I am a lousy evangelist.
Which is puzzling to me. I have always liked talking about God and spiritual life to people who are not believers. I trained under two different evangelists with solid reputations–Roy Naden and Harry Robinson. My church attracts non-Christians.
Still, by any objective (i.e. numeric) measure, I’m a lousy evangelist. Sometimes it eats at me. When I attend Adventist clergy meetings, I am constantly reminded that Jesus commissioned us to go into all the world making disciples, teaching and baptizing. Baptisms are the easiest part of this process to count. And by that measure, I’m a failure as a minister.
But in my own head, I’m starting to push back. Counting baptisms is an appropriate measure of one’s effectiveness as an evangelist. However, ministry is more than evangelism.
Among my friends are an obstetrician, a hospice doctor, an ER doc or two, an allergist, an anesthesiologist and a surgeon. It has never occurred to me to criticize the hospice or ER guys or the surgeon or allergist because they are ineffective in increasing the population. Maybe the ER guys have attended a birth or two “by accident.” The hospice doctor probably did deliveries in his “other life” when he was a family practice doc in a small town. Still, if you added together all the deliveries done by my physician friends who are not obstetricians, their numbers would not match the total of the single OB. (The surgeon, a woman, called my wife, an OB nurse, for advice when her cat was giving birth.)
On the other hand, I did not call my OB friend for advice when my son had a sudden onset of pain in his groin hours before he was to get on a plane to Asia. I do not consult the obstetrician when I want help understanding the needs of parishioners who are dealing with their parent’s Alzheimer’s or their children’s asthma.
In short, I value the special effectiveness of the different specialities in medicine. It would be a sad world that had specialists only for birth.
It’s the same in ministry. “Perinatal care”–evangelism and the instruction and assimilation of new believers–is an indispensable specialty in the church. So is sports medicine, psychiatry and gerontology–the care of people who have damaged themselves through misapplied zeal, those who struggle with mental health and spirituality and those facing the unique spiritual challenges of maturing.
It is highly unusual for someone to be both a highly effective evangelist and a highly effective pastor for life-long, middle-aged male believers–especially if those male believers are educated.
I’m a gerontologist. The most notable impact of my ministry is among middle-aged males–men who have been alienated from church for years, sometimes decades. This ministry does not lead to baptisms. Most of these men were baptized as young people. Most were never removed from the church rolls. They were just gone. Now they are back.
Not bad.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Holy Man
Recently a pastor friend told me he saw me as a holy man and meant it as a compliment not a joke. The context of his remark was a conversation he had had with someone else who was complaining about some of my ideas. (And certainly some of my ideas are, shall we say, not mainstream.) He said he had told the person, “John is a holy man.” Then he reiterated it to me, “I see you as a holy man. I really mean that.”
His statement set me back on my heals. Me? A holy man? Whoa. What does that mean?
I don’t consciously “pose” as a holy man, but for at least a decade it has been my conscious goal to be a holy man. It seems to me the most important ambition for any clergy person. If I am a holy man, in fact or even merely in the eyes of others, what obligation does this impose? How do I avoid rank hypocrisy?
It is almost comic to think of how deeply conflicted my own faith and spiritual life are. I carry in my own soul the unanswered questions of truck drivers, physicians, scientists, seekers, and agnostics–most of them men. The same people who sit down at 11:00 on Sabbath mornings and look at me expecting to hear something believable about God.
I was called by God. I know that. God is good; the purpose of life is love; making beauty is better than making ugly. On good days, I know that, too, but not much more. Still, I have a job. And since I am called (not merely employed), I somewhat boldly stand and speak for God, flattered by the honor my audience confers by listening, grateful for their support in my calling.
I am carried by the very people who see me as a holy man. My religion and spiritual life are utterly dependent on the church. I preach their Bible (not the Bible of the academy). I do the work they give me. I live on the income they provide. I serve the God they know better than I do.
What do they expect in return? That their holy man speaks well of God. That I voice their faith–both the faith they possess and the faith they aspire to–a faith, that somehow, in spite of my defects, doubts and failures, I embody. What an honor. What a daunting responsibility.
Except for their confidence, it would be a joke. Maybe it really is a joke. A happy one. God using a buffoon for some grand and glorious purpose.
His statement set me back on my heals. Me? A holy man? Whoa. What does that mean?
I don’t consciously “pose” as a holy man, but for at least a decade it has been my conscious goal to be a holy man. It seems to me the most important ambition for any clergy person. If I am a holy man, in fact or even merely in the eyes of others, what obligation does this impose? How do I avoid rank hypocrisy?
It is almost comic to think of how deeply conflicted my own faith and spiritual life are. I carry in my own soul the unanswered questions of truck drivers, physicians, scientists, seekers, and agnostics–most of them men. The same people who sit down at 11:00 on Sabbath mornings and look at me expecting to hear something believable about God.
I was called by God. I know that. God is good; the purpose of life is love; making beauty is better than making ugly. On good days, I know that, too, but not much more. Still, I have a job. And since I am called (not merely employed), I somewhat boldly stand and speak for God, flattered by the honor my audience confers by listening, grateful for their support in my calling.
I am carried by the very people who see me as a holy man. My religion and spiritual life are utterly dependent on the church. I preach their Bible (not the Bible of the academy). I do the work they give me. I live on the income they provide. I serve the God they know better than I do.
What do they expect in return? That their holy man speaks well of God. That I voice their faith–both the faith they possess and the faith they aspire to–a faith, that somehow, in spite of my defects, doubts and failures, I embody. What an honor. What a daunting responsibility.
Except for their confidence, it would be a joke. Maybe it really is a joke. A happy one. God using a buffoon for some grand and glorious purpose.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Keeping Company with the Dying
Not long ago late on a Sabbath afternoon, I remembered one of my church members was gravely ill. She had been gravely ill for months. For some reason that afternoon, I suddenly realized it had been a while since I had been to see her.
I went.
Only her relatives could tell that she was aware of my presence.
She died the next morning.
Today, I sat for an hour with a friend who is dying. He's been dying for two years or more. I can't stop the dying. My prayers have been ineffectual at shrinking the tumors. He says it matters that I show up.
Do you know someone who is dying?
Go see them. Today, if at all possible. Then go again and again and again.
Keeping company is something we pastors can do.
I don't understand why it matters that we do, but apparently it does.
So do it now. Don't wait.
I went.
Only her relatives could tell that she was aware of my presence.
She died the next morning.
Today, I sat for an hour with a friend who is dying. He's been dying for two years or more. I can't stop the dying. My prayers have been ineffectual at shrinking the tumors. He says it matters that I show up.
Do you know someone who is dying?
Go see them. Today, if at all possible. Then go again and again and again.
Keeping company is something we pastors can do.
I don't understand why it matters that we do, but apparently it does.
So do it now. Don't wait.
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Book that Saved my Ministry
Some years ago I read a book titled Father Joe: The Man who Saved my Soul by Tony Hendra. The book saved my soul or at least my ministry.
I’ve often gone through crises of vocation. What business do I have being a minister. Yes, I was called by God. But that was long ago and far away. How do I, a man tormented by unanswered questions and incompetent in many ways, justify continuing as a professional clergyman, taking a salary to represent God? Father Joe offered a believable answer to that question.
If you are better at encouraging the ministry of others than you are at giving orders, if you are better at giving permission than giving directions, or if you are amazed at the good things God is doing in people around you, you will probably appreciate the story of Father Joe.
I see his ministry (and--on my good days--my ministry) paralleled more closely by the story of Barnabas than the story of Paul.
My blog this week at liberaladventist is a sermon based on Barnabas. Maybe it will offer you some encouragement. But I think Father Joe would do you better.
I’ve often gone through crises of vocation. What business do I have being a minister. Yes, I was called by God. But that was long ago and far away. How do I, a man tormented by unanswered questions and incompetent in many ways, justify continuing as a professional clergyman, taking a salary to represent God? Father Joe offered a believable answer to that question.
If you are better at encouraging the ministry of others than you are at giving orders, if you are better at giving permission than giving directions, or if you are amazed at the good things God is doing in people around you, you will probably appreciate the story of Father Joe.
I see his ministry (and--on my good days--my ministry) paralleled more closely by the story of Barnabas than the story of Paul.
My blog this week at liberaladventist is a sermon based on Barnabas. Maybe it will offer you some encouragement. But I think Father Joe would do you better.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Make Friends or Suck It Up
1. Church is about sublime truths and ineffable encounters with God.
2. Church is about making friends and cultivating social circles.
This bi-modal reality of church life is highlighted in the book of Romans. The book is regarded by many to be the most sophisticated systematic exposition of theology in the Bible. It begins with Paul’s affirmation of his call as an apostle and ends with the peroration, “Now to him who is able to establish you by my gospel and the proclamation of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery hidden for long ages past, but now revealed through the prophetic writings by the command of the eternal God, so that all nations might believe and obey him–to the only wise God be glory forever through Jesus Christ.”
But not all of the book is so “high-flown.” Chapter 16 is comprised largely of Paul’s personal greetings to relatives and acquaintances. It even includes a personal note from Paul’s scribe to the good people in Rome.
Several things jump out from Paul’s list.
First, he sees many of the people in groups. “Greet Priscilla and Aquila . . . and the church that meets in their home.” “Greet Philologus, Julia, Nereus and his sister, and Olympas and all the saints with them.” The church in Rome was not “one big happy family.” It was a collection of families and affinity groups.
Second, Paul’s “church circle” included a substantial number of relatives. “Greet Andronicus and Junias, my relatives who have been in prison with me.” “Greet Herodian my relative.” “Lucius, Jason and Sosipater, my relatives, send their greetings.”
Third, Paul had special friends. “Greet Rufus and his mother, who has been a mother to me, too.”
Fourth, women played a major role in Paul’s church, “I commend to you Phoebe our sister, a servant of the church in Cenchrea . . . she has been a great help to many people, including me.” “Greet Truphena and Tryphosa, those women who work hard in the Lord.
Fifth, people who were leaders outside the church were leaders inside the church. “Erastus, who is the city’s director of public works, and our brother Quartus send you their greetings.”
What lessons do I take from this for our life together as a church?
Once a church has more than a dozen or so attending it will be characterized by “insiders” and “outsiders” unless the members form smaller circles of friends within the larger congregation. These friendships are “real” only if they bring people together outside of church on Sabbath morning.
It is normal for church circles, friendship circles and family circles to overlap. It is not “unspiritual” to find your closest friends among people with whom you share social affinities like education, recreational interest, blood relationship, mission interest, political leanings.
Unless you actively cultivate special friendships with a few people in your congregation you can expect to be disappointed by the “care” you receive from the congregation. One hundred people are not going to notice if you quit attending, get sick, die or have a baby. Four or five friends will notice and care.
The leadership core of your church is not going to notice if you get sick, go on vacation, get discouraged, are dumped by your spouse, are fired or drop out of school. They are not bad people. They are not selfish or snobs. It is simply not likely the seven to ten “key leaders” in your congregation will notice all of the significant happenings in the lives of the 180 members of the church (a third of whom are absent any given Sabbath).
If you are not part of a small, close circle of friends, you are going to be overlooked some time. Count on it.
So what to do? Come to church for the worship and don’t expect quality social interaction. Or make friends, real friends, with other people at church–people who are not already in the “leadership core.” (These leaders already have more friends than they know what to do with. They don’t need you.) Your relationships with real friends will enrich your worship experience and will change the “fellowship of the saints” from a merely theoretical religious notion into an experiential reality.
Making friends often requires you to be intentional. Ask some one to join you for dinner, a hike, a service project. If you have a good time, ask them again. And again. And again. If you wait for someone else to ask you, don’t complain if you have to wait a long time.
Do something to improve the quality of your church. Make friends.
2. Church is about making friends and cultivating social circles.
This bi-modal reality of church life is highlighted in the book of Romans. The book is regarded by many to be the most sophisticated systematic exposition of theology in the Bible. It begins with Paul’s affirmation of his call as an apostle and ends with the peroration, “Now to him who is able to establish you by my gospel and the proclamation of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery hidden for long ages past, but now revealed through the prophetic writings by the command of the eternal God, so that all nations might believe and obey him–to the only wise God be glory forever through Jesus Christ.”
But not all of the book is so “high-flown.” Chapter 16 is comprised largely of Paul’s personal greetings to relatives and acquaintances. It even includes a personal note from Paul’s scribe to the good people in Rome.
Several things jump out from Paul’s list.
First, he sees many of the people in groups. “Greet Priscilla and Aquila . . . and the church that meets in their home.” “Greet Philologus, Julia, Nereus and his sister, and Olympas and all the saints with them.” The church in Rome was not “one big happy family.” It was a collection of families and affinity groups.
Second, Paul’s “church circle” included a substantial number of relatives. “Greet Andronicus and Junias, my relatives who have been in prison with me.” “Greet Herodian my relative.” “Lucius, Jason and Sosipater, my relatives, send their greetings.”
Third, Paul had special friends. “Greet Rufus and his mother, who has been a mother to me, too.”
Fourth, women played a major role in Paul’s church, “I commend to you Phoebe our sister, a servant of the church in Cenchrea . . . she has been a great help to many people, including me.” “Greet Truphena and Tryphosa, those women who work hard in the Lord.
Fifth, people who were leaders outside the church were leaders inside the church. “Erastus, who is the city’s director of public works, and our brother Quartus send you their greetings.”
What lessons do I take from this for our life together as a church?
Once a church has more than a dozen or so attending it will be characterized by “insiders” and “outsiders” unless the members form smaller circles of friends within the larger congregation. These friendships are “real” only if they bring people together outside of church on Sabbath morning.
It is normal for church circles, friendship circles and family circles to overlap. It is not “unspiritual” to find your closest friends among people with whom you share social affinities like education, recreational interest, blood relationship, mission interest, political leanings.
Unless you actively cultivate special friendships with a few people in your congregation you can expect to be disappointed by the “care” you receive from the congregation. One hundred people are not going to notice if you quit attending, get sick, die or have a baby. Four or five friends will notice and care.
The leadership core of your church is not going to notice if you get sick, go on vacation, get discouraged, are dumped by your spouse, are fired or drop out of school. They are not bad people. They are not selfish or snobs. It is simply not likely the seven to ten “key leaders” in your congregation will notice all of the significant happenings in the lives of the 180 members of the church (a third of whom are absent any given Sabbath).
If you are not part of a small, close circle of friends, you are going to be overlooked some time. Count on it.
So what to do? Come to church for the worship and don’t expect quality social interaction. Or make friends, real friends, with other people at church–people who are not already in the “leadership core.” (These leaders already have more friends than they know what to do with. They don’t need you.) Your relationships with real friends will enrich your worship experience and will change the “fellowship of the saints” from a merely theoretical religious notion into an experiential reality.
Making friends often requires you to be intentional. Ask some one to join you for dinner, a hike, a service project. If you have a good time, ask them again. And again. And again. If you wait for someone else to ask you, don’t complain if you have to wait a long time.
Do something to improve the quality of your church. Make friends.
If Theology Can’t Fix my Car, Why Bother?
Friends of mine are deeply involved in advocating particular theories about the end of time. They preach, write books, publish newsletters. A couple of different times I’ve ask them, If I believed everything you are teaching, what would I do differently? What do you want me to change in the way I live? Their answer: Nothing.
So why should I listen to their sermons or read their books and blogs?
One of the most important questions to be asked in theological conversation is So what? What difference does it make? If the answer is “Nothing!” then at minimum we don’t need to excommunicate each for our differences.
Valuable theology does make a difference in our lives. No, it won’t fix my car. It won’t cure Alzheimer’s or wash the dishes. But then that’s not what it is for. Watercolor painting won’t fix my car either, or cure Alzheimer’s or clean the dishes. Still we treasure good painting. And good theology is at least as valuable as good painting. In fact, theology is a lot like art. Theology is someone’s attempt to paint a picture of reality using words.
Theologians tell us what they see, and they hope that in their telling they will enable us to also see. The eyes of our mind see differently after reading a theological work.
It is important to recognize that theology is not reality, just as a painting of a tree is not a tree. No matter how elegant, attractive or “true” the painting is, the painting is not the tree. The Bible is not God. Calvin’s “Institutes” does not contain God. Ellen White’s Conflict of the Ages series does not contain God. These great works point toward God. They evoke in our minds an understanding and appreciation of God. They help us understand the implications of our God theories for the practice of life. But they are not themselves God.
So why do theology?
1. We humans can’t help ourselves. We are incurable theologians. Even Dawkins has to theorize about God–God doesn’t exist;–he can’t help positing a theory of ultimate reality. When we do theology we are doing what all human cultures everywhere at all times have done. We are expressing and revealing our humanity.
2. Theology has implications for how we order our lives. The respect I give those who disagree with me. The limits I impose on people who use their freedom in ways that damage others. My willingness to cooperate with others in community (preserving and limiting personal autonomy). My behavior in support of personal and community health. All of these things interact with my theology.
3. Theology is the art form most suitable for talking about purpose and meaning. Our lives are immeasurably enriched when they are supported by a lively sense of purpose and meaning. If we did away with formal theology, we would immediately replace it with something that functioned in similar manner in our lives–superstition, philosophy, a different theology.
4. Good theology is beautiful and helps us see beauty. Our hunger for this “divine” beauty has inspired the writing and collecting of books for three thousand years at least. The connection between theology and beauty is so strong it justifies our theologizing even though we know theology can be used in wicked ways. (Of course, we are far better served when we use theology to create beauty than when we use it to crack skulls.)
Theology, even the very finest theology, won’t fix my car. It might help me respond righteously if my mechanic fails or my car is irreparable. It points to meaning and purpose that transcend the entire world of cars and mechanics. No matter how precious my car, theology opens a universe beyond it that invites exploration and worship.
So why should I listen to their sermons or read their books and blogs?
One of the most important questions to be asked in theological conversation is So what? What difference does it make? If the answer is “Nothing!” then at minimum we don’t need to excommunicate each for our differences.
Valuable theology does make a difference in our lives. No, it won’t fix my car. It won’t cure Alzheimer’s or wash the dishes. But then that’s not what it is for. Watercolor painting won’t fix my car either, or cure Alzheimer’s or clean the dishes. Still we treasure good painting. And good theology is at least as valuable as good painting. In fact, theology is a lot like art. Theology is someone’s attempt to paint a picture of reality using words.
Theologians tell us what they see, and they hope that in their telling they will enable us to also see. The eyes of our mind see differently after reading a theological work.
It is important to recognize that theology is not reality, just as a painting of a tree is not a tree. No matter how elegant, attractive or “true” the painting is, the painting is not the tree. The Bible is not God. Calvin’s “Institutes” does not contain God. Ellen White’s Conflict of the Ages series does not contain God. These great works point toward God. They evoke in our minds an understanding and appreciation of God. They help us understand the implications of our God theories for the practice of life. But they are not themselves God.
So why do theology?
1. We humans can’t help ourselves. We are incurable theologians. Even Dawkins has to theorize about God–God doesn’t exist;–he can’t help positing a theory of ultimate reality. When we do theology we are doing what all human cultures everywhere at all times have done. We are expressing and revealing our humanity.
2. Theology has implications for how we order our lives. The respect I give those who disagree with me. The limits I impose on people who use their freedom in ways that damage others. My willingness to cooperate with others in community (preserving and limiting personal autonomy). My behavior in support of personal and community health. All of these things interact with my theology.
3. Theology is the art form most suitable for talking about purpose and meaning. Our lives are immeasurably enriched when they are supported by a lively sense of purpose and meaning. If we did away with formal theology, we would immediately replace it with something that functioned in similar manner in our lives–superstition, philosophy, a different theology.
4. Good theology is beautiful and helps us see beauty. Our hunger for this “divine” beauty has inspired the writing and collecting of books for three thousand years at least. The connection between theology and beauty is so strong it justifies our theologizing even though we know theology can be used in wicked ways. (Of course, we are far better served when we use theology to create beauty than when we use it to crack skulls.)
Theology, even the very finest theology, won’t fix my car. It might help me respond righteously if my mechanic fails or my car is irreparable. It points to meaning and purpose that transcend the entire world of cars and mechanics. No matter how precious my car, theology opens a universe beyond it that invites exploration and worship.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Believing Less
(I am posting this article from my liberal adventist blog here, because I think it applies directly to the work of the pastor. In fact, it is probably more relevant to pastoral work than it is to the religious life of laity.)
Growing up as a precociously religious kid who was reasonably bright, I mastered a lot of information.
By the time I finished elementary school, I knew the names of the general-slaying woman with a hammer (Jael) and the first organist (Jubal). I knew the date of Creation and the right day to keep holy. I could tell you the meaning of the “Spirit of Prophecy” and “then shall the sanctuary be cleansed.” I knew the identities of the “little horn,” the “great red dragon” and the “lamb-like beast.” I believed every detail. Fervently.
By the end of high school, I could chart the precise order of last day events–the loud cry, the little time of trouble, the national Sunday law, the close of probation, the great time of trouble, the death decree, etc.
In college and seminary, I added to my repertoire. I became an expert on justification, sanctification and glorification. I could explain legal, relational and psychological theories of the atonement. I could teach people how to “pray through the sanctuary.” I could explain “the covenants.” I could comfortably toss around words like soteriology, pre-lapsarian and post-lapsarian, eschatology, hermeneutics, hamartology, ecclesiology, epistemology. When I began pastoring my first church–the Babylon Adventist Church on Long Island–I believed an enormous number of things and could explain why they were true.
Now, I believe less.
I have not been persuaded by the various efforts to “disprove” Adventism. The evangelical critique of Adventism has a patina of scholarship. However, it appears to me to merely replace slavish Adventist dependence on Ellen White as the primary interpreter of the Bible with a slavish dependence on Paul as the ultimate voice of truth. Not a great leap forward in epistemology, exegesis or human well-being. The unrestrained confidence in the “assured results of scholarship” characteristic of classic liberal theology seems naive to me. History has not been kind to “assured results.”
My believing less arises not from the attraction of another truer (or more sophisticated or more exegetically-precise or more venerable) system. Rather it arises out of thirty years of listening to God’s people–professional theologians and mothers and students and scientists and the home-bound disabled and addicts and care-givers and doctors and truck drivers.
All those prophetic details? The theologians argue endlessly. Some of their arguments are interesting. However, a correct interpretation of Daniel 8 and Revelation 13 offers no help for people who have spent thirty years trying to quit smoking or people who are interacting with adult children who are schizophrenics. Should I really claim to believe something that makes no difference for mothering, bill-paying, physical health or the navigation of old age?
To push it even further, people who REALLY do believe we are at the end of time drop out of school, move to the country and “evangelize” in confrontational, obnoxious ways. In other words their lives are deranged.
The same holds for “justification, sanctification, glorification.” The debates about soteriology (how a person is saved) fill endless volumes. The debate is interesting and irrelevant. In my limited experience there is a strong correlation between having highly developed soteriological schemas and being tragically ineffective in significant relationships. Knowing the precise relation between justification and sanctification appears to offer little help for troubled marriages or dealing with addictions or managing money wisely.
So I believe less.
I believe in God.
I believe in people. God made them. God died for them. I figure salvation (whatever that means) is the default state of things. If God, with classical omniscience and omnipotence, created humanity with the full knowledge that 95 percent of them (cf. Ellen White’s statements about “not one in twenty”) would be incinerated, that would raise ethical questions at least as large as those created by theistic evolution.
I believe “God desires mercy and not sacrifice.” That is, relationships are more important than religious rectitude.
I believe doing good is more important that believing right. (Though, of course, ideas matter. Some ideas have consequences.)
I believe making beauty is better than making ugly.
(Some readers, at this point, might ask, then what do I make of the highly elaborated theology of Adventism? Do I think we should get rid of it? Do I think it is wrong? I’ll address this in a future post under the title, “If theology can’t fix my car, what good is it?” Hint: water color painting won’t fix my car either, and I'm still a watercolor painter.)
Growing up as a precociously religious kid who was reasonably bright, I mastered a lot of information.
By the time I finished elementary school, I knew the names of the general-slaying woman with a hammer (Jael) and the first organist (Jubal). I knew the date of Creation and the right day to keep holy. I could tell you the meaning of the “Spirit of Prophecy” and “then shall the sanctuary be cleansed.” I knew the identities of the “little horn,” the “great red dragon” and the “lamb-like beast.” I believed every detail. Fervently.
By the end of high school, I could chart the precise order of last day events–the loud cry, the little time of trouble, the national Sunday law, the close of probation, the great time of trouble, the death decree, etc.
In college and seminary, I added to my repertoire. I became an expert on justification, sanctification and glorification. I could explain legal, relational and psychological theories of the atonement. I could teach people how to “pray through the sanctuary.” I could explain “the covenants.” I could comfortably toss around words like soteriology, pre-lapsarian and post-lapsarian, eschatology, hermeneutics, hamartology, ecclesiology, epistemology. When I began pastoring my first church–the Babylon Adventist Church on Long Island–I believed an enormous number of things and could explain why they were true.
Now, I believe less.
I have not been persuaded by the various efforts to “disprove” Adventism. The evangelical critique of Adventism has a patina of scholarship. However, it appears to me to merely replace slavish Adventist dependence on Ellen White as the primary interpreter of the Bible with a slavish dependence on Paul as the ultimate voice of truth. Not a great leap forward in epistemology, exegesis or human well-being. The unrestrained confidence in the “assured results of scholarship” characteristic of classic liberal theology seems naive to me. History has not been kind to “assured results.”
My believing less arises not from the attraction of another truer (or more sophisticated or more exegetically-precise or more venerable) system. Rather it arises out of thirty years of listening to God’s people–professional theologians and mothers and students and scientists and the home-bound disabled and addicts and care-givers and doctors and truck drivers.
All those prophetic details? The theologians argue endlessly. Some of their arguments are interesting. However, a correct interpretation of Daniel 8 and Revelation 13 offers no help for people who have spent thirty years trying to quit smoking or people who are interacting with adult children who are schizophrenics. Should I really claim to believe something that makes no difference for mothering, bill-paying, physical health or the navigation of old age?
To push it even further, people who REALLY do believe we are at the end of time drop out of school, move to the country and “evangelize” in confrontational, obnoxious ways. In other words their lives are deranged.
The same holds for “justification, sanctification, glorification.” The debates about soteriology (how a person is saved) fill endless volumes. The debate is interesting and irrelevant. In my limited experience there is a strong correlation between having highly developed soteriological schemas and being tragically ineffective in significant relationships. Knowing the precise relation between justification and sanctification appears to offer little help for troubled marriages or dealing with addictions or managing money wisely.
So I believe less.
I believe in God.
I believe in people. God made them. God died for them. I figure salvation (whatever that means) is the default state of things. If God, with classical omniscience and omnipotence, created humanity with the full knowledge that 95 percent of them (cf. Ellen White’s statements about “not one in twenty”) would be incinerated, that would raise ethical questions at least as large as those created by theistic evolution.
I believe “God desires mercy and not sacrifice.” That is, relationships are more important than religious rectitude.
I believe doing good is more important that believing right. (Though, of course, ideas matter. Some ideas have consequences.)
I believe making beauty is better than making ugly.
(Some readers, at this point, might ask, then what do I make of the highly elaborated theology of Adventism? Do I think we should get rid of it? Do I think it is wrong? I’ll address this in a future post under the title, “If theology can’t fix my car, what good is it?” Hint: water color painting won’t fix my car either, and I'm still a watercolor painter.)
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Book Note
Spiritual Perspectives on Globalization: Making Sense of Economic and Cultural Upheaval by Ira Rifkin. Skylight Paths Publishing, Woodstock, Vermont. 2003.
This is a curious book. It examines the response of various religious groups to globalization--understood both in an political/financial sense and in the broader sense of the accelerating global movement of people, ideas and money.
The religious groups are: Roman Catholicism, Islam, Hinduism, Judaism, Buddhism, Baha'i Faith, Tribal and Earth-based Religions, and Protestantism.
I did not come away from reading the book with any sense that I better understood the economic and political forces of globalization. However, the book did provide an interesting window through which to look at these different faiths.
One interesting factoid: Latin America has 42 percent of the world's Catholics but only 20 percent of the world's Catholic priests. Europe and North America account for 35 percent of Catholic members and 68 percent of all priests. And Europe and North America are importing priests from the third world to fill the deficit in priests felt in North American and European parishes. -- Echoes of Adventist debates over the role and number of clergy in the US in contrast to the Third World.
Looking at other faiths always offers a new perspective on my faith and church.
The book is well-written. I recommend it.
This is a curious book. It examines the response of various religious groups to globalization--understood both in an political/financial sense and in the broader sense of the accelerating global movement of people, ideas and money.
The religious groups are: Roman Catholicism, Islam, Hinduism, Judaism, Buddhism, Baha'i Faith, Tribal and Earth-based Religions, and Protestantism.
I did not come away from reading the book with any sense that I better understood the economic and political forces of globalization. However, the book did provide an interesting window through which to look at these different faiths.
One interesting factoid: Latin America has 42 percent of the world's Catholics but only 20 percent of the world's Catholic priests. Europe and North America account for 35 percent of Catholic members and 68 percent of all priests. And Europe and North America are importing priests from the third world to fill the deficit in priests felt in North American and European parishes. -- Echoes of Adventist debates over the role and number of clergy in the US in contrast to the Third World.
Looking at other faiths always offers a new perspective on my faith and church.
The book is well-written. I recommend it.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Neutering of Adventism: A Review
Adventism: Right but no Fun
A review of The Apocalyptic Vision and the Neutering of Adventism by George R. Knight.
This book is Knight’s answer to his own question: Why be Adventist? Secondly, it is his prescription for preventing (or perhaps, correcting) the “neutering” of Adventism.
Kinght’s answer to the first question sounds like an advertisement for chemotherapy. Adventism is no fun, but in the end, it’s good for you. His answer to the second question sounds like prescription information: Make sure you get the dosage right. Too little or too much is deadly.
Knight himself does not really want to be an Adventist. In contrast to others who are Adventist because they enjoy it, Knight is Adventist because of the inescapable force of Adventist evangelistic argument. His ambivalence is epitomized by his repeated statement: I am “an Adventist by conviction rather than choice.” To paraphrase Knight in the vernacular: I’m an Adventist because I have to be. Dang it. But I’m not happy about it.
Knight is annoyed by all sorts of Adventists—cultural Adventists, mean Adventists, multi-generation Adventists, liberal Adventists, evangelical Adventists, beastly Adventists, unfriendly Adventists, legalistic Adventists, mere Adventists, and Adventists by addiction or by choice. Still, like a true son of the church, he is terrified at the prospect of the neutering of the church. That is, he fears the church will fail to multiply, expand, grow. So in this book, he offers a prescription to prevent this neutering. I think he hopes his book will serve as a kind of Viagra for tired, old Adventists. But it comes across to me as chemo.
The chemo metaphor is most apt in Knight’s writing about “beastly preaching.” In his first chapter Knight warns about the deadly consequences of muting our distinctive apocalyptic message—preaching about the beasts. If we neglect or deny our classic preaching of the beasts of Daniel and Revelation, we will follow mainline Protestantism into extinction. The beasts are good for us. Chapter 3 warns “But Don’t Forget the Beasts.” We must not forget the beasts because “God’s word doesn’t ignore the beasts. In fact, the apocalyptic books of Daniel and Revelation are big on beasts. . . . beasts are relevant. . . . it is crucial not to forget the beastly highlights of the great controversy . . .” In fact, “Connected to the beasts is the larger prophetic package related to Adventism’s distinctive beliefs, such as the eschatological implications of the Sabbath, the sanctuary, the state of the dead, and so on . . .” One of the devil’s expected tactics is tempting Adventists “to be just nice evangelicals and forget about such nasty stuff as apocalyptic.” Preaching about the beasts is our duty and the key to our survival as a church.
On the other hand, Knight warns of the deadly effects of “beastly preaching.” Beastly preaching is over-emphasis on the differences between Adventism and evangelicalism, preaching “apocalyptic or doctrine . . . disconnected from Christ and God’s love,” “being overly specific and dogmatic about the details of prophecy or overly triumphalistic.” Knight writes that “Adventism has heard too much beastly preaching” –preaching that “focused on the details and the esoteric and extremes. . . 666 and the identity of the 144,000 . . . excitement and apocalyptic fearmongering.” Toxic beastly preaching also includes classic Adventist perfectionism and legalism.
The conclusion: We must preach more about the beasts. We must avoid “beastly preaching.” It’s like chemo, too much will kill you. Not enough will kill you. You must carefully calibrate the dose. I don’t get the idea that Knight enjoys the beasts but he believes they are good for us. Maybe like eating rutabagas.
Knight describes other tensions as well.
We must resist the temptation to be merely evangelical. But evangelical theology is the real foundation for Christian life.
For Knight, evangelical theology (the contemporary, conservative Protestant take on the gospel of Paul) is the “real gospel.” Adventism adds nothing of value theologically, but because we live at the end of time, people need our theories about end time events. Knight does not evince any appreciation for the radical theological disjuncture between Adventism’s God-is-love hermeneutic and evangelicalism’s unabashed fundamentalism, between Adventist concern for the character of God and evangelicalism’s hearty advocacy of eternal torment, between Adventism’s emphasis on human responsibility and evangelicalism’s focus on divine sovereignty, between choice and predestination, between Adventism’s infallible God and evangelicalism’s infallible Bible.
Prophecy matters but is disconnected from Theology and Spiritually
I agree with the prophetic interpretations Knight presents in this book, but I was disappointed to find no serious theological or spiritual engagement with these interpretations.
Knight’s treatment of Sabbath is illustrative. He is clearly fighting to preserve the classic Adventist belief that Sabbath-keeping has eschatological significance. However, he effectively denies the heart of traditional Adventist concern with the “seventh-dayness” of the Sabbath. Knight writes, “while the day is symbolic, it is not the central issue. After all there will be plenty of Saturdaykeepers in hell. . . we need to move beyond the day to matters of the heart, allegiance, and worship.” But Knight never even hints at how “moving beyond” the day is connected with the prophetic concern for the day. His eschatology is utterly divorced from his spirituality.
Knight never transcends the trite evangelical-inspired arguments about legalism. He never integrates the classic Adventist concern for “the day” (which he is compelled to affirm) with the classic Christian concern for “matters of the heart, allegiance, and worship” (which is what he wants to affirm).
I wish Knight had explored how Sabbath-keeping—in the literal, seventh-day sense—addresses the human situation in the Third Millennium. He might have mentioned current explorations of Sabbath as a spiritual discipline. Such an exploration would have exposed failure of contemporary efforts to “reclaim” the spiritual benefits of the Sabbath without “burdening” people with its concreteness. In reality, without a corporate commitment to a literal day, “spiritual Sabbath-keeping” will never become effective for the vast majority of Christians. “Spiritual life” is always built on concrete practices. The spiritual experience of a weekly, privileged communion with God requires the concrete, physical practice of Sabbath keeping. But Knight never addresses this issue.
Knight writes, “I am a big-picture sort of person” (p. 52). The “Seventh-day Adventist pioneers had seen the big picture and put together a theological package who logical force has driven Adventism to every corner of the earth” (p. 53). Another way to beastify and thereby neuter the apocalyptic message is to claim too much. We need to avoid the temptation toward being overly specific and dogmatic about the details of prophecy. . .” (p. 58). Knight glosses over the reality of Adventist history. Our pioneers delighted in and battled furiously over minute details of historicist interpretation. He defends the date, 1844 (a defense I agree with). But to get to this date requires confidence about interpretation regarding tiny details in an obscure passage. Knight’s “great controversy” interpretation of Revelation 12 and 13 (a novel and unhelpful use of “great controversy”) again requires attention to and confidence in one’s interpretation of details. One man’s “unimportant detail” is another’s crux of the argument.
Knight’s claim to be a “big-picture sort of person” is further undermined by his claim “the best books on eschatology are not even put out by Christian publishing houses” (p. 83). He’s referring in this instance to doomsday books like Paul Ehrlich’s Population Explosion (1968) and Jared Diamond’s Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed (2005). The best books on the last days are secular works filled with detailed doomsday predictions?
Apocalyptic in the Synoptics
I was rather disappointed with Knight’s treatment of apocalyptic in the synoptics. He focuses appropriately on Matthew 24-25. “The passage running from Matthew 24:42 to 25:46 . . . informs us about how to live the apocalyptic vision in daily life” (p. 90). If only Knight were willing to take this Bible passage seriously.
In Matthew 24-25, Jesus clearly teaches his disciples that times and breath-taking events are not the proper concern of his followers. Chapter 24 begins with the disciples asking when? Jesus begins answering their question and steadily moves the focus away from time and dramatic events.
The last parable in chapter 24 pictures someone foolishly dismissing the idea of the Master’s return. With disastrous consequences. The next parable, Ten Virgins, pictures five people who “know” the Lord is coming soon. With disastrous consequences. Knight turns this parable on its head. He says the foolish ones are those who think they have lots of time and delay their preparation (p. 93). The obvious meaning is precisely the opposite.
In the next parable, The Talents, the burning question is what do you think of the Master? In the last parable, the Sheep and Goats, the crux is how did you respond to people in need. According to Matthew 24 and 25, the best preparation for the end is theology—knowing God—and service. We do not get ready for the end by studying the end. After surveying these two chapters Knight’s primary point is to caution against taking them as a mandate for living. He is worried that we will get so caught up in serving the poor and needy that we will forget to preach the beasts. Maybe.
A Long Loose End
Knight writes: “Adventism has only one real theological problem—Jesus hasn’t returned.” He speaks to the issue a bit in his chapter on the parables of Matthew, but his main point in this chapter is that Matthew’s apocalyptic is not a safe guide for Adventists. I was puzzled. Why write a book on the loss of authentic apocalyptic vision and not address “the only real theological problem”—the failure of that vision to materialize in real time?
Ecclesiastical Adolescence and The Church as Mother
Many of Knight’s readers will take delight in his cheeky scolding of Adventists who mute or deny the classic Adventist focus on the end of time. Knight offers a nice, broad brush summary of the major themes in Adventist apocalyptic preaching. I agree with his summary. However, I would not want to join his church. According to Knight, it is right but no fun.
Knight has not found a happy home in Adventism. He is constantly chafing against the reality of Adventist people and Adventist preaching.
I am one of those Adventists Knight despises. I grew up in the church. I am happy in the church. I am an eccentric, liberal, post-modern theologian, but I happily recognize that my eccentric orbit is given definition by the classic Adventist center. Many of my friends, most of my education, most of my family is Adventist. (All of my enemies are Adventist.) I am under no illusions that my church is perfect. Like all families, it has its share of dysfunction, but it is my family. I eagerly and happily recommend it to others, not just because it is right and necessary as the essential preparation for a scary, theoretical future, but because I have found here a satisfying home.
In many ways, Knight sounds like a typical adolescent, far wiser and more sophisticated than his mother, the church. He doesn’t wish his mother ill, but he is sure, if she would just listen to him, he could make her so much more attractive, relevant, intelligent and healthy. Maybe. But I’m not so sure. I, too, can see Mother is not perfect, but I have given up my own adolescent convictions that given the power, I have the wisdom to perfect her.
Knight’s concern is the failure of the church in the developed world to multiply and expand. However, if the best we can say about our family is that we are RIGHT, the world is unlikely to beat a path to our door. Attractive families are right and fun (and crazy and painful, at times). That has been my experience in Adventism. From reading this book, it would appear Knight has not yet found the fun in being Adventist.
Maybe in his next book.
A review of The Apocalyptic Vision and the Neutering of Adventism by George R. Knight.
This book is Knight’s answer to his own question: Why be Adventist? Secondly, it is his prescription for preventing (or perhaps, correcting) the “neutering” of Adventism.
Kinght’s answer to the first question sounds like an advertisement for chemotherapy. Adventism is no fun, but in the end, it’s good for you. His answer to the second question sounds like prescription information: Make sure you get the dosage right. Too little or too much is deadly.
Knight himself does not really want to be an Adventist. In contrast to others who are Adventist because they enjoy it, Knight is Adventist because of the inescapable force of Adventist evangelistic argument. His ambivalence is epitomized by his repeated statement: I am “an Adventist by conviction rather than choice.” To paraphrase Knight in the vernacular: I’m an Adventist because I have to be. Dang it. But I’m not happy about it.
Knight is annoyed by all sorts of Adventists—cultural Adventists, mean Adventists, multi-generation Adventists, liberal Adventists, evangelical Adventists, beastly Adventists, unfriendly Adventists, legalistic Adventists, mere Adventists, and Adventists by addiction or by choice. Still, like a true son of the church, he is terrified at the prospect of the neutering of the church. That is, he fears the church will fail to multiply, expand, grow. So in this book, he offers a prescription to prevent this neutering. I think he hopes his book will serve as a kind of Viagra for tired, old Adventists. But it comes across to me as chemo.
The chemo metaphor is most apt in Knight’s writing about “beastly preaching.” In his first chapter Knight warns about the deadly consequences of muting our distinctive apocalyptic message—preaching about the beasts. If we neglect or deny our classic preaching of the beasts of Daniel and Revelation, we will follow mainline Protestantism into extinction. The beasts are good for us. Chapter 3 warns “But Don’t Forget the Beasts.” We must not forget the beasts because “God’s word doesn’t ignore the beasts. In fact, the apocalyptic books of Daniel and Revelation are big on beasts. . . . beasts are relevant. . . . it is crucial not to forget the beastly highlights of the great controversy . . .” In fact, “Connected to the beasts is the larger prophetic package related to Adventism’s distinctive beliefs, such as the eschatological implications of the Sabbath, the sanctuary, the state of the dead, and so on . . .” One of the devil’s expected tactics is tempting Adventists “to be just nice evangelicals and forget about such nasty stuff as apocalyptic.” Preaching about the beasts is our duty and the key to our survival as a church.
On the other hand, Knight warns of the deadly effects of “beastly preaching.” Beastly preaching is over-emphasis on the differences between Adventism and evangelicalism, preaching “apocalyptic or doctrine . . . disconnected from Christ and God’s love,” “being overly specific and dogmatic about the details of prophecy or overly triumphalistic.” Knight writes that “Adventism has heard too much beastly preaching” –preaching that “focused on the details and the esoteric and extremes. . . 666 and the identity of the 144,000 . . . excitement and apocalyptic fearmongering.” Toxic beastly preaching also includes classic Adventist perfectionism and legalism.
The conclusion: We must preach more about the beasts. We must avoid “beastly preaching.” It’s like chemo, too much will kill you. Not enough will kill you. You must carefully calibrate the dose. I don’t get the idea that Knight enjoys the beasts but he believes they are good for us. Maybe like eating rutabagas.
Knight describes other tensions as well.
We must resist the temptation to be merely evangelical. But evangelical theology is the real foundation for Christian life.
For Knight, evangelical theology (the contemporary, conservative Protestant take on the gospel of Paul) is the “real gospel.” Adventism adds nothing of value theologically, but because we live at the end of time, people need our theories about end time events. Knight does not evince any appreciation for the radical theological disjuncture between Adventism’s God-is-love hermeneutic and evangelicalism’s unabashed fundamentalism, between Adventist concern for the character of God and evangelicalism’s hearty advocacy of eternal torment, between Adventism’s emphasis on human responsibility and evangelicalism’s focus on divine sovereignty, between choice and predestination, between Adventism’s infallible God and evangelicalism’s infallible Bible.
Prophecy matters but is disconnected from Theology and Spiritually
I agree with the prophetic interpretations Knight presents in this book, but I was disappointed to find no serious theological or spiritual engagement with these interpretations.
Knight’s treatment of Sabbath is illustrative. He is clearly fighting to preserve the classic Adventist belief that Sabbath-keeping has eschatological significance. However, he effectively denies the heart of traditional Adventist concern with the “seventh-dayness” of the Sabbath. Knight writes, “while the day is symbolic, it is not the central issue. After all there will be plenty of Saturdaykeepers in hell. . . we need to move beyond the day to matters of the heart, allegiance, and worship.” But Knight never even hints at how “moving beyond” the day is connected with the prophetic concern for the day. His eschatology is utterly divorced from his spirituality.
Knight never transcends the trite evangelical-inspired arguments about legalism. He never integrates the classic Adventist concern for “the day” (which he is compelled to affirm) with the classic Christian concern for “matters of the heart, allegiance, and worship” (which is what he wants to affirm).
I wish Knight had explored how Sabbath-keeping—in the literal, seventh-day sense—addresses the human situation in the Third Millennium. He might have mentioned current explorations of Sabbath as a spiritual discipline. Such an exploration would have exposed failure of contemporary efforts to “reclaim” the spiritual benefits of the Sabbath without “burdening” people with its concreteness. In reality, without a corporate commitment to a literal day, “spiritual Sabbath-keeping” will never become effective for the vast majority of Christians. “Spiritual life” is always built on concrete practices. The spiritual experience of a weekly, privileged communion with God requires the concrete, physical practice of Sabbath keeping. But Knight never addresses this issue.
Knight writes, “I am a big-picture sort of person” (p. 52). The “Seventh-day Adventist pioneers had seen the big picture and put together a theological package who logical force has driven Adventism to every corner of the earth” (p. 53). Another way to beastify and thereby neuter the apocalyptic message is to claim too much. We need to avoid the temptation toward being overly specific and dogmatic about the details of prophecy. . .” (p. 58). Knight glosses over the reality of Adventist history. Our pioneers delighted in and battled furiously over minute details of historicist interpretation. He defends the date, 1844 (a defense I agree with). But to get to this date requires confidence about interpretation regarding tiny details in an obscure passage. Knight’s “great controversy” interpretation of Revelation 12 and 13 (a novel and unhelpful use of “great controversy”) again requires attention to and confidence in one’s interpretation of details. One man’s “unimportant detail” is another’s crux of the argument.
Knight’s claim to be a “big-picture sort of person” is further undermined by his claim “the best books on eschatology are not even put out by Christian publishing houses” (p. 83). He’s referring in this instance to doomsday books like Paul Ehrlich’s Population Explosion (1968) and Jared Diamond’s Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed (2005). The best books on the last days are secular works filled with detailed doomsday predictions?
Apocalyptic in the Synoptics
I was rather disappointed with Knight’s treatment of apocalyptic in the synoptics. He focuses appropriately on Matthew 24-25. “The passage running from Matthew 24:42 to 25:46 . . . informs us about how to live the apocalyptic vision in daily life” (p. 90). If only Knight were willing to take this Bible passage seriously.
In Matthew 24-25, Jesus clearly teaches his disciples that times and breath-taking events are not the proper concern of his followers. Chapter 24 begins with the disciples asking when? Jesus begins answering their question and steadily moves the focus away from time and dramatic events.
The last parable in chapter 24 pictures someone foolishly dismissing the idea of the Master’s return. With disastrous consequences. The next parable, Ten Virgins, pictures five people who “know” the Lord is coming soon. With disastrous consequences. Knight turns this parable on its head. He says the foolish ones are those who think they have lots of time and delay their preparation (p. 93). The obvious meaning is precisely the opposite.
In the next parable, The Talents, the burning question is what do you think of the Master? In the last parable, the Sheep and Goats, the crux is how did you respond to people in need. According to Matthew 24 and 25, the best preparation for the end is theology—knowing God—and service. We do not get ready for the end by studying the end. After surveying these two chapters Knight’s primary point is to caution against taking them as a mandate for living. He is worried that we will get so caught up in serving the poor and needy that we will forget to preach the beasts. Maybe.
A Long Loose End
Knight writes: “Adventism has only one real theological problem—Jesus hasn’t returned.” He speaks to the issue a bit in his chapter on the parables of Matthew, but his main point in this chapter is that Matthew’s apocalyptic is not a safe guide for Adventists. I was puzzled. Why write a book on the loss of authentic apocalyptic vision and not address “the only real theological problem”—the failure of that vision to materialize in real time?
Ecclesiastical Adolescence and The Church as Mother
Many of Knight’s readers will take delight in his cheeky scolding of Adventists who mute or deny the classic Adventist focus on the end of time. Knight offers a nice, broad brush summary of the major themes in Adventist apocalyptic preaching. I agree with his summary. However, I would not want to join his church. According to Knight, it is right but no fun.
Knight has not found a happy home in Adventism. He is constantly chafing against the reality of Adventist people and Adventist preaching.
I am one of those Adventists Knight despises. I grew up in the church. I am happy in the church. I am an eccentric, liberal, post-modern theologian, but I happily recognize that my eccentric orbit is given definition by the classic Adventist center. Many of my friends, most of my education, most of my family is Adventist. (All of my enemies are Adventist.) I am under no illusions that my church is perfect. Like all families, it has its share of dysfunction, but it is my family. I eagerly and happily recommend it to others, not just because it is right and necessary as the essential preparation for a scary, theoretical future, but because I have found here a satisfying home.
In many ways, Knight sounds like a typical adolescent, far wiser and more sophisticated than his mother, the church. He doesn’t wish his mother ill, but he is sure, if she would just listen to him, he could make her so much more attractive, relevant, intelligent and healthy. Maybe. But I’m not so sure. I, too, can see Mother is not perfect, but I have given up my own adolescent convictions that given the power, I have the wisdom to perfect her.
Knight’s concern is the failure of the church in the developed world to multiply and expand. However, if the best we can say about our family is that we are RIGHT, the world is unlikely to beat a path to our door. Attractive families are right and fun (and crazy and painful, at times). That has been my experience in Adventism. From reading this book, it would appear Knight has not yet found the fun in being Adventist.
Maybe in his next book.
Friday, February 27, 2009
The Curious Value of Preaching
It can be intimidating. James Taylor or the Eagles show up in town and pack the coliseum. Ten to twenty thousand people jammed in, and they paid good money to be there. Would your church members fork over the forty or fifty dollars they casually spend on a concert to hear you "perform"?
But come to think of it, even James Taylor or the Eagles can draw that crowd only once every few years. The stars come into town. Give a good performance. Then back on the bus or plane.
You? You're there every week. Probably not speaking to thousands. Still, whether it's dozens, hundreds or thousands, your people count on you. Week after week. They show up at your church expecting to hear somewhere in that half hour sermon you're going to preach, God's word to them.
A word from God. Perhaps not the word you're intending to say. Maybe not the word that is in your notes or manuscript. But somewhere in your sermon, they're going to hear something they need to hear from God.
Wow!
Peace.
But come to think of it, even James Taylor or the Eagles can draw that crowd only once every few years. The stars come into town. Give a good performance. Then back on the bus or plane.
You? You're there every week. Probably not speaking to thousands. Still, whether it's dozens, hundreds or thousands, your people count on you. Week after week. They show up at your church expecting to hear somewhere in that half hour sermon you're going to preach, God's word to them.
A word from God. Perhaps not the word you're intending to say. Maybe not the word that is in your notes or manuscript. But somewhere in your sermon, they're going to hear something they need to hear from God.
Wow!
Peace.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Dragging at the End of the Week
I had minor surgery on Wednesday. I've been dragging ever since. Now, it's Friday afternoon, time to do an entry. And I'm wasted. I got my sermon done. That'll have to be enough.
Grace and peace to you.
John
Grace and peace to you.
John
Friday, February 13, 2009
You--a Prize Catch?
The poem begins, “Let him kiss me.” It ends with her invitation to him to come roam the landscape of her body. It’s pretty lush–ideal reading for Valentine’s Day.
The poem highlights the Shulamite’s longing for the King, but clearly portrays her longing as a mirror of his.
There’s a message here for pastors, for the ordinary men and woman called by God to represent him in the pulpit and at bedsides, weddings and funerals. Like the Shulamite, we are hungry for intimacy with the King.
Scarcely has she voiced her desire for the king, “Let him kiss me . . .” than she is reminded of her unworthiness. "I am dark . . ." She is sun-darkened in a culture that sees a tan as the mark of undignified labor. Her brothers have scorned her and assigned her field work. She is a nobody. Who is she to be the consort of the King? A king who already 60 queens and 80 concubines.
“I am dark but beautiful” she says.
She must be beautiful, otherwise the King’s admiration would imply he was desperate or blind or stupid. If the King prizes her, she must be a prize. If the King admires her, she must be beautiful.
If God has called you to ministry, you must have some special gift. God is not blind or desperate or stupid. He saw something extraordinary in you, something he prized. Something so good, he insisted on paying you to have it available full time.
As hungry as we are for God, the Song of Songs suggests we evoke a corresponding hunger in God. As we dream of finding rich satisfaction in communion with God, God, too, anticipates rich communion with us. We are agents of divine joy.
The poem highlights the Shulamite’s longing for the King, but clearly portrays her longing as a mirror of his.
There’s a message here for pastors, for the ordinary men and woman called by God to represent him in the pulpit and at bedsides, weddings and funerals. Like the Shulamite, we are hungry for intimacy with the King.
Scarcely has she voiced her desire for the king, “Let him kiss me . . .” than she is reminded of her unworthiness. "I am dark . . ." She is sun-darkened in a culture that sees a tan as the mark of undignified labor. Her brothers have scorned her and assigned her field work. She is a nobody. Who is she to be the consort of the King? A king who already 60 queens and 80 concubines.
“I am dark but beautiful” she says.
She must be beautiful, otherwise the King’s admiration would imply he was desperate or blind or stupid. If the King prizes her, she must be a prize. If the King admires her, she must be beautiful.
If God has called you to ministry, you must have some special gift. God is not blind or desperate or stupid. He saw something extraordinary in you, something he prized. Something so good, he insisted on paying you to have it available full time.
As hungry as we are for God, the Song of Songs suggests we evoke a corresponding hunger in God. As we dream of finding rich satisfaction in communion with God, God, too, anticipates rich communion with us. We are agents of divine joy.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Not Perfect, but Just Right
This week in a class on spirituality led by two nuns, the topic was the Dark Night of the Soul. The presenter repeatedly referred to the Dark Night as a transient experience, a season in the Christian’s life. We look beyond the Dark Night to a renewed sense of communion with God.
I asked how Mother Teresa’s decades-long sense of abject separation from God fit with this classic view of the Dark Night as transient.
The nuns stiffened slightly. They argued Teresa’s Dark Night was perhaps not as bad as some have said. They echoed some of the hagiographic writings that have painted Teresa’s abandonment as a divine favor lovingly tailored to counteract the public acclaim she experienced. I did not prolong the argument, but I think they missed the point.
I heard in the nuns' eagerness to “explain away” Teresa’s endless Dark Night a to keep Teresa on her pillar. They need her to be peerless, exemplary, ideal. They worry that if we see Teresa’s Dark Night as a defect or deficiency, we are somehow dishonoring her ministry.
But Teresa did not need to be flawless to be “just right” for God’s assignment. Brennan Manning is another celebrated Catholic who has touched countless people. His well-known alcoholism has not kept God from using him. Catholic priest, Henri Nouwen, offered hope, consolation and insight through his writing. His imperfections included bouts of depression and homosexuality. Still, he was apparently “just right” for the mission God gave him.
God did not need Teresa, Brennan or Henri to be perfect. He used them as they were. And God does not need you to be perfect. Good thing! So don’t wait for perfection or denigrate your ministry because you are not yet flawless. Just do your job. And Jesus will employ you, too, as an agent of his Kingdom.
I asked how Mother Teresa’s decades-long sense of abject separation from God fit with this classic view of the Dark Night as transient.
The nuns stiffened slightly. They argued Teresa’s Dark Night was perhaps not as bad as some have said. They echoed some of the hagiographic writings that have painted Teresa’s abandonment as a divine favor lovingly tailored to counteract the public acclaim she experienced. I did not prolong the argument, but I think they missed the point.
I heard in the nuns' eagerness to “explain away” Teresa’s endless Dark Night a to keep Teresa on her pillar. They need her to be peerless, exemplary, ideal. They worry that if we see Teresa’s Dark Night as a defect or deficiency, we are somehow dishonoring her ministry.
But Teresa did not need to be flawless to be “just right” for God’s assignment. Brennan Manning is another celebrated Catholic who has touched countless people. His well-known alcoholism has not kept God from using him. Catholic priest, Henri Nouwen, offered hope, consolation and insight through his writing. His imperfections included bouts of depression and homosexuality. Still, he was apparently “just right” for the mission God gave him.
God did not need Teresa, Brennan or Henri to be perfect. He used them as they were. And God does not need you to be perfect. Good thing! So don’t wait for perfection or denigrate your ministry because you are not yet flawless. Just do your job. And Jesus will employ you, too, as an agent of his Kingdom.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Why We're Not Emergent - A Review, continued
I have posted the second and concluding installment of my review of Why We're Not Emergent on my blog at liberaladventist.blogspot.com.
When Did God Show Up?
A few weeks ago five ministers gathered for lunch in one of our churches. The leader for the day invited us to think of one event in our ministry when God showed up. We were asked to tell a story of a time when it was clear God had used us as his agent to accomplish something that mattered.
I wish you could have been there. One pastor told of showing up in a rural district, his very first pastoral assignment. As he talked with the folks he found out they owned property for a new church. The building they were in was decrepit. He became strongly convinced God had called him there to build a church. And they did--against large odds. As soon as the church was up, even before they had occupancy, he was moved. But he knew that God had sent him to that church for that mission.
Another pastor told of losing his temper publicly while dealing with a chronically disruptive woman. He was terribly embarrassed. But over the next months, God clearly used his "inappropriate" outburst as a catalyst to move the church out of deeply entrenched dysfunction into a new and healthy life. God showed up. God used him.
There were other stories that day. Good ones. I left encouraged, warmed. More confident in God and closer to my friends in the ministry.
We all stumble at times. Most of us are sometimes painfully aware of our inadequacy. But God called us into ministry. He chose us as agents of the Kingdom of Heaven. And sometimes he lets us know we've done something significant for our Master.
What's your story? Rehearse it often. Keep it vivid in your mind.
And the next time you're with clergy friends, ask them their story. When did God show up--unmistakably--while they were engaged in his service.
I wish you could have been there. One pastor told of showing up in a rural district, his very first pastoral assignment. As he talked with the folks he found out they owned property for a new church. The building they were in was decrepit. He became strongly convinced God had called him there to build a church. And they did--against large odds. As soon as the church was up, even before they had occupancy, he was moved. But he knew that God had sent him to that church for that mission.
Another pastor told of losing his temper publicly while dealing with a chronically disruptive woman. He was terribly embarrassed. But over the next months, God clearly used his "inappropriate" outburst as a catalyst to move the church out of deeply entrenched dysfunction into a new and healthy life. God showed up. God used him.
There were other stories that day. Good ones. I left encouraged, warmed. More confident in God and closer to my friends in the ministry.
We all stumble at times. Most of us are sometimes painfully aware of our inadequacy. But God called us into ministry. He chose us as agents of the Kingdom of Heaven. And sometimes he lets us know we've done something significant for our Master.
What's your story? Rehearse it often. Keep it vivid in your mind.
And the next time you're with clergy friends, ask them their story. When did God show up--unmistakably--while they were engaged in his service.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Agnosticism and Preaching
Agnosticism and Preaching
[Last Friday, I wrote the first part of a review of Why We’re Not Emergent (By Two Guys Who Should Be). I’ll try to get to the second and final installment of my review next week.]
Agnostism: not knowing.
It’s tough being a preacher when you’re an agnostic, when you are so perplexed by elements of the Christian faith that that you don’t know quite what to say or even what to think.
Sometimes, agnosticism can be a wonderful thing. On occasion, when a preacher acknowledges publicly, I do not know, this acknowledgement may draw questioners closer to the community of faith. Questioners in our audience hear our confession of not knowing as respect for their questions and their quest. We make it safe for them to continue their journey inside the community.
Private agnosticism can temper our preaching with humility. We are aware our insight into God is partial at best and defective in ways we cannot see. This awareness keeps us from bombast and pomposity. It helps us build bridges between God and the doubtful ones in our congregations.
Being publicly honest about what we don’t know can help questioners feel at home in church. Privately confronting ourselves during meditation and study with the limits of our knowledge helps us empathize with the perplexed and troubled. But when it comes time to preach, no matter how beleaguered we are by unanswered questions and doubts, we are called to say something good and true.
Preachers stand in the place of Jesus. We follow our master to the front of the congregation and stand to preach the gospel to the poor, to proclaim liberty for the captives, to declare the year of the Lord’s favor. We stand up to speak the truth.
Some who fancy ourselves as intellectuals could fill volumes with what we don’t know. Some of us could fill volumes with the stuff other people "know" that they shouldn’t know. But when it comes time to preach, forget all that.
There is something you do know, something only you know in just the way you know it. One reason God called you to preach is so that little bit of truth, that tiny facet of understanding, could be voiced aloud.
So whatever it is you don’t know, this week when you step in front of your congregation, go beyond it. Tell them something good. Tell them the truth.
[Last Friday, I wrote the first part of a review of Why We’re Not Emergent (By Two Guys Who Should Be). I’ll try to get to the second and final installment of my review next week.]
Agnostism: not knowing.
It’s tough being a preacher when you’re an agnostic, when you are so perplexed by elements of the Christian faith that that you don’t know quite what to say or even what to think.
Sometimes, agnosticism can be a wonderful thing. On occasion, when a preacher acknowledges publicly, I do not know, this acknowledgement may draw questioners closer to the community of faith. Questioners in our audience hear our confession of not knowing as respect for their questions and their quest. We make it safe for them to continue their journey inside the community.
Private agnosticism can temper our preaching with humility. We are aware our insight into God is partial at best and defective in ways we cannot see. This awareness keeps us from bombast and pomposity. It helps us build bridges between God and the doubtful ones in our congregations.
Being publicly honest about what we don’t know can help questioners feel at home in church. Privately confronting ourselves during meditation and study with the limits of our knowledge helps us empathize with the perplexed and troubled. But when it comes time to preach, no matter how beleaguered we are by unanswered questions and doubts, we are called to say something good and true.
Preachers stand in the place of Jesus. We follow our master to the front of the congregation and stand to preach the gospel to the poor, to proclaim liberty for the captives, to declare the year of the Lord’s favor. We stand up to speak the truth.
Some who fancy ourselves as intellectuals could fill volumes with what we don’t know. Some of us could fill volumes with the stuff other people "know" that they shouldn’t know. But when it comes time to preach, forget all that.
There is something you do know, something only you know in just the way you know it. One reason God called you to preach is so that little bit of truth, that tiny facet of understanding, could be voiced aloud.
So whatever it is you don’t know, this week when you step in front of your congregation, go beyond it. Tell them something good. Tell them the truth.
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