgiveness is a radical notion. Make no mistake about it. But I think what we learn from Jesus is that when we choose to forgive – we become a vehicle through which God’s grace can break into this world to heal, to make whole.

Imagine how these words, these radical words from Luke, must have been heard this week when they were read in churches in South Africa, where so many people know through their own experience and the living out of his call to forgive, that the words of Jesus are true. I imagine a lot of those people who forgave, did not want to. But they had trust that through forgiveness, they were giving the gift of God’s radical grace, which heals both the giver and the given. I wonder how these words have been heard this week at Duke, where yesterday the DA was found guilty of lying about the case involving the lacrosse team. I wonder how these words have been heard this week in Liberia, where the hearings have just begun for their ousted leader who wreaked such havoc, caused such pain and loss for so many Liberians.  Did these words fall on rocky ground? Will they take root in the heart of just one, who will begin to allow her life to be used as a vehicle for the breaking in of God’s Kingdom in that hurting land? How were these words heard in Iraq this week? How were they heard in New York? How were they heard in Gaza, where ancient angers and hatreds have reared their heads again this week in violence? Will just one allow his life to become a gift of grace, wrapped in the cover of forgiveness?

How do we hear these words? Does your concept of forgiveness has a limit? Are there, in other words, some offenses for which forgiveness is not an option and may actually be considered the immoral thing to do? I admit that there are limits beyond which I would have a very hard time to forgive. But if I understand Jesus, to forgive is to offer grace, not my grace, but God’s…and God’s grace is the only thing, the only power that can transform the human heart. And if God’s grace knows no limits, after all the cross was meant for every single person, good & bad, than how can forgiveness know limits?  The more willing we are to forgive, the more able we are to be a builder in God’s Kingdom.

So I think the main question, the main message that comes out of this evening meal we have read about today is: How willing are we to give birth to moments of grace? That’s ultimately what forgiveness does….it gives birth to moments of grace. This is what we are seeing in this incredible display of the woman washing Jesus’ feet with her tears and wiping those tears from his feet with her hair….we see the overwhelming joy of a new person who has been birthed by grace.

If we live in the world this way…And it’s not easy, in fact it is very hard…and I am no master of it…..but if we choose to see the grace that can be given rather than the sin that has been…we help create men & women like the one who washed Jesus’ feet with her hair: people who have been transformed by grace. We live in a world filled with both sin & the potential for grace, all the time. What do we see? I think the point Jesus is making is that a life lived for him, is a life that chooses to see the grace that could be….over the sin that was.

Writing “Thank you” notes was never a personal strength of mine.  It really wasn’t until I got married that I ever really wrote one.  Suddenly, my wife Meg deposited into my lap a ten page spreadsheet of all the people we needed to thank for our wedding.  Notes to the wedding guests were easy enough: Thank you for the frying pan, thank you for the salt shaker, thank you for the salad bowl.  Those were the easy ones. 

Then came the close family; then came the dear friends.  Suddenly, these thank you notes were simply overwhelming.  I’d come to one of my groomsmen on the list and I’d remember how he hugged me tight before the ceremony.  I’d come to my parents and remember how my father stood next to me, teary with joy throughout the ceremony.  I’d come to my ‘new’ uncle George and remember how he stood behind me during the family photo and afterward threw his arms around me from behind and bellowed “WELL, YOU”RE ONE OF US NOW!”

These were the moments that overwhelmed me with thankfulness.  So how do you say ‘thank you’ for that?

Luke tells us about some other people who were overwhelmed by a great gift.  In chapter 17, Luke tells us about ten men with leprosy who cried out to Jesus for mercy.  Jesus told them to go and show themselves to the Priests, and along the way they were healed.  One of the men returned to Jesus to give thanks to God for this great gift, nine of them did not. 

Martin Bell writes in his book The Way of the Wolf: “Ten were cleansed and only one returned.  It must be nice to be able to do that.”  I think he’s right…sometimes finding the right words or the right way to say ‘thank you’ is the most difficult thing to do…especially when the gift is so overwhelming. 

And yet the one does return.  The one does give thanks to God for this miraculous healing.  So my question is not, like Jesus, ‘Where are the other nine?,’ but rather ‘Why did the one return?’  Where did he find the courage and the strength to be thankful in the face of such an overwhelming gift? 

As always, the Biblical text is sparse on details.  It rarely gives us a peek into the inner thoughts and feelings of its many characters, and this one healed leper is no exception.  If I may speculate a bit, though, I like to think that this man never lost sight of the gifts of God.  I like to think that he always had his eyes trained to see the gifts of God.  After all, the text says “One of them, when he SAW that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice.” 

I believe that this one man who returns, who gives thanks to God for his healing, this man demonstrates one thing – Thanksgiving is a choice.  It’s not always an easy choice, it’s not always easy to find the right words to say ‘thank you,’ but this man does prove that we always have the choice to return and give thanks. 

And when we know the gifts of God, when we are thankful for the gifts of God perhaps words are not the best way to give thanks.  I like how Jesus says to the man ‘Get up and go on your way, your faith has made you well.’

It’s as if Jesus were saying to the man, the fact that your are grateful is enough.  The fact that you are able to live your thanksgiving demonstrates your faith, and that faith gives you a health beyond the simple healing of body that you received from God. 

The ability to live your gratefulness in the sight of God…I like to call that Thanks Living.  How do you say thank you for such an overwhelming gift…I can tell you that it doesn’t fit on a ‘thank you’ note.  Sometimes, the best way to ay thank you is with you entire life.

I’d like to share a prayer from a young man in Haiti named Vedrine. Vedrine was an orphan who was rescued from the streets of Port-au-Prince, and so you can imagine how cruel his life must have been, but still he finds the words to express his own Thanks Living.  This is his prayer:

 “God, I believe in you.
 I love you.
 Thank you for all you do for me.
 Is there anything I can do for you?”

In my new position as a presbytery executive, I drive – a lot! Ninety-two churches, spread out over seven counties – from New York City almost up to Albany and from Connecticut to New Jersey on both sides of the Hudson River. Luckily, most of the scenery is gorgeous, and the roads are good. But, I still spend too many hours in the car. So, I have discovered Books on Disc – and am rapidly going through the entire stash of choices at the local library. My most recent auditory adventure was The World is Flat – by Thomas Freidman. I now know more about technology and globalization than I will ever remember. But there are some high points that directly connect with the contemporary world of the church.

Freidman’s whole emphasis is on the flattening of the world –  brought about by the internet and wireless technology and the equal access that everyone has – regardless of country, religion, age, or education.  Hierarchical or sectarian control of any kind is simply impossible in a world where the poorest little girl in the farthest village can log on pretty easily to all the information and ideas and opportunities that anyone needs to move ahead. Granted, developing countries are at a disadvantage economically in gaining access to this technology – but even that is changing at an electric speed. With the flattening of the world and the opening up of information possibilities, the way things get done are through imagination, personal initiative, collaboration, and interdependent creativity – a pretty good description of the church according to the Apostle Paul – and to Jesus. “You are the Body of Christ and individually members of him – and when one part weeps, we all weep, and when one part rejoices, we all rejoice.” And it is only when the body is coordinated and integrated that the Good News of abundant life for all can be realized.

The one idea that has stayed with me the most is Friedman’s new formula for “intelligence.” His thinking is somewhat akin to Goldman’s idea about “emotional intelligence” – that effective leadership and mature living does not come from brainpower alone – but through the integration of heart and mind – building strong and healthy emotional systems and relationships with others. Freidman says that among the young entrepreneurs and technological innovators who are shaping the future of the world, the Intelligent Quotient (IQ) has now been surpassed by the Curiosity Quotient (CQ) and the Passion Quotient PQ). CQ plus PQ is what is encouraging creativity and new life to emerge in such a rapidly changing world.   Which I think is a clue that the emerging church needs to embrace.

The Curiosity Quotient is a way to keep the Gospel alive – constantly re-examining the parables and teachings of scripture – by asking questions and probing new insights as to how the written word becomes the Living Word in the immediacy of NOW. Rather than dogmatic answers or doctrinal warfare, lively conversation and dialogue seems to be the way to keep the church alive - where disagreement is embraced and New Truth emerges from the blending of old truths.  And the Passion Quotient is a wonderful way of describing the Holy Spirit – constantly stirring things up and energizing us to care body and soul - embodying the Grace and  Truth of the Living Christ in contemporary people and places.

In his comprehensive study of the missing young adults in our pews, Rodger Nishioka  (Christian Education professor at Columbia Seminary) has discovered that Passion is the key to the engagement and enthusiasm of young adults in our churches. If a congregation is not EXCITED about SOMETHING, why should anybody stick around? If we are not emotionally engaged in the life and promise of Jesus, why should any of us bother to be disciples. If energy and laughter and compassion and commitment are not bubbling up out of our communities of faith, what difference are they making? After all the Passion Story of Jesus is what sets Christianity apart – the love, the blood, the suffering, the energy, the intimacy, the vitality, the new life, the heart/head/mind/body commitment  – all poured into transforming the world. Living Resurrection in the midst of brokenness and crucifixion and need and yearning - it is this Passion Quotient that continues the work of creation – adding texture to the flattened terrain of a connected, collaborative, still emerging world.

May it be so.

“… But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;                      
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us–to know
Whence our lives come and where they go….”
“The Buried Life” by Matthew Arnold, 1852

I got a call a week ago from a young man named Johnnie Penn.  A newspaper editor had referred him to me, thinking I might be able to help him in his quest. I invited Johnnie to pay me a visit at my church office.  Johnnie is one of four Canadian college students who dropped out of school to do the one hundred things they want to do before they die, and travel around North America helping others to do the same.   The funky old transit bus in which they travel broke down in Sausalito.  While it was being repaired, they continued their quest to find people with special needs in fulfilling the goals of their lives.

They call their project “The Buried Life”.  It’s a reference to a poem by Matthew Arnold, from 1852, by the same name.  Arnold’s poem expresses the yearning for the authentic lives that we set aside when we take on our conventional roles in society.  Each of us needs to express the “fire and restless force” that are uniquely our own, but that all too often are “buried”.

I took Johnnie on a walk through downtown Sausalito, introducing him and his quest to people along the way.  I invited him and his friends to show up in worship on Sunday and tell their story.  After my initial introductions, Johnnie and his friends continued looking people with special needs in Sausalito and found one: a middle-aged man with terminal illness, living alone in an empty apartment on a low income.

On Sunday, the four young men showed up in worship.  To my surprise, they came with a film crew!  These clever young men have parlayed their mission into a media event.  A documentary is being made about their trip.  They’ve been on MTV, and have corporate sponsors. (See more at http://www.theburiedlife.com .)  This answered my question about their source of funds to keep their bus on the road.

I invited them to stand at the altar and describe their effort to dig up “The Buried Life” and live it to the full, helping others to do the same along the way.  Our church people enthusiastically offered their help in providing furniture for the dying man’s apartment.  Our congregation was moved by Johnnie, Ben, Dave, and Duncan’s story.  The four young men were surrounded by admirers at coffee hour downstairs after worship.

Then they gathered in my office to ask me what I want to do before I die - as the cameras were running.  I told them that as far as achievements or experiences in this life are concerned, I feel like I’ve already made it.  From now on, any new worldly accomplishments will be gravy for me.  But spiritually, I’m not yet where I want to be.  There’s still part of my soul that’s “buried” by the rush of activity in my everyday life.  I want to reach a state of spiritual equanimity in which I am full of compassion for others and fully aware of the divine.  When my time comes, I want to die with a twinkle in my eye and a heart full of love for my family and all those around me.  That may seem like a simple thing to want to achieve before I die.  But I’m going to need to make some real sacrifice of spiritual, physical, and mental effort to get there.

What do you want to do before you die?  What are you doing to make it happen?  What part of your life is “buried”, and needs to come to light and action?  Thank you, Johnnie, Ben, Dave, and Duncan, for asking such a good question – and having the nerve to live it!

Americans are obsessed with their own emotional states. I work with college students where this syndrome is vir-tually epidemic, but it is not limited to young people, or to viewers of shows like “Oprah.” I don’t know about you, but it drives me crazy to watch some reporter stick a microphone in some poor grieving soul’s face and ask, “How did you feel when…?” I just want to shout (in my best adolescent affect), “Well, duh!”

That the reporter is asking about feelings is evidence of our obsession. Why are we so interested in how we (or they) feel? Check any controversial issue with which a church struggles and you will encounter people making all kinds of judgments on the basis of how something made them feel. (I recently read a comment by a denominational leader about another leader’s “hurtful” comments. So I read that comment, too, and it didn’t seem all that “hurtful” to me. I wonder if it matters whether it is true or not, even if it might be “hurtful.”) This is an alarmingly short-sighted behavior.

I’ve been “stuck” in John 15 (New Revised Standard Version) during my morning prayer, particularly the first few verses. Jesus tells the disciples that he is the vine and his Father is the vinedresser, who removes fruitless branches and prunes the ones bearing fruit, so that they can bear even more fruit. Then, in the very next verse (3), Jesus switches to cleansing: “You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you,” after which he immediately returns to the theme of fruit. What does cleansing have to do with pruning?

A quick check of the Greek New Testament reveals that “have been cleansed” and “prunes” come from the same Greek root word: kathairo. It is the source for words like “catharsis” and “cathartic.” To prune a fruit tree is to cleanse it, to make it fit to bear more and better fruit.

And for what do we use the word “catharsis?” Doesn’t it usually mean some kind of “purging” of feelings? A rant is “cathartic:” “I feel so much better now.” Venting is somehow perceived as a “cleansing” of a sort. We “got things off our chests” and we now feel better. And feeling better seems to be the goal.

But Jesus is interested in fruit. Certainly, it does not mean that he is careless about feelings. In verse 11 he talks about our joy being complete. “Joy” certainly has emotional qualities. Still, there’s much more to spirituality than just feeling good (or better) about things. I think we American Christians are largely stuck here. We are embarras-singly self-absorbed. Oh, Lord, help us to focus on the fruit.

John Updike once said he wanted to write with the same dedication as the monks whose vocation is to carve Psalms on the bottom side of choir seats. I can’t find the reference anymore but the quote has lived with me for years. Why? I imagine those beautifully carved choir seats that few people will ever see and wonder about those monks practicing their craft with that same knowledge. Did they carve for the joy of their art, and the praise of God, without any desire that they be recognized? Were there moments when they longed to flip up the seats for the world to see?  And what about John Updike? What did he perceive in these monks that brought him to desire the same attitude for his craft? I think he wanted to find that sweet spot where one’s vocation is fully lived without regard for the recognition of others.

This brings to mind another man who sought a way to live his vocation fully without regard for the recognition of others. Jean Vanier, the French Roman Catholic, who many years ago was so moved by the conditions of mentally disabled adults in an institution in France that he founded a home to care for them. In the beginning he took in only a few men and began to form a community of mutual care. He called this community L’Arche and now there are communities all over the world of developmentally disabled adults living alongside those without disabilities sharing their lives in a very deep way. What makes this similar to those monks carving the bottom of choir seats is the joy that exudes from the people living fully into their vocation. Some of the residents at L’Arche communities could be pursuing high profile careers making large sums of money. Instead, they have found the deepest joy by living in deep friendship with severely disabled persons whose lives are defined not by utilitarian values but by qualities of human dignity alone. Those who live with the same attitude as those monks carving choir seats receive the gifts that severely disabled persons have to offer.

One of the more remarkable things about the congregation I serve is the inclusion of persons with developmental disabilities. We have a group of adults with mental disabilities who have been fully embraced in this community for years. The church has developed a purposefully designed curriculum for their “Friends” class and several members rotate as teachers, while other drive them from their group homes. They participate in worship, sitting alongside persons with advanced degrees and high profile positions in Washington DC. They live with us as a great witness to the love of God and the fullness of humanity.

Last week my wife and I hosted a party for them, as we do each year, at our home along with their teachers and drivers. Our time together was one of the most astonishing events bearing witness to the transforming power of a community of love and compassion.  This year we went with a Hawaiian theme - complete with hula dancing and special Hawaiian music and food. It was just a delight for all of us to be having so much fun and laughter together. I’m certain this is what Jesus meant when he talked about the reign of God coming among us when the least are first and we all sit at table together.

We’ve become quite aware (and appropriately so) of the religious diversity around the world and in our neighborhoods.  The upshot is a certain lack of confidence: if there are so many sincerely religious people and our visions of the divine (even using “divine” as the reference is problematic) are so diverse, how could we possibly say anything about knowing God?  The best we can say is that we’re all feeling our way, much like the old Hindu proverb about the blind men handling different parts of the elephant and coming up with vastly divergent opinions about the object of their enquiry. 

Perhaps as an antidote to that nagging lack of confidence, I like to read theologians from church history matching our own in diversity.  The Apostle Paul, for example, having seen all the altars in Athens and the one altar to the unknown god, said to the intellectuals, “I see how extremely religious you are,” (Acts 17:22).  How apt: an altar to a god we don’t even know, just to make sure that we leave no possibility unexamined.  It’s sort of ironic – all that searching and not much knowledge.   

But I’ve been reading Athanasius, a fourth-century bishop in Alexandria known for his leadership in sorting out the nature of Jesus Christ.  His work was instrumental in the church’s forming the Nicene Creed.  He writes as if he actually knew God.  In his little treatise “On the Incarnation of the Word of God,” Athanasius ponders the mystery of knowing God: 

…the good God has given [humans] a share in His own image, that is, in our Lord Jesus Christ, and has made even themselves after the same Image and Likeness.  Why?  Simply in order that through this gift of God-likeness in themselves they may be able to perceive the Image Absolute, that is the Word Himself, and through Him, to apprehend the Father; which knowledge of their Maker is for [humans] the only really happy and blessed life.

It’s that phrase, “…may be able to perceive the Image Absolute…” that grabs me.  Athanasius tells us that we are made to know God, not in the blindly feeling way of the proverb, but in a deeply real way that elicits confidence – even happiness.  In Christ, we perceive the Image Absolute – God-made-visible. 

Thinking on this statement, I’m tempted to quote my old cowboy father who used to say, “I don’t understand all I know about this.”  Pondering the nature and works of God definitely produces, as the philosophers call it, “epistemic humility.”  Still, to know God – really – as Athanasius says we can (yes, we’re made to know God) is a gift, a treasure.  It’s worth the search.      

    In a time in which the logic of the market carries over into religion as well as economics, religious leaders often feel pressure to tailor theology to meet the demands of the consumer-driven, spiritual marketplace. As a result, theological “hard truths” are often soft peddled, lest they adversely impact things like congregational harmony and church growth.

     A similar dynamic can be observed in the work of theologians and religious leaders committed to Christian ecumenism and interreligious dialogue. While the furthering of both these things is unquestionably important, there is, in each case, a temptation to play down the real differences that distinguish Christian denominations and religious traditions from one another in the interest of fostering unity among them.

      Pope Benedict XIV is one religious leader who refuses to succumb to such temptations. He frequently warns of a “dictatorship of relativism” infecting the church and has consistently used his papal platform to speak out against philosophical, theological, and cultural trends that promote tolerance and acceptance at the expense of the doctrinal integrity of the Roman Catholic tradition. “An ‘adult’ faith,” Benedict stated, “is not a faith that follows the trends of fashion and the latest novelty; a mature adult faith is deeply rooted in friendship with Christ. It is this friendship that opens us up to all that is good and gives us a criterion by which to distinguish the true from the false, and deceit from truth.”

     The conviction that in Christ Christians encounter not just one truth among many, but the Truth with a capital T — and that this encounter is most authentic when conducted within the confines of the Roman Catholic church — together constitute the animating core of Benedict’s theological perspective. Critics have contended, however, that unlike his predecessor, John Paul II, Benedict lacks a diplomat’s ability to present this perspective in ways that enable productive exchanges with non-Roman Catholics — one of the achievements of the Second Vatican Council, for instance. Exhibit A for Benedict’s detractors in this regard was the controversial address he gave before an audience at the University of Regensburg in Germany on September 12, 2006, in which his quoting of a 14th century Byzantine emperor’s negative remarks about Islam drew worldwide, and even violent, protests from Muslims.

     Exhibit B may now be the document issued by the Vatican’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (CDF) on July 10, entitled Responses to Some Questions Regarding Certain Aspects of the Doctrine on the Church. This document has generated controversy among both a number of Protestant and Eastern Orthodox church leaders and liberal and ecumenically minded Roman Catholics for its bold assertion of the Roman Catholic church’s superior capacity to facilitate the human encounter with God through the person of Jesus Christ.

     Eastern Orthodox and Protestant Christianity, the document states, suffer from “defects” due to the fact that they are not in full communion with Rome. And while the document does extend the title of “Church” to Eastern Orthodox communities of faith, the same courtesy is not extended to the churches of the Reformation which, having supposedly broken the line of apostolic succession in the 16th century, are referred to as “ecclesial communities.”

     The decision to use the term “ecclesial communities” rather than “churches” when discussing Protestantism is theologically significant. “Church” in the New Testament connotes that community against which Jesus, in Matthew 16:18, says not even “the gates of Hades will prevail.” It also stands for that special collection of persons whom Christ nourishes and tenderly cares for as members of his own body (Ephesians 5:29-30). To be denied the title “Church,” then, is no small matter: If Benedict and the authors of Responses are correct in their determination that what Protestants belong to is not properly called “Church,” then Protestants should be concerned –– very concerned –– about where it is that they stand vis-à-vis Christ.

     As one who has experienced Christ’s justifying grace and the fullness of inclusion into the Church by way of Protestant churches, I know, however, that Responses is wrong to deny that Protestants participate in anything less than the “Church” when they gather to give thanks for what God has done in and for the world through the person of Jesus Christ.

     A service Responses does provide to Protestant Christians and, more importantly, to the Church universal is its ability to clarify the terms of an important dispute regarding the nature of the relationship between the Church and the dynamic presence of God in the world that is the Holy Spirit.

     That debate, simply stated, amounts to this: Is it the case that the Holy Spirit conforms itself to that space provided for it by the earthly, visible Church, or is it rather this Church that must permit its scope and location to be determined for it by the agency of the Spirit? When reading Responses one gets the sense that it is the former. When reading the central documents of the 16th century Reformation, however, as well as those of the Second Vatican Council, the latter, in contrast, is assumed.

     I have a hunch that the most significant, yet unacknowledged, division within Christianity may not be between Roman Catholics and Protestants, fundamentalists and modernists, or even pro-gay and anti-gay Christians. Instead, I suspect it may be between those who believe that the Holy Spirit must set up shop where the Church allows it to and those who believe the Church must follow the Spirit’s lead when determining where its boundaries begin and end.

     Should we seek to discover the theological roots that lead to many of the internal conflicts facing the Church at present — including everything from Christianity’s relationship to the other world religions and the extent to which gay and lesbian Christians should enjoy full inclusion into the Church — one will most likely find that they can be traced back to the Church’s failure to come to a consensus on the nature of its relationship to the Holy Spirit.

     And until this fundamental issue is addressed, Christians will continue to spend lots of time and energy dealing with symptoms rather than root causes.

They were traveling up the center aisle to see the body. Moving with faithful footsteps toward the one they dearly loved. Tears filled their eyes and they held tight to daughters and sisters as they came forward to view the deceased, hands folded calmly, suit freshly pressed.

I had lost the battle, you see. My pastoral sensitivity overran my pastoral authority. I am fairly new to the world of ordained parish ministry with a special focus in pastoral care. My newness does not mean that I am new at presiding in worship at funerals. With our congregations aging and with more and more “unchurched” people turning toward the church at the time of death—not knowing where else to go—pastors have a great gift and opportunity to travel alongside families who are grieving, families who are trying to figure out what to do with their dead. Pastors receive this gift frequently. My newness, in this case, meant that I presided over an open casket funeral. Not my practice, not my theology: but there the congregation was traveling up during a hymn to pay their last respects.

We believe that the funeral service is a “Witness to the Resurrection.” The funeral is the place where we affirm that in life and in death we belong to God. It is the place where we say aloud that death has no power to pull us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. It is the place where we give thanks to God for the gift of life experienced in the one we loved and where we place that one into God’s everlasting arms. All that is to say that the funeral is about God.

But then there is that person—that body: surrounded by memories and stories and jokes. There is that person—that body: surrounded by brothers and daughters, by colleagues and choir buddies—all with tales and lessons and laughter that they are bursting at the seams to share.

In my struggle, I turned to an amazing article, “O Sing to Me of Heaven: Preaching at Funerals,” by Tom Long (Journal for Preachers, Easter 2006). Long claims, “We have a tug of war between the quiet, but somewhat abstract, ideal of a worship service reflecting on the joy of the resurrection and the Oprah-esque carnival of anecdotes and memories.” I felt comforted that I was not alone in this tug of war. Long recounts what the funeral was for our Christian forebears: Christians washed, anointed and dressed in baptismal garments the bodies of the deceased. Then they would carry them to the grave, singing as they traveled. The dead were seen as saints traveling on to God. The focus was on the journey and ultimately the destination.

Traveling to God—not to a lifeless body—that is what we are doing at funerals. All of life is a pilgrimage toward God. The dead have finished the journey; they are home.

The next time I watch people travel up the center aisle at a funeral—the next time I receive that gift, I will try to speak a word about the One to whom we all are traveling, a word about the heaven to which we are going, and yes, a word about the person who is home and what there journey there was like.
 

Theology.
      What is it?
            Where does it lead?
                What difference does it make?

As a kid raised in a Southern Baptist family in a Southern Baptist home in a Southern culture (Louisiana, which could be considered “southern-kicked up a notch”, especially if you have read Rebecca Wells “The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood” and watched Emeril), I buhleved in Jesus, God, the Holy Spirit… the whole shebang. Every time there was a revival, I got saved all over again. At night, instead of monsters hiding the closet or under my bed, I was scared to shivers of hellfire and brimstone. Those monsters didn’t stand a chance of stoking my fear up against the righteous wrath of the holy, omnipotent God who was going to throw all the unrepentant and unholy children like me into the fiery lake of everlasting damnation. At least that’s what my pastor said.

I’ve probably been saved a hundred thousand times; every night that I can remember for as long as I was self-conscious, I prayed to anyone who was listening up there. I told ‘em that I was a rotten sinner, deserving of condemnation, but that I really wanted to live a holy life and be saved. Then I’d think about what boys think about alone at night, and I’d have to get saved all over again.

When I think about what my theology was at that age, my idea of “God” was not much better than the monsters that were hiding in my closet. “God” was a bit worse, however, because he was hiding in my head. Not only that, the “God” in my head was mirrored in my church, my family, my culture. I was theologically saturated in the God-as-savior/God-as-judge theology. I didn’t consider for a moment that the “God” in my head might not be equivalent to the Creator and Redeemer of the universe. It was the Creator/Redeemer.

In 6th grade, a good friend of mine, John David, was playing baseball one day. He was a star athlete, of whom I was insanely jealous. He could water ski so well that he was being recruited by Cypress Gardens (for all you non-water skiers, Cypress Gardens was the showcase for the best of the best waterskiing in the country). He was a natural at every sport he tried. But this day, he was striking out. He said that his head was hurting badly. Then, he went blind right there in the batter’s box. Come to find out, spinal fluid was backing up in his head and pressing on his optic nerve. When he was taken to the local hospital, the only thing they knew to do was to relieve the pressure, but the way they did the operation left him permanently blind.

John David’s family was understandably devastated. According to what our pastor had been telling us, God blesses us when we are good and chastises us when we aren’t. Logically then, they had done something that made God pretty upset. For the next several years, his family set out on a quest of repentance and supplication to get him healed. This seemed like a pretty cool idea to me, so I joined them. Our search led us far beyond Southern Baptist orthodoxy. In our world, Baptists don’t like God doing hocus pocus. I’m not sure why, but Baptists don’t usually cotton to people getting instantaneously healed or breaking out in tongues. But that’s exactly what we were looking for: someone who knew the right prayers, the right dance, someone who could call down the Holy Ghost to heal my best friend.

As John David’s family and I moved away from our Baptist church and its theology, we found ourselves persona non grata in that world. My parents were afraid I was getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, but they didn’t know how to confront me because I was getting even more involved in “church”. It’s not like I was drinking and smoking and carrying on like some of my siblings. I was as near to being angelic as any high school kid could be. It was actually a little scary, looking back on it; I was a complete geek and mostly what I thought about and talked about was God.

After a few years of traveling to see Kathryn Kuhlman (faith healer, duh!) and Oral Roberts (same; of Oral Roberts University fame….and well… that 900-foot Jesus he saw) and folks like that in and around Louisiana, we despaired of ever repenting enough or finding the right formula to get John David healed. His suffering opened up a whole new world of suffering that was all around me that I hadn’t seen. And as I became conscious of the vastness and indiscriminate nature of suffering, tough, intractable questions forced themselves upon me as I moved to college (a Southern Baptist college no less).

There, in that sedate, highly-controlled environment, one of the religion professors asked me a question that rocked my world. After a rather intense class session in which he and I were engaged in friendly combat, he took me aside and said, “Robert, do you believe that God is in control of all things?” “Of course,” I responded wholeheartedly, without reservation. He continued, “If you do, then how do you put together the control that God wields in every situation and the necessity of human freedom, if we are to make a free decision for salvation?” That one question detonated in my life with the force of a nuclear explosion.

I tried to reword the question but I couldn’t shake the logic: If God is in control, then we can’t be completely free to repent and ask Jesus into our hearts. And if we can’t be free to do that, if somehow God controls even that action of ours, then how can anyone be so responsible for their actions and sinfulness that they can be condemned to eternal damnation? How can human beings be held responsible by God if we do not have free will?

I stormed out of his office, and before I slammed the door in his face, I yelled, “You are wrong!” Within a week, I was back in his office apologizing and telling him that I had become an atheist. If my idea about God was wrong, then obviously God simply didn’t exist. If I remember correctly, the professor politely smiled and slowly shook his head, probably thinking, “this too shall pass.”

For the next year or so, I was a fervent atheist on that God-fearing campus, and I was eager to convert all my friends to my newfound religious antipathy. I must say that I did have some success, and those of like mind formed something of an anti-spiritual covenant group, in which several of us held each other up in logic and will, to stand firm against the evil Christian-mongers. We were the opposite of John Wesley’s Oxford club and their disciplined life of personal and social holiness. We were devoted, but not to godliness. Our theology was now atheology; our vision and hope for life was a sarcastic humanism.

After a while, I began noticing a profound depth to existence that I couldn’t deny. I felt a connectedness in nature, a presence beyond all presence, a feeling of infinite interiority and transcendence beyond the see-touch realm. I didn’t know what to call it – I certainly did not want to call it God – but I couldn’t deny its reality. It presented itself to me; I didn’t go looking for it and didn’t want to encounter it. But it found me.

This is the story of my awakening to a realm beyond my imagining, beyond what I can see or touch, beyond what I wanted to believe. Experiencing awe-inspiring transcendence and intimate immanence, I set out to explore my experience…and others’ experiences…and how others named the mysterium tremendum. I went to seminary to find out how to talk about it; I continued on to another Master’s degree to figure out how to act faithfully in light of it. But it wasn’t until I was in a doctoral program that I found a theology that fit, that named my experience and made sense of the world around me.

Probably I’m just denser than most others; maybe my schooling took me astray. But my long and circuitous journey into a theology that fit taught me a little about how theology happens and the difference a fitting theology makes. I’ve shared a little of my journey here. It would be fascinating to hear from others about their journey on the ocean of experience, directed by winds of human reflection, drifting into realms of confusion and clarity.

In the next few of my monthly blogs, I want to explore experiences and reflections on some key ideas for Christians: spirituality, incarnation, Trinity, ecclesial/church life, etc. Untold volumes have been written on each of these topics, and I am not one to write any more. But I suspect there are many folks who are looking beyond what they already think for a theology that helps them make sense of their complicated and confusing experience, of the vast world all around, and of that still, small voice who continues to beckon us beyond all everything we know. I don’t know if what I have to share will shed any light, but perhaps together we can discover a bit more of the light that is within and beyond us all.