The part that remains

For at least a dozen years, I have been telling a story that I remember from thirty years ago. I remembered it from before I ever called myself a Christian; before I came to belief in God; before I could even pretend to have faith.

I don't remember the details any more, and I've been asking questions of folks involved, and no one seems to remember them either. All I can tell you is that sometime in the late 1970's, two churches on Glendale Avenue in Toledo were torched on the same night, just about a week before Christmas. My memory is foggy, but I thought one congregation was east of Byrne Rd., and one was near Green Valley. One congregation's fellowship hall burned down; one church was a complete loss. Thousands of dollars of Christmas presents for needy kids were lost in the two conflagrations.

The memorable part, for me, was a TV news broadcast that occurred the day after the fire. One of the pastors was being interviewed by a TV news reporter about the effects of the fire, as they were standing in front of the wreckage of the church. The reporter asked, "How does it feel to know that your church has been destroyed, less than a week before Christmas?"

Unbelievably, the pastor smiled, and replied, "Oh, no - it's not as bad as that."

With a stunned look, the reporter glanced over his right shoulder at the still-smoking remains of the sanctuary, and then back to the pastor. The pastor, however, kept on smiling and said, "No, you don't understand...they destroyed the building, not the church. The church is what remains after your sanctuary has burned to the ground. "

I can't tell you why or how that idea stuck with me, but it has, for three decades.

The reason that story comes to mind is that probably dozens of Christian bloggers I know have published items in the last several months talking about searching for church communities and what "communities of faith" might/could look like. There are lots of people who are searching for what Michael W. Smith would call "their place in this world," and right now, I'm one of them, again/still.

I know that one thing that I believe true "faith communities" don't do is what my friend Natalie would call "worshiping the barn instead of the Savior." There are some congregations of which I've been a member who were more concerned with getting coffee stains on the narthex or sanctuary carpet than with welcoming strangers into the presence of faithful friends. In fact, those experiences have led me to believe that the more reverence a congregation puts on its building, the less impressed I am with 'em.

Which brings me back to the fire.

What I remembered, too, is that I've been a witness to several congregations whose buildings have been destroyed since that weekend. Living in Kansas, there are lots of stories of tornado damage - including one year-old building that was picked up whole by a tornado, and dropped exactly one foot off of its footings. The amazing part in all these stories was that "the part that remains" became only more enthused, more servant-oriented, and more engaged in the community. They took care of each other, but they took care of the community, too. I know that doesn't always happen; sometimes "the barn" is the last thing holding a shaky community together, and when the building goes, so does the church.

I do remember being a part of a church back in the mid-90's that had a problem. They had a long-standing dream of building a pipe-organ for their sanctuary - the choir loft had been designed especially for it when it was built years before, in fact. And the education wing needed upgrades, and an elevator. And they'd raised most of the money for the organ, and the worst-needed upgrades.

But then voices were raised that the pipe organ was an extravagance, and we'd be "worshiping the damn organ, eventually." There were lots of good arguments, pro and con - but it split the congregation, split the women's circles, you name it. Longtime friends were not speaking to each other over this thing - it was pretty bad.

One of the pro-organ people cornered me after worship one day, and asked me what I thought they should do. I hadn't learned a lot of tact and diplomacy at that point, and I didn't want to get involved, to be honest. But the poor soul kept pestering me, and so finally, I blurted out, "You wanna know what I think you should do? You wanna know what I think would solve all these problems?"

"Yes, of course I do! Tell me!"

"I think you should burn the damn sanctuary down."

"What?!?"

"YOU heard me! You people are so damned spoiled, you have no idea what a real problem IS! You've got most of a half-million dollars raised for your building - and you can't agree on how to spend it. Aww, poor babies! What a damn tragedy that is! You're so blinded by your riches, you can't SEE your blessings, and you're setting brother against brother and friend against friend over this thing. So just burn down the damn sanctuary - and then you'll know what real problems are!"

Needless to say, no one ever bothered me about the topic again.

So when I'm visiting your church, don't bother telling me about your beautiful building, or your wonderful sound system. Tell me about your prayer team; tell me about your community outreach. Tell me about how you are serving "the least of these" in according with Matthew 25. Tell me how you are building the kingdom of God, one soul at a time. That's the stuff I want to hear about.

But if you start talking about your beautiful barn/mauseleum, I might just suggest that you burn it down.

Dullness and dangerous wonder

There are very few times when I will abdicate this space to another author. But today, I am called beyond doubt to share with you the words of the late Mike Yaconelli - author, pastor, and founder of Zondervan's Youth Services. These few paragraphs hit my heart like none other in recent months.

These are not my words, though I wish I had written them. They echo the cry of my heart, however, and are a powerful cry out to the Church. Preach it, brother Mike:

The most critical issue facing Christians is not abortion, pornography, the disintegration of the family, moral absolutes, MTV, drugs, racism, sexuality, or school prayer.

The critical issue today is dullness.

We have lost our astonishment. The Good News is no longer good news, it is okay news. Christianity is no longer life-changing, it is life-enhancing. Jesus doesn't change people into wild-eyed radicals anymore, He changes them into "nice people."

If Christianity is about being nice, I'm not interested.

What happened to radical Christianity, the un-nice brand of Christianity that turned the world upside down? What happened to the category-smashing, life-threatening, anti-institutional gospel that spread through the first century like wildfire and was considered (by those in power) dangerous? What happened to the kind of Christians whose hearts were on fire, who had no fear, who spoke the truth no matter what the consequence, who made the world uncomfortable, who were willing to follow Jesus wherever he went? What happened to the kind of Christians who were filled with passion and gratitude, and who every day were unable to get over the grace of God?

I'm ready for a Christianity that "ruins" my life, that captures my heart and makes me uncomfortable. I want to be filled with an astonishment which is so captivating that I am considered wild and unpredictable and...well... dangerous. Yes, I want to be "dangerous" to a dull and boring religion. I want a faith that is considered "dangerous" by our predictable and monotonous culture.

A. W. Tozer said a long time ago, "Culture is putting out the light in men and women's souls." He was right. Dullness is more than a religious issue, it is a cultural issue. Our entire culture has become dull. Dullness is the absence of the light of our souls. Look around. We have lost the sparkle in our eyes, the passion in our marriages, the meaning in our work, the joy in our faith.
(Mike Yaconelli, Dangerous Wonder: The Adventure of Childlike Faith)

God of all creation, burn away the scales in our eyes, and on our hearts. Help us see the wonder and the astonishment of what you have given us - this day, and every single day. Let this wonder ignite our souls in ways both old and new. Restore us, renew us. Let your holy fire descend once again. Amen.

Unable to buy the insanity of church culture

Once again, my virtual friend [rhymes with kerouac] has hit a home run with a posting. It hit home, especially, because my friend and former pastor Joe Crowther (from Atonement Lutheran in Overland Park, KS) leaves today on a sabbatical to study "missional leadership." So I decided to share some struggles I'd had with church life and supposedly "missional" leadership in church. This is from my email to Joe:
---
...I really, really want you to take the time to read this powerful blog entry. (Make sure you read the comments as well - there are some powerful recognitions there.)

Now, here's why this is important...this quote from the post:

In the last few years I've been surprised at the number of mature, faith-filled Christ followers I've met who have stopped going to church altogether. All of them are simply unable to buy into the insanity of the church culture anymore.

Those lines hit home - because I'm afraid I'm becoming one of them.

Over the last several months, I have been struggling to attend a nearby Lutheran church. I mean, really, really struggling. I can find just about any excuse to not go to church - just about anything makes it OK to skip Sunday worship.

Now, I have to confess: if I should be having this feeling, it shouldn't be with this church. Because this isn't your everyday Lutheran church; this is not a congregation of "the frozen chosen." They have a mission; they have a mission statement; they have contemporary worship. They have been through a building program that transformed their "shotgun" sanctuary into a more welcoming "fan-style" worship center. The pews are gone, the movable seating is in. They have an outreach congregation specifically focused on people who don't want to go to church. It is, in short, everything that I was desperately searching for when I found Atonement; in fact, it is everything I wished Atonement was when I got to Atonement! On the surface, it's everything that I hoped a congregation that I pastored could have been.

And it leaves me cold.
And I don't know why.

You see, I need this "community" you talked about in your newsletter to the congregation. I need people to draw me in, to involve me, to welcome me. I need someplace where they know my name. Someplace where I am needed and wanted and able to make a difference. Some place where it would matter if I'm sick; where it would matter if I'm well. Someplace that would miss me if I died.

This place has that, seemingly. They have the energy; there are things happening there.

But somehow, I don't feel the invitation.

In the summer of 2000, when I (and the other members of the Faith Lutheran diaspora) landed on the shores at 99th and Metcalf, it might have been that things were broken and needy enough at Atonement Lutheran that we felt needed. There were things to do - places to fill, songs to sing, children's sermons to do, a class to teach, Alpha to start, etc...and there were places where a hand was needed. Maybe I don't perceive the need, here. Maybe what I'm feeling is that the expectation at this place is to sit down, do the worship drill, hand in the check, have some coffee, and leave. And maybe I want, or need, something more than that.

I actually wondered if I'd just forgotten how to be "just a member"? Had I, by virtue of being on worship teams and vision boards and leadership and church councils - not to mention two years at seminary - become so codependent that I only know how to be a part of an organization if it's in crisis? Had I somehow caught a bad case of Dudley Do-Right Syndrome - always starting off my membership with "I'll save you, Nell!" ?

I don't think that's it. Otherwise, I would have done that very same thing with my AA membership. I would have instantly leapt into saving all the newbies when the came in, and getting into the service organization (intergroup committees and the like). At AA meetings around the city, I feel welcome, I feel engaged and "a part of," so somehow it's different at church.

I also asked myself the other obvious question - am I feeling uncomfortable about going into a church now that I'm "out"? - but I really don't think it has anything to do with it. I don't get a homophobic vibe from this place. I don't feel the need to don a rainbow-flag patch and start demonstrating a' la "Queer Nation," shouting We're here, we're queer, get used to it! I believe I'm quite capable of confronting the church if the fact that I'm gay gets out - I understand my faith enough to do that. But I'm not going into this place as "a gay Christian." I'm just Steve, looking for a place to land. So I just don't find that it's an issue here.

I do know this: I'd really, really, really encourage you to pick up a copy of Take This Bread, by Sara Miles, and read it cover to cover. It takes a bit for her to get going - but every word is setting her up for an amazing conversion of an admitted church outsider.

You will find a story of an admittedly fringe liberal church who encounters someone who learned missional out in the world - who then heard the message of the communion table, and thought (somehow) that God really meant what he said. There are a whole bunch of folks who are hearing, in Sara Miles' expereince at St. Gregory's, the call of what they want to see the church look like. I know I am.

You're in my thoughts and prayers for a powerful, transforming time away, brother. May it be everything you've prayed for!

$3 worth of God, please

I would like to buy $3 worth of God, please, not enough to explode my soul or disturb my sleep, but just enough to equal a cup of warm milk or a snooze in the sunshine. I don’t want enough of him to make me love a black man or pick beets with a migrant. I want ecstasy, not transformation; I want warmth of the womb, not a new birth. I want a pound of the Eternal in a paper sack. I would like to buy $3 worth of God, please.

Source: Wilbur Rees, Leadership, Vol. 4, No. 1

I originally found this quote on Erin's Biscotti Brain, where she had gotten the hat-tip from Inward/Outward. I've seen this quote spring up a number of places since then, and it's evidently pricked a number of consciences of their respective readers. I'm not entirely sure why, but I have, perhaps, an inkling.

There is a medical term - prophylaxis - which (aside from the birth-control usage, which makes teenagers smirk) simply means preventative. If I step on a nail, I get a shot as a prophylactic for tetanus.

I think that many of us have had church training which presented church life - church membership, weekly worship, and other practices - as a prophylactic for Hell. Certainly I never saw my church life as "fire prevention," but more as "fire retardant." Especially in my youthful, legalistic (and wildly inaccurate) upbringing as a rule-bound Catholic, I saw everything I did - from crossing myself with holy water, to eating fish on Friday, to daily Mass, to weekly confession - as layers of fire retardant standing between me and Hell.

(I now know Catholicism differently, thankfully.)

I've come to see that somewhere between 50% and 90% of traditional American Christendom is precisely the same way. We want just enough God and just enough grace to qualify for the get-out-of-Hell-free card. I believe it's the reaction to this same minimalist idea of "$3 worth of God" that's driven every single act of renewal in the church - from the Protestant Reformation to the Wesleyan movement, to the Azusa Street revival, to Willow Creek and Saddleback, and the entire postmodern/emergent conversation.

Roaring over the mutterings of "$3 worth of God" religious minimalism is the sense of fully-on-fire, burning, sold-0ut faith. I've had that faith; I've lost it several times - and right now, I'm struggling back toward it.

I know that "on-fire" is where I want to be; not blazing and incinerating everyone around me - but burning brightly, letting "my light so shine before others that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven" (Matthew 5:17, NIV). I want my faith to be bigger than that prophylactic dose of grace and salvation. I want it not only because I know it feels better there, but because God calls me there, to be present there.

I can't speak for the others who have reacted to this quote as I have. But I suspect that they either see where they are, and want to be elsewhere - or see themselves where they were, and are grateful not to be there today. Or perhaps they see that their capacity for faith might well only hold $3 worth of God today, and they see the need to open wider, to grow in capacity for faith.

That, I hope, is where I am today - a large man with a small capacity for grace, seeking to be stretched and opened wider (in a spiritual sense only, please - I'm wide enough otherwise). I can hope, anyway...

Maybe it's time to try something different...

One of the few real gifts I have been given, over the years, has been to be surrounded by young people - both in church and in recovery - who want to both talk and listen. And when I can listen with even a mustard-seed's worth of humility, some amazing awakenings can happen...like tonight. Grab a cup of coffee and brace yourself, though - this one's gonna go a while...

Really, though, it's all Kyle Wetherald's fault. A young man from nearby Bluffton, Ohio, he found his way here, and left a comment here on an earlier post, and his profile led me to this great post of his. And he got me thinking - and you know where that gets me...

Kyle wrote as if he'd been reading my mail. His words echo every plaintive cry for church renewal I've listened to (or been a part of) for 15 years. Whether you listen to Brian McLaren and the Emergent folks, the folks at Relevant magazine, Youth Services, or if you listen to some of my heroes of faith, you'll see a thousand different attempts to change "the church." But while there are isolated successes, there are still people like Kyle (and like me) who keep asking the same questions:

What if church wasn't the Pastor Tim show? What if Church was more like the Bible study on Wednesday night (which is very sparsely attended), where people were actually engaged in their spiritual journey and not just going to church on Sunday because that's what you do...

What if it was okay if someone missed Corporate Worship one week because they were living a Christ centered life and offering love to their neighbor in need?

What if we were actually able to see that we don't go to church to meet God? God was there before too. God is in the parking lot. God is in the bars. God is in the workplace. What if we were able to connect our spiritual life with our physical life because thats where church was?

What if? What if? What if?

I could go on all night.

So could I, Kyle. Thank you for putting into words what I've been struggling with ever since I became a Christian.

I have come to believe this, though: Mennonite, Lutheran, Methodist, Catholic, Baptist - we all stumble around the edges of the mystery, Kyle. Some get closer than others. And many faithful, dedicated pastors (including yours) are trying to make things better - mostly within their context, but some with radical changes, which can bring their own problems. We try, through a thousand variations of speaking, music, Scripture, and all kinds of stuff (from multimedia to drama to lectio divina) to convey the unbelievable and unfathomable love of God in 60 or (God forgive us) 90 minutes. And then we wonder why we fail...

We fighting against the inertia of seventeen hundred years of Christendom (organized Christian religion approved by the authority figures of the times) weighing us down - and we wonder why we aren't making progress. So much of what "church" is today is based on what grew out of Emperor Constantine's conversion in 312 AD, and the building of the institutional church as a castle of righteousness, rather than as a M*A*S*H hospital for sinners.

But somehow, despite all the brokenness of the church, I managed to find God's presence. So as I read Kyle's comments, I had to ask : what did I do - what did God do in me - to help me get it? What were the parts that worked? So I looked at the three different faith communities in which I grew up - and how each one of them had a part in forming and re-forming my faith. It's helpful to see how each one synergized with the others...

The first one was the community of recovery - the 12 step world of AA. Immediately following that was a group of Lutherans - both a group of 20- and 30-somethings and another group of "mature" folks in several congregations in Shawnee Mission, Kansas, who wrapped themselves around me and mentored me in Christian faith. And the last one was a marvelous project called the Alpha Program, with which I am still in love (even though they wouldn't like me very much if they knew the truth about me...)

The heart of my awakening tonight is this: I am coming to believe that it is a loving, caring, accepting community that builds faith. Not worship (and the endless worship wars over various stylistic aspects of it). Not liturgy, or the lack thereof. Not sermons. Not architecture or symbols or icons or salvific theology. All of that helps, but in the end, it will count for nothing. Though conservative Christians will whimper in pain when I say the words, they are still true: it really does take a village. But it took some time to figure out where I'd figured that out from...

In the AA tradition I came from, we were encouraged to attend lots of AA meetings. And there, I found absolute, unconditional acceptance. It didn't matter what laws I'd broken; who or what I had (or had not) slept with; what I looked like, where I lived. None of that mattered. The question was: Do you want to stay sober today? Just for today? Yes? Then welcome. You're welcome here. And the more I came around, the more acceptance and welcome I found.

Then I got introduced to "the three-meeting meeting." The wise-o's in recovery would say stuff like this:

Steve, every time you go to an AA meeting, there are three meetings. There is "the meeting before the meeting," where people get together, meet, and spend time setting up chair and tables, making coffee and stuff. Then there's "the meeting," where people don't tell you what you should do; they tell you what they did, and how it worked for them. (It's called "sharing experience, strength and hope," rather than giving unsolicited advice.) And then there's "the meeting after the meeting," when people clean up, go out for coffee, and continue the fellowship. At "the meeting after the meeting," our primary purpose is to show folks that we don't bite. Make sure you go to all three meetings, Steve...

Strangely enough, I found this group of "young adults" at my first church who did the exact same thing. We met before church, had coffee and talked and sang and prayed together. They put up with my vulgarity, my theological stupidities, and my endless questions. They told me about how to buy my first Bible. And they showed me that you didn't need to be a Bible-wiz in order to go to a Bible study. They invited me into their community, then to be a part of their worship, and before long I was drawn in by the welcome and acceptance they shared. God's hands and feet were at the ends of their arms and legs...

And then, months after I left my first Kansas congregation, I was introduced to the Alpha program. And gee, can you imagine? What was at the heart of Alpha? Well, it was just like my other successful faith experiences:

- It was specifically designed for people who were unchurched. If you were willing to make a commitment to come, you were welcome. No theological litmus test. Heretics and apostates welcome.

- It followed the "three-meetings" rule almost to the letter. Every Alpha session started with a meal, and the #1 rule at the meal was: no church talk. The goal was to make people feel welcome.

- Every effort was to make the hosts (the church folks) as normal and everyday and inclusive as could be. Then there was a presentation - either video or in person - about some question of faith. There was humor, pathos, and honesty.

- And then there was the meeting afterwards - discussion groups where the stated rule was "no question too heretical to be asked, or answered."

In recent years, the Alpha Program and their founder, Nicky Gumbel have become associated more centrally with the folks who "love the sinner but hate the sin" when it comes to gay/lesbian issues, so if I ever went to an Alpha session, I'd more likely be an "outsider" rather than a member of "the faithful." But it was still a blessing - to me, an Alpha program was a sign that a church had a heart for outsiders. It might be fun to see how Alpha is working in the Buckeye state...even as an apostate...

Ten years ago, I was blessed to read one of the most amazing (and under-appreciated) texts ever put out by Augsburg Fortress: What NeXt? Connecting Your Congregation to Generation X. Though it's 8 years old at this point, it's still an amazing text (and video) on looking at church differently. (Augsburg is just about to remainder all these books, it seems. At $6.30 for the book and video, they're cheap at the price.) It spawned a conference at Lutheran Church of Hope in 2000 which was a big deal for me...

I read and heard Pam Fickenscher (the original pastor at Spirit Garage in Minneapolis) speak there, and later read her article in the book and in this article about the founding of this amazing satellite church. Over and over, I heard this message: unchurched folks are not going to come in the front door of your church. For years, Spirit Garage's new members came from Habitat for Humanity projects, food drives, work at homeless shelters, and the like. They came because they found a place where they could meet Christians, outside of church, and found that this particular group was pretty non-toxic, after all.

Needless to say, given some of the changes I've come through, I've been searching far and wide for "non-toxic Christians." And then there have been times when I didn't even want to look, to be honest. Getting back into a traditional (or quasi-traditional) congregation and fighting the same old battles has as much appeal as a traffic accident for me. I keep wishing that there was something more.

For decades now, my own denomination-of-record has believed in the power of bricks and mortar. It's been a kind of Field of Dreams syndrome: build it, and they will come. But so far, that has meant thousands of near-empty congregations, who'd rather die than switch or change.

Kyle, I think there's hope. But I think the hope is with you, and people like you, who are willing to step out of the box that we've allowed to hide the church and God. Keep asking the questions; keep questioning the answers. And thanks for sparking this extended rant. It's been coming for a while...