Furniture and Faith

First story: A few years ago, we got a flat screen TV. That meant our old entertainment unit, with its deep, square TV opening had to go.

At first, we thought we'd sell it. We quickly found out there was no market for old entertainment units. 

In fact, you couldn’t give them away. (We tried.) Even thrift stores didn’t want them.

So out into the backyard it went. A few swings of an axe and it was nothing but pieces of wood on the ground.

Second story: We have a buffet and hutch. (It was the kind of thing every newly married couple needed after the wedding.)

It contains our china, wine glasses, special dinner plates, some awards and mementos.

We asked our kids if they wanted it when we move. Their answer (paraphrased): “Are you kidding? No way.”

Why not? Not because it isn’t a nice piece of furniture. It just doesn’t fit their lifestyle. 

Like others of their generation, they will likely move a lot and live in smaller places. Plus, they likely won’t be collecting china or knickknacks.

What does this have to do with faith?

Organized religion today is like our old entertainment unit and buffet and hutch.

Like the entertainment unit, parts of organized religion are becoming outmoded and unnecessary today. 

For a long time, it served well. But it no longer meets current needs. 

This could include things like traditional forms of membership, Sunday morning services, putting money in an offering plate, and sermons (long expository ones, at least).

It’s also different ways of accessing information about faith.

As John Seel noted in his book the New Copernicans, which talks about the ways millennials are changing Christianity in North America, many younger people today reject analytical and propositional ways of seeing faith.

Instead, they are more intuitive and imaginative, preferring story over exposition.

They also reject a binary approach where things are true/false or right/wrong. In it's playce they have a more exploratory, non-judgmental and inclusive approach to faith.

Like our buffet and hutch, the way church is done today represents a heavy, bulky and hard-to-move form of faith.

Intellectually and spiritually, younger people are more mobile, venturesome and lighter on their feet. 

An old type of faith that is fixed in place (spiritually, doctrinally and physically in church buildings) just doesn’t suit their lifestyle.

To be clear: this doesn’t mean there is anything inherently wrong with the way faith has been done for so long—just as there was nothing wrong with the entertainment unit or buffet and hutch.

In their time and place, they served useful purposes. Those purposes just aren’t needed any more.

All this reminds me of what Phyllis Tickle wrote about in her book The Great Emergence: How Christianity is Changing and Why. 

In it, she wondered if the time hadn’t come for reform in western Christianity, similar to what happened during the Great Reformation of 1517.

Tickle posited that every 500 years the church has a garage sale—a time of upheaval and transition when it gets rid of things it no longer needs.

The last garage sale, she said, was the Great Reformation. If her idea is true, we are due for another reformation today.

Just like out old entertainment unit and buffet and hutch have come to the end of their usefulness, maybe the same can be said of organized religion.

Time, as they say, will tell.

The Conservative Party and the election, or does God want Christians to get ahead, make more money and neglect the poor?

Imagine your minister got up into the pulpit one Sunday and said the topic of the sermon was how you can get ahead in life and make more money.   

And to help you get more money, the minister said you should stop donating so much to international relief and development organizations so you could keep more money your own use.

You know, for things like going to Timmies or Starbucks more often, to treat yourself to more meals out at restaurants, or for other personal indulgences.

If you heard your minister say something like that, what would you think?

First, you might check to make sure you hadn’t wandered into the wrong church, one that preaches the prosperity gospel.

Second, you might ask yourself: “Get ahead of who? The person beside me in the pew? My neighbour? And whatever happened to the Bible’s command to put others first?”

Third, you would check the Bible to see if the verses about the dangers of money, helping the poor and sacrificial love had been removed while you weren’t looking. 

Did the parable of the Good Samaritan get cut out, or was it changed to the “Man who looked after his own first and got rewarded for it"?

If none of that happened—you were in the right church, and the Bible hadn’t been changed—the next thing to happen might be a call to vote about the future of the pastor.

After all, how could someone so obviously out of touch with the Bible, and the basis tenents of Christian faith, be allowed to keep his or her job? 

What’s true for Christian ministers is also true for the Conservative Party and for leader Andrew Scheer in this election. 

The platform this time around has been framed as “it’s time for you to get ahead.”

Scheer speaks in ads and speeches about his goal to put “more money in your pocket.”

One way he has proposed to do that is by cutting foreign aid by 25%.

He would take the money diverted from programs that help the needy to provide tax cuts and tax credits for Canadians—people who live in one of the wealthiest countries on the planet.

This platform should be troubling for anyone who believes the Bible teaches Christians to put others first, help the needy, and to store up riches in heaven (not on earth).

Yes, but some will argue: What about abortion? All the other parties are pro-choice. What's a certain kind of Christian to do?

It's true. But the problem with this argument is it overlooks the fact the Conservatives have promised they won’t reopen that debate, either—something Scheer has made clear multiple times when asked.

And as John Stackhouse, a professor at Crandall University in Moncton has noted in a post titled "Should we vote pro-life in this election," being anti-abortion is a weak way to decide who to vote for.

“I see no reason to believe that a vote determined by anti-abortion hopes is anything other than wasted,” he said.

“Yes, electing a few more prolife candidates will make a little more noise, but without political will, there’s no way they’ll make a difference. And without a political sea change there won’t be that will.”

Of course, being pro-life in all areas is important. But that includes seeking the welfare of others, inside and outside the womb, and inside and outside of Canada. 

I'm not suggesting the Conservatives worse for Christians than other parties. They all have flaws, failures, and skeletons in their closets. Each party presents problems for Christians when it comes to voting, one way or the other.

All I'm saying is this time around, conservative Christians—who, as research shows, tend to vote Conservative—have a new challenge this election when it comes to casting a ballot. 

What do they do with a party that challenges the very bedrock of their Christian faith? 

One that says the opposite of what the Bible says about Christians needing to put others first, about not making money the goal of life, and not neglecting the needs of the poor? 

It's going to be an interesting election for some people. 

Trump and God, or Why do so many American Christians Support this President?

Why do so many American Christians—especially evangelicals—support President Trump? That’s a question that has puzzled me for some time.

One common answer is hatred of Hillary Clinton. Some evangelicals say they didn’t vote for Trump; they voted against Clinton. However, this doesn’t explain the high level of support he continues to receive (about 70%) now that the election is over.

Another answer is abortion, and a chance for a Republican president to swing the Supreme Court to the right—and perhaps overturn Roe vs. Wade. There is truth in that.

Other suggestions include the belief that God ordained for Trump to win. In this view, he’s a modern King Cyrus, a non-believing and deeply-flawed king who, according to the book of Isaiah, was used by God for his purposes.

Then there’s the fact that Trump promised to stand up for them—no small thing for a group of people (evangelicals) who feel they are a persecuted minority in the U.S. today.

There is a ring of truth to all these things. But I’d like to suggest another: For many of these more right-wing Christians, Trump is like the God they believe in.

For fundamentalist Christians in particular, and for some evangelicals, God is not some wishy-washy progressive liberal who changes his mind, accepts and loves everyone—even if they are gay—and unequivocally extends the hand of peace and forgiveness to any and all. (Like Obama.)

Instead, for many of them God is a fierce warrior king who fights. He has power, and he isn’t afraid to use it.

He’s a God of right and wrong, black and white, with me or against me—no middle ground. There is only one right way, and everyone needs to follow it.

He’s a God of rules. There are commandments and laws that must be followed. Unless he breaks his own rules; he can do that. After all, he’s God.

He’s a God who can’t be contained or restrained. Human reasoning, ideas and rules don’t apply to him. He will do what he wants, when he wants, and how he wants.

He’s a God who judges. Yes, he extends mercy—but only to those who accept him and his ways. Those who don’t are cast away.

He’s a God who punishes and isn’t afraid to do it. He doesn’t want to, but what choice does he have if people won’t accept his truth and ways?

He’s a God of absolutes. There is no equivocation in him. 

He’s a God who brooks no dissent or doubts. Dissenters and doubters are not allowed. Only true believers will gain the inner sanctum and blessing.

He’s a God with a temper; don’t anger him!

He’s a God who chooses and takes sides. He isn’t afraid to make enemies. He knows he is right.

He’s a God who demands obedience and true faith. No doubts allowed!

He’s a God who is mysterious and unfathomable. The things he says and does can seem incongruous and inconsistent, but that’s just because as mere mortals we can’t understand or comprehend his ways. He has a plan; we just don’t see it. We need to trust in his divine providence. He knows what he is doing, and ultimately it is for our best. (Even if it sometimes seems crazy.)

He’s a God like Trump, in other words. Or, better put, Trump is a president like this kind of God. Don’t believe me? Put the word “president” in the lines above where it says “God” and see what it looks like. 

Scary, isn’t it?

Of course, this is a bit of a stretch. And if you posed this to Christian Trump supporters, they would discount it. But there seems to be a kernel of truth in it. Or, at least, a sense of theological familiarity and resonance.

(By-the-way, this was the kind of God I grew up with. I'm just sharing the way God was presented to me.)

After the Killings in Christchurch, What Can I Say?

In the wake of the terrible murders of 50 Muslim worshipers in Christchurch, New Zealand, I've been thinking and wondering: What can I say?

I realize that when it comes to things like Islamaphobia and anti-Semitism, or hatred of other minorities, I have little to offer.

Sure, I can condemn and be angered by those things. But as a Canadian Christian, I have no personal experience with persecution, discrimination, violence, fear or exclusion because of my religion.

I don’t worry about how I might be viewed or treated for what I wear or believe, or the colour of my skin, or being lumped together with those who commit acts of terrorism because they claim to be part of the same faith.  

I don’t have to worry about whether or not my religion is acceptable or “Canadian” enough. 

Canadian society—as secular as it is—is set up to accommodate my beliefs, even giving me days off on Sundays and for special Christian religious observances like Christmas and Good Friday.

I don’t know what it’s like to worry that a gunman might attack my place of worship, as happened in Christchurch to Muslims, in Pittsburgh to Jews, and in Charlotte to African-Americans.

I never think about needing guards when I go to church, like Muslims and Jews often need to do. 

I don't worry my church will be vandalized at night.

I don’t walk down the street wondering if someone will shout at me to “go home.”

These things are simply not part of my life.

So when a mosque or synagogue or gurdwara is attacked, I am alarmed, angered and concerned.

But since it doesn’t affect me personally, I’m not sure what to do or say.

  

So after Christchurch—after all these things—what can I do?

As it happened, the day after the attack I was at a conference about combating hate organized by the local Muslim community.

When asked what non-Muslims could do, amidst the tears they said we should pray, listen, and acknowledge their pain, fear and anguish.

They also said not to be too quick to look for answers or try to find meaning in the attack—if any meaning can ever be found.

Wait a bit, they said. Now is a time for mourning. Later we can talk about the why.

Those are things I can do.

But I will do other things, too. Personal things, commitments I have made and will continue to make.

I won’t laugh at jokes about Muslims, Jews, or other minorities.

I won’t let racist, hurtful and hateful comments about those groups go unchallenged.

I also won’t vote for politicians who play on fears of “the other,” who used coded words and phrases like “Canadian values” to garner support, who stoke anxiety about immigration as a way to be elected, or who associate with people who speak and act that way—and fail to disavow them when they say hateful things.

To be honest, these things don't feel like much in the face of what happened in New Zealand. 

But maybe it’s enough for now.

Later, when the tears have dried, we can talk about ways to move forward together.

But for now, all I can say to my Muslim friends is: I am with you. I am listening. I am grieving. I will do my part to push back against hate.

And you can count on me.

About Responsive Readings, or Repeat After Me: Moo!

A couple of months ago I came across this Unitarian Universalist meme about responsive readings. (See above.)

Leader: You don’t like responsive readings.

Congregation: We don’t like responsive readings.

Leader: Responsive readings run contrary to everything you believe in as a Unitarian Universalist, because of instead of formulating your own thoughts and opinions in your own unique way, you simply repeat words I have chosen for you.

Congregation: Like a store-bought greeting card, responsive readings sap us of the ability to choose the words and expressions that we ourselves would have chosen.

The “responsive reading” went on to poke fun at what a leader could make a congregation do—moo like a cow or bleat like a sheep.

It ended this way:

Leader: Repeat after me: I will never, ever mindlessly repeat words that someone else has chosen for me.

Congregation: I will never, ever mindlessly repeat words that someone else has chosen for me.

I thought about that meme because there was a responsive reading at a church I was at today.

As these things go, it was OK. It asked us to be careful about the things we do and say.

Although it’s a sentiment I can agree with, I didn’t participate. I almost never do.

Why? Because before I start reading the words out loud, I need to know if I agree with them or not.

Sometimes, I don’t agree. Then I am unwilling to publically proclaim an intention I don’t intend to follow through on.

To lie, in other words.

Oh, come on now, some might be saying. It’s just a harmless exercise. Like the sermon, most people won’t remember what they said five minutes after it’s over.

Maybe. But it’s still mighty presumptuous of someone to think they know what I want or need to say to God, or to others in the church.

Speaking just for myself, I think responsive readings need to go. They reflect what the leader, pastor or worship planner wants to say, but not necessarily what I want to say—or others in the congregation.

(This doubly true for confessions; how can anyone know what I need to confess?)

If churches insist on doing them, maybe they need to give the congregation five minutes to read the words quietly, and then decide if they want to say them out loud.

To be clear, this is not an issue for liturgical churches. This is mostly an evangelical thing. The historic creeds are OK by me. They've been theologically vetted and have decades of use and reflection. 

Plus, they are familiar. I know what they say, and have had time to think about the implications of saying them.

But for all you other pastors and worship leaders, repeat after me:

Leader: You will do no more responsive readings.

All: We will do no more responsive readings.

Leader: Unless you give people time ahead of the service to read it, or make it part of the ongoing and familiar liturgy of the church.

All: Unless we give people time ahead of the service to read it, or make it part of the ongoing and familiar liturgy of the church.

Leader: Also, moo like a cow.

All: Moo!

About the Church: Divine or Human Institution?

A Catholic friend recently sent me a link to an article about the church—the Catholic Church, in this case—in which the writer asserted two things.

First, from a Christian point of view, the church “is the only refuge and sanctuary in a world of darkness and sin.”

Second, that the church is “not a human institution.”

My friend asked me what I thought about the article. Here’s what I told him.

I started by thanking him for the query; I have been meaning for some time to work through my ideas about the church—be that Protestant, Catholic or anything in-between.

I told my friend that the author was right on the first point: For Christians the church is a refuge and a sanctuary.

On the second point, he’s wrong, I said. The church, as it has been known it for over 2,000 years, is obviously a human institution.

It was made by people, for people, and reflects the ideas, politics, cultures and history of those who made the various expressions of what we call “church.”

But wait, you say—what about the words of Jesus in Matthew? You know, the ones where he says to Peter “On this rock I will build my church”?

Well, since you raised it (!), let’s take a look at that passage.

As it turns out, there are only two times in the Bible when we read that Jesus used the word “church.”

Both are in Matthew. The passage above from 16:18 and “tell it to the church” (18:17).

In both cases, we have no idea what word Jesus actually used in those verses. 

He most certainly didn’t use the word “church,” since that’s an English word—and as we all know, Jesus didn’t speak English!

Jesus spoke Aramaic, and Matthew is written in Greek. What scholars believe is that Matthew, writing down what others said Jesus had said, used the Greek word “ekklesia” as the best way to interpret what people said Jesus had said in Aramaic.

(Why do I keep saying “what Jesus had said”? Because Matthew was written 50-80 years after Jesus was crucified and resurrected. At best, he is getting his information second or third hand.)

Ekklesia, the word Matthew used, means “the people” or “the assembly.” (It also has a meaning suggesting to be called out of and into a new group of people.) 

Over time, we have come to interpret that word as “the church” or “the congregation.”

As I understand it—and I’m no biblical scholar!—ekklesia means a group of people coming together for a common cause or towards a common goal.

For that group of people to have maximum impact and influence, and to pay the bills (rent, pastor, etc.), it needs to be organized, to become an institution.

And that is done by people.

In other words, what we call the church today is far from what Jesus would have imagined, although he certainly would have understood how the synagogue and temple operated, along with all their internal politics, power struggles and disputes over doctrine and practice.

Which isn’t to say that the church isn’t real, or that God doesn’t use it. It’s just that the forms given to it over time are human constructs—and often very imperfect at that.

The Catholic Church is a good example of this.

Often, when I observe what happens in the Vatican, I get an idea of what a monarchy would have looked like in the middle ages, what with an absolute ruler, edicts, total control over the fate of its citizens, and its court. (Cardinals are called the “princes of the church,” after all).

It even has its own army!

At the end of the day, for me the church is a mystery. It is both human and divine, although all too often the divine part is easily lost in the squabbles, fighting, arguments and occasional criminality. 

I like how Frederick Buechner describes the church in his book Wishful Thinking:

“The visible church is all the people who get together from time to time in God's name. Anybody can find out who they are by going to church to look.

“The invisible church is all the people God uses for his hands and feet in this world. Nobody can find out who they are except God.

“Think of them as two circles. The optimist says they are concentric. The cynic says they don't even touch. The realist says they occasionally overlap.”

He also said the church is like Noah’s Ark: If it wasn’t for the storm outside you wouldn’t be able to stand the stink inside. But we can leave that for another day!