9 posts tagged “faith”

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The end is the beginning is the end.

The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.
-- Mark Twain

It is fashionable today, among young and passionate Christians, to say that the church -- as an institution, as a ministry, as a place -- is doomed. There is a big difference within this camp between the Church and church. It is the latter, the uncapitalized locale in all its pitiful expiration, that represents the true problem for the members of this creed. The church has come to represent the last vestige of a dying day. The way we do church today, the logic goes, has nothing to say to the people of this world. The modern church, in short, has lost its value, and worse still, it has lost its use to both the saved and the wanting.

I have not subscribed to this reasoning, and at best, I find it suspect. The popularity of catchphrases like “we won't have 'church' in twenty years” or “God is not in a building” among young intellectuals in the Church only serves to muddle a very important debate. I believe it is vital to analyze what the church means in modern culture, what it has meant, and what it could mean in the future. Obviously, this is not the space to do something of that considerable length. What I will discuss here, though, are three relatively brief reasons why I do not believe the church is going anywhere any time soon. The church will remain a factor in Christianity precisely because it will retain its usefulness. In spite of the naysayers, what made the church important in the first place will ensure its constancy in the world of tomorrow, in a time of post-post-modernism or whatever novel philosophy to which the world might subscribe.

Reason #1: The church is global.

There is no use denying every criticism of the church as hopelessly illogical. Only an optimist of the delusional type would look at churches today and see a field of beautiful flowers lifting up their Creator. I still laugh hysterically (even as I cry inside) when I watch Sunday night BET. “Call and receive my Holy Prayer Handkerchief, and all your dreams will come true.” “Send my ministry a financial contribution, and God will open the storehouses of His blessing.” I have heard this kind of language on TV and witnessed it myself in churches here in San Antonio. As huge buildings are erected to the self-importance and perceived necessity of local ministries, it is difficult to not get angry and wonder where we're headed. But these aren't points I need to stress. John Piper has said the same (and more) much better than I ever could:

John Piper and the Prosperity Gospel

But deep within this clip is something you might have missed. It is certainly true that America is manufacturing a dangerous idea of church, a delusional approach to ministry that focuses on people and not the kingdom. But this is America. This is not the entire world. The funny thing about the people who blame American ministries for focusing only on themselves is that they commit the same sin. The idea that we are witnessing the end of the church is an American response to an American problem.

Allow me to elaborate. The young and the passionate who amplify the creed of a “no-church Church” have also come out of America. The Church they see has evolved past the need for an institution that is prone to focusing on the vanity of its human leaders and audience. These same thinkers cry out -- and rightfully so -- for a renewed focus on the world outside of America, but at the same time, they present a  solution to church that ignores the world around them. John Piper hits the nail on the head when he says that America is exporting an idea of Christianity that focuses on goods and on people instead of the Good and the Kingdom. But what good would it for Americans to export a very different idea, that the church is unnecessary and a thing of the past. What past would we be speaking of? Our past. But what about their past?

If we are to subscribe to the idea that the church is dead, we will have localized the Church. We will have committed the same sin as the vain preachers, only in a different way, toward the other end of the spectrum. Like the foolish leaders who erect “Landmarks  for Jesus,” we will have created an approach to Christianity that is only focused on our local problems. We will have prescribed an American solution to a global church. For millions of Christians outside of America, who number well above the swelling masses of the me-first West, the church is the future.

In places like India and Africa and Asia, the saved have not become disillusioned, as we have, from the onslaught of postmodernism. There is joy to be taken in this fact. There is a world outside of the gates of the West whose people long for something only the church can offer. And not the church of HD cameras. Not the church of three-piece suits. Not the church that takes offerings for the pastor's private jet (which I actually attended at one point in time). When these things become the focus of a church, we are right to criticize. But the church -- as an institution, as a ministry, as a place  -- still has something to offer the vast majority of the world.

Perhaps we have become too spoiled in our history. And perhaps the church will make changes. It should. But we cannot localize the Church because of our history. Regardless of which way we turn, we will be exporting an idea of church to the rest of the world. The utility of this idea -- as opposed to “host home” or “coffee shop meet-up” -- is priceless for places of poverty and war and desolation.

A correct response to this argument would be that in places like Africa, people only have the church because they need it. People will walk miles to a church because they don't have a choice. But how advanced do we really think a poverty-stricken community would be if they had no more meetings in an established gathering? What would a village be like if everyone had a Bible and didn't have to take the long walk to a church? Surely, this would solve all of the community's problems! I mean, I can't ever think of a time where I was involved in a Bible study where someone said something horribly misinformed or heretical! I can't ever recall a time where meeting with fellow Christians who thought exactly like me and lived in exactly the same area left me wanting interaction with people outside of the “circle!”

Sarcasm is often difficult to put into type, but hopefully you get my point. (I am laying it on pretty thick.) The church continues to represent the opportunity for people to come together from different areas, and this is true in the Third World and in America. Can churches become stale? Can they get to a point where all they do is scratch their own backs and pick their own pockets? Sure. I'd recommend a few places here in town, but I'm sure you already have some in mind. All of these places -- I find it difficult to call them “churches” proper -- should change or dissolve. But this does not end the discussion for all churches. I hate to use the trite adage that one bad apple does not spoil the bunch, but it bears mentioning in this discussion. To say something like “the church as we know it won't exist in twenty years” brings up useful questions. How do you “know it?” What church? Whose church? How we truthfully answer questions like these is unlikely to lead us to sound the clarion call for a future without church. It is because the church is global -- and not simply American -- that it will remain a fixture of Christianity.

A church in Africa.

Butterfly #1.

Psalm 104:24 (ESV)
O Lord, how manifold are your works!
In wisdom have you made them all;
the earth is full of your creatures.

Last week, the usual breakfast gang at La Bandera Molina was discussing a characteristically wide assortment of subjects. Though much of what we talked about could be called frivolous, if not harmlessly entertaining (sports, music, television, etc.), our conversation eventually turned toward more weighty thoughts. What is popular culture? How can and should Christians interact with it? What makes certain aspects of it so enjoyable?

A monkey of some kind.

Butterfly #2.

An alligator.

An okapi.

Butterfly, #3.

A capybara.

1 comment

Malachi and a butterfly, #1.

Malachi and a butterfly, #2.

Colossians 1:21-23 (ESV, emphasis added)
And you, who once were alienated and hostile in mind, doing evil deeds, he has now reconciled in his body of flesh by his death, in order to present you holy and blameless and above reproach before him, if indeed you continue in the faith, stable and steadfast, not shifting from the hope of the gospel that you heard, which has been proclaimed in all creation under heaven, and of which I, Paul, became a minister.

Jennifer and Malachi.

"No evil" / New creatures.

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*** 

Anyone can speak. Who will listen?

Thursdays and Fridays are my days for research work. I camp out in the Starbucks at UTSA, and I'll spend ten hours there, most of it spent looking up immigration statistics. Every day I'm in there, I'll watch as the people stand in the swelling line, waiting impatiently or just giving up and going to class. Sometimes I'll spot friends. Sometimes I'll say hello to a stranger. This Friday, I saw an old friend walk in, who I recognized from his visits to my old place of employment, a local Barnes & Noble. He saw me when he walked in and sat by me to study for a test. We talked for a while, and he asked if I was going off campus for some lunch. I said I was planning on it, so we decided to grab some Bill Miller's. All of this was uneventful, a surprising bit of spontaneity in an otherwise boring day. There was one small problem, though. For the life of me, I could not recall this guy's name.

I was pretty hungry and really didn't mind getting some food with a friend (or in this case, an acquaintance), so in spite of my forgetfulness, we went for some lunch in his truck. It was a bit awkward for me, but I did my best to mask it as we drove the five minutes or so from campus to barbecue stop. We ordered, I got the usual #4 (a BM trademark: fried chicken, perfectly brewed sweet tea, a superfluous roll, greasy fries, and cup of gravy), and we sat down toward the back of the surprisingly busy eatery. It was, like the day, turning into a non-event. We chatted about my old job, what he's doing now, and we ate some food. My friend's phone rang, and he paused to ask if he could take the call. I didn't mind, so while he talked, I looked around. Construction crew to my left, checking out the manager. Students to my left, laughing about a class. But right next to my table was something I didn't expect to impact me the way it did.

Directly to my left was a gentleman, probably in his mid-fifties. Hair thinning, wide-frame glasses, short-sleeved button up shirt, and eating alone. This in itself wasn't a big deal. There were other people eating alone, and on the other side of our table was a UTSA student eating by himself reading the newspaper. But the older gentleman to my right was not reading anything. He was totally alone. And he was talking to himself.

I don't know what it was about that moment in Bill Miller's, but my eyes kept glancing over at the man. It wasn't out of curiosity, either. I have seen many people talk to themselves. I do it on occasion when I'm working. My dad used to say that people sometimes talk to themselves because they want to have an intelligent conversation. I wondered if this was the case. But as I sat there, I felt a tug on my heart. I felt something looking at this man. Not pity. Not sadness in what appeared to be his loneliness. Neither was it pride. I was not happy to be there, talking to someone I was only hazily acquainted with. What I felt was a pull, a push, a nudge. I knew right then and there that I had to go over to the man and show him love. I just had to show him that somebody noticed him. Somebody cared.

But I didn't. I just sat there. My mind raced to think about all the ways I could do something for this man. Write “Jesus Loves You” on a napkin and give it to him. Shake his hand, ask how he is doing. But I didn't do a thing. I'd like to say I looked at him and at least smiled and nodded, but I did nothing of the sort. I was too embarrassed in front of someone I didn't really even know to go out of my way and answer a call that I knew I heard. It was one of those rare moments that you know means something, and I chose to do nothing. I let it pass.

The thing is, I should know better. Just the night before, I had one of the best experiences at a Bible study I've ever had. My “life group” was going over the last session of our study, and we went around the room telling each person why we valued their company, why we were thankful for their friendship. The one thing that every person said about me was that I had the ability to talk and open things up, to engage people in the kinds of conversations that make them feel really involved.

So there I was, sitting in Bill Miller's, with the opportunity to thank God for that ability while serving His glory. There really wasn't much of a difference between me and the man to my right. We both talk. We both have something to say. Seeing his lips move, engaging someone in conversation who wasn't there, I was sure I had to talk to him. Maybe he's talking to someone who was there and left. Maybe he's talking to someone who should be there and isn't. What I saw was a companion, another soul with a heart ready to open up, and I left him by the side of the road. If I have been blessed, it isn't really with the ability to talk. Anyone can talk. God has blessed me, above all, with an audience, with the courage or naivety to put myself out there and think people will listen. But what good is a gift if you avoid it? To what good are God's blessings if I hide them in the soil? And that's exactly what I did. I put them underground, kidding myself that I was doing the greater good by talking to this guy I had talked to dozens of times before and never thought it important enough to get his phone number to invite him to church.

I couldn't get the wasted opportunity out of my mind all weekend. It was on my mind Friday afternoon, when the college ministry had its “guys night.” It was on my mind the next morning when I picked up my fiance. It's still on my mind. I know God doesn't need me. If that lonely man needs to be reached, God will find a way. But I know what I need. I need God. I need His opportunities. I need His moments. I need His courage to answer those tugs, to grow into something other than a shy investor. I need His love to fill the holes in my callous heart.

If nothing else, this passing moment lingers with a purpose, and I will forever recall this painful memorial as a sign of how blatant God's calls can be and how real my shortcomings are. His opportunities will come, no matter how hard in our vaporous minds we may try to explain them away. Don't let those moments go without leaving you changed.

So we're doing this campaign at church where we share our "story" -- where we were before we came to know Christ, where we are now. I've been thinking about this a lot lately. I've heard the concept of the "journey" thrown around a lot. Some would say that when you speak to someone about your faith you should shy from doctrine, that really, the change in your life is about an ongoing experience not a single converting event. I'm not so sure.

I can still recall that awkward car ride to the airport on the morning of September 1, 2006 -- leaving home for the first time for an internship in DC, sitting in the backseat between my girlfriend and my mother at 4:30 in the morning. In the eight days before I packed my bags (and guitar), both of my grandmothers had been diagnosed with cancer. And I got a charming letter in the mail that the internship I was banking on declined to accept me for the Fall semester. My plans -- my plans -- had failed. I was supposed to have an amazing semester, graduate in the summer, and, some years later, get married. And all this was going to happen in front of a live audience that certainly included both of my grandmothers.

Terminal cancers were obviously not part of my plans.

So it seemed like a cruel joke when that letter arrived in the mail. I've been raised in church my whole life, and I've been undoubtedly blessed. So blessed, in fact, that I had not experienced the kinds of struggles with which many of my friends had grappled throughout my youth and young manhood. Divorce, death, poverty -- the only times these subjects left my lips were in prayers for other people. The summer of 2006 was a wake up call.

I was raised in the church, but sometimes that can be a struggle in itself when you allow it. I had pushed and pushed away from the church for so many years that I had lost that love in my life that comes with faith in the knowledge of His grace and purpose. And it wasn't out of rebellion or some newly acquired rejection of the idea of church. I had just become lazy. I came to take every blessing in my life for granted.

I don't believe in "revenge" lessons from God. I cannot earn His love, so by definition I cannot turn it away. But I do believe in purpose. In the four months I spent away from home, I learned a lot about time. A lot I would never have had to learn. I've always felt that a Christian who has not gone through suffering is an incomplete Christian. We are called to be imitators in all aspects of Christ's example. Love. Compassion. Suffering. That's why we count all trials joy. They are opportunities to live out our faith. On the job training, if you will.

But what comfort is that in the middle of your trials? I was emotionally exhausted on the plane rides to DC. But I couldn't sleep. I just put on my headphones and stared out the window. How small I felt as the ground shrunk below me. Death was in my future, and while it always was, I didn't want to understand why. I didn't want to wrap my head around the idea that living is a double-sided coin. Seasons govern the year. But what kind of plan was this, really?

I was still struggling with the idea when I landed in DC. I had just packed my bags into a van in the capitol when I got a somewhat desperate call from another internship asking if I could work. A small sign, but enlightening nonetheless. He would, of course, still be God if that call never came through. But my mindset began to change. No matter what happened that semester, I started to realize, I would be okay. God would still be here.

I have a best friend whose mother passed away last year days before Thanksgiving. The funeral was particularly awkward, recalling moments from the two funerals I had already been a part of in the year before. But I didn't force the issue, and I have not since. I remember what it was like to doubt. I still tear up driving by grandmother's porch. On my birthday next month, I'll still wake up waiting for my yearly phone call from Mamo. But God is still here.

And that's the biggest part of my story. Realizing that has changed my life. I'll never have to manipulate my best friend into coming to church or becoming a committed Christian because I have known -- at least partially -- his anguish. I remember the quiet of sitting with serious doubt as it festered, creeping into every nook and cranny of my mind, fighting with my heart. Yet all the while, God was still here. And that's what I tell him. God will still be here. We may never understand His purpose, but we can look around the picture of our lives and see the changes that emanate from the unexpected trials that He does send our way.

I don't know why my grandmothers passed away. But I do know that their passing -- met by both of those incredible women with a calm strength of spirit that will stay forever with me -- was the impetus to necessary changes in my walk. I am a different person now because of what happened. My faith is no longer background matter. My God is still here.

Hopefully some of that comes across in this overproduced YouTube video.

He rebuked the doubters. His followers told us to be prepared, to have answers. But these questions! So complex. So penetrating. So serious.

I've been raised in church my whole life. The idea of doubt was, at best, an afterthought. I didn't doubt because I could see God around me. I saw it in the happiness of my parents, in the unity of fellowship. But that was before Nietzsche. That was before Freud and Weber.

I'm in a class with four other people, discussing the beginnings of postmodernism, in all of its horrifyingly consistent lack of direction. All signs point away from God, from Christianity in particular, but these “truths” guide us to nowhere. A “method,” nothing more. That's what I'm told to make of Nietzsche. That's what I'm told to consider in Freud. But this is of course an oversimplification. For what purpose is another question? Perhaps my professor really does consider the material too dense for those of us who signed up for Modern Political Philosophy. But then again, maybe I'm considered too young to recognize the fact that every author lined up for this syllabus hates the idea of truth in absolutes.

Surely we could have read someone else this semester, somebody who appreciates certainty in general, not solely in their own elaborately drawn musings. Raymond Aron. Eric Voegelin. Pierre Manent. Yes, even Leo Strauss. The list goes on. But the class does not.

So I'm inundated with piece after piece, each one delivering a blow to the “gut” of my faith. It's a test, I'm convinced. But it's also something more. It's a chance for me to really see the challenge that others my age are facing. It's stimulating to read someone who disagrees with your entire frame of reference, who vehemently attacks the very foundation of your life. But it's also intellectually exhausting. I'm literally tired after reading Nietzsche, noting where I can the many ways he distorts the Bible, observing how his outsider's view remains that -- outside. But with each work, with each quotable passage, I feel doubt creep in. I feel myself acknowledge what I thought I'd never have to.

My faith is weak. It's small. It's based on a God whose size changes with my happiness. He's big when I'm happy, but he's small when I'm weak. His plans are promising when I start my new job. But His plans are cruel, directionless when I'm reminded of the suffering of a friend.

And I'm rebuked. My doubt makes me weaker, and Jesus knows this. He knows that it's one thing to question, another to desire no answers.

But this is typical of my generation, to seek and never find, to fully illustrate the thinker's pose and never acquire the thinker's pain. To “wrestle” with an issue is to understand victory. A match implies finality. But we are scared of truth. We are scared at the prospect of our limitations. What we fear most of all is the possibility of being right. There is a responsibility that comes with truth. That's what it means to have an answer for those who come to you. You have to know where someone is at to tell him where he should be.

So why are we afraid of truth? Why don't we pursue it when He is that truth? We have become content with letting Him be that truth, but we've made it a separate truth. We have avoided the difficult conversations involved with speaking truth, denying the Biblical imperative to spread that truth like wildfire. How is that different from denying him? William Buckley once said, “The purpose of an open mind is to close it, on certain subjects.” He noted, “If you don't, you've simply abdicated the responsibility to think.” We've done worse. We've abdicated that responsibility, to really know something, to be convicted by reality. But in the process, we've also avoided what to do with that truth.

“Private convictions” is a contradiction in terms. It's meaningless. And it defines where some would take our faith. A faith that's merely personal, that's always looking down and in, but never around and out, is not a faith. It's a uniform. It's a pose.

Doubt is the shield that covers this reality. Sure Nietzsche is difficult (and depressing, but a very capable writer, too). But he is also wrong. No matter how many times I read him, I am still haunted by the hopelessness of his idealism. And there is idealism in every page, up to the last statement in the Genealogy of Morals. He predicts an end to faith. Yet it lasts. And lasts. And lasts.

It is because I know this, because the recognition of the permanency of my faith convicts me, that I am obligated to stoke these flames in my heart. And not just on some blog post that nobody will read. But out here. Out there. Somewhere other than inside. There is a truth. There is a way. And it's a part of my life. I may doubt the direction, but I cannot stand still. That is why doubt is rebuked. It can never be a destination in itself, and when the journey becomes the goal, we have lost our conception of truth.

Doubt is not a place. It's a tangent.

Truth, though. That's home. And we have to move to get there.

***
[See James 1:6; Matthew 21:21; John 20:27.]

What are passions? How do we get them? Are they developed from exogenous forces that come from our environments, from places and things and situations we cannot change? Are they inspired by God? Or are they something we consciously form, something we create in ourselves?

I have struggled with this question in the wake of significant changes in a ministry I am affected by and in which I have a vested interest and commitment. A “season of change” -- to use a frustrating, but apt cliché -- has entered into the leadership, and people I feel closely connected to have left, citing an erosion of passion as the primary reason for their departure. With tears in their eyes and pain in their hearts, they spoke up in a meeting and let others know their justifiable frustrations, concerns, hopes, and ultimately, the decision to step down. As I left the meeting, I could not help but dwell on the concept of passion -- what it means, how it develops, where it comes from, how it grows, how and if it dies.

There are many angles from which we can consider the passions we have as individuals. They can come directly from God. They can come from our environment, out of our control. They can be something we create. Or, more likely, they can be a mixture of all three. If they come directly from God, there are questions to be asked. How large is our involvement in fostering those passions? Do some passions come for a season? If so, when do we know that the season is over?

I don't particularly like the environment argument, so I'll dismiss it outright. Situations are complex for all of us, but what we are passionate about is something that comes from God but is pursued by us. God uses our environment, our relationships, our struggles, our skills -- all of it -- to create an excitement about an area of ministry, work, school, or something else where we feel we can have an impact and allow God to work through us. But that word -- excitement -- seems misleading. Too often, I feel we attach passions to our feelings. We look at our situations and consider how we can use these passions to create solutions, foster growth, and lead. But nowhere in Jesus' example does His passion rest on solely excitement, on intense feelings of well-being, on happiness. Jesus sweat blood. He struggled with His purpose, His passion. At times it was not easy. It was not a smooth transition to sacrifice.

Admittedly, it is easy for me to sit and type these words, not having gone through the intense struggles and deep pains that the people who have left the ministry have experienced in the past few months. But regardless of this fact, I relate to their fears, their successes, their failures, and their pains through their passion. We worked in the same ministry. We reached the same people. We worshiped together. Why am I so fortunate to retain the great feelings of my passion for this ministry? Why, as they said, has God brought about a period where their passion has “died?”

On the other end of the spectrum are those who did not initially have a passion for our ministry. On the face of it, this seems unacceptable to many, particularly those under the passionless. But time seems to have “flipped” the scenario. Today, the passionless have been humbled, broken, and seem to have developed what they did not have earlier. How did this happen? How did passion develop where it did not exist before?

I believe that passion is something God inspires in all of us in different areas. But to deepen this idea, I also believe that it is something God inspires through the relationships we make with one another as believers and outwardly toward unbelievers. We watched a video at Amplify on Tuesday night about a ministry that provides food for homeless people -- lovingly referred to as “FHBs,” or “Fellow Human Beings.” The ministry gives a great example of how relationships can change passions by altering perceptions. The speaker in the video put it plainly (and I paraphrase, here). “It's easy to drive by someone and give them money. It's harder to come down and invest time into their lives.” I can't recall how often I've reached into my pocket and pulled out some loose change to give to a homeless person. At best, it cost me a soda that day. But when I speak to my parents about their mission trips to orphanages in Mexico, they can both recall in vivid detail -- and nearly twenty years later, in some cases -- the faces, the lives, and the places they impacted. My parents have had a passion for giving, but it only became real when they went down and made a relationship, invested time in someone's life, and spoke love into their lives. Passion is God inspired, but it is also something we have to work at on a daily basis. Relationships take careful consideration of feelings, but they also rely on the “tough love” challenges of close friends. They rely on open ears and open hearts and open eyes to deepen the calling that God has placed.

So if passions can develop by us being open to his calling, how then do they die? I still do not understand this. In truth, I may never know. But I do know that when we are most broken, when we are angered and hurting, there is a love that can cover all wounds, that can heal all relationships, that can change lives. There is a peace that passes all of our understanding, all of the inferior machinations of our futile attempts to comprehend His purpose for us.  For those who stayed for the meeting, there was no shaking the feeling that love did not govern over all that was said. We left and went our separate ways, and I'm sure we all found different ways to look fondly at what God has done and optimistically at what He will do next in the ministry. But we left without loving. We left without compassion. We left without a basic passion for each other, not as “leaders,” not as “ministers.” As friends. As Christians. As Fellow Human Beings. We all -- and I mean all -- left without a passion for love. Godly, forgiving, perfect love. I am saddened, deeply hurt, and struggling to understand how I stood by and did nothing to say what God had put on my heart.

In the days ahead, there will be many challenges for the ministry, including those who stay and those who leave, whoever they might be. But the great challenge is not to find replacements. It is not to find candidates. The challenge is to find a way back to the passion that united us all together as Christians. The challenge is, for those who leave and for those who stay and for those who come, to arrive at a place where what we do is founded on love. It is to reach a level of spiritual maturity where we can comprehend the struggles, downturns, and problems with communication that come from the relationships that evangelism requires.

These words come from someone who grapples with these issues on a daily basis. My personal life is fraught with errors in judgment, lack of communication, and a deficiency of outward manifestations of His love and forgiveness. But that is no excuse for silence. That is no excuse for a greater sin of omission. I apologize to all who attended for not taking the initiative on my part to express how I felt last night. I pray for everyone who attended and pray for guidance for the great decisions they now face. I pray that where there are Christian souls, there are open hearts and open ears, attentive to the direction God is leading them to, careful to take every step toward their passions with love. That love for one another, that heart of our faith is, in the end, the greatest passion of all, the one we share regardless of where we find ourselves today and expect to be tomorrow.

If you do nothing else after reading this post, look up 1 Corinthians 3. Read it slowly. Think it through. And pray about your passions.