Leaving Exile

“Someday you’ll thank us for this.”

As he finished speaking I glanced out the window at a landscape marbled with graying snow and slate black Iowa dirt. Winter was easing its white-knuckled grip on the world. I looked back across the table at these men who had been my friends and brothers. Most of them looked away.

I was no longer one of them. Our gods were different. My God had come down from the mountain of fire and traded his thunder for thorns, his honor for humility and his wrath for the scandal of selfless love. Their God was feverishly working the bellows of hell for their enemies. It is only a short step across a drawn line that makes a brother into an enemy. There was nothing left to say. I was empty and too tired to be angry. I was overwhelmed with the worst kind of sadness, the kind that seeps down into your belly and quenches what is left of fire with exhaustion and apathy. The anger would come soon enough, but there was just no room for it in that moment.

They smiled and hugged me as they demanded my resignation. Their smiles stretched the skin so thinly across their faces that it became transparent. Only teeth and contempt lay beneath. They told me how much they loved me as they leveled not-so-subtle threats. I hugged them back as I fought the bile backing up in my throat.

I walked out that day feeling a loneliness that I don’t think will ever fully leave me. I could have fought. I could have pulled the church apart. I didn't. I stood in front of the congregation and told them that I agreed with the decision of those few men. I did agree. What future can there be in the absence of trust?

In less than a week, all but a few of our closest relationships were severed. It’s impossible to explain that kind of pain. We had moved a thousand miles away to a place we had never seen. The people there had become our family. After six years together, they were just gone. The collateral damage left deep scars on my wife and children. Perhaps things would have been better for them if I had kept everything inside. I tried, but I couldn't. I was hemorrhaging distrust, self-doubt and despair and, though I kept it from the rest of the world, sometimes it sprayed all over the people closest to me. I had never expected the church to be anything more than human. I could never have guessed it would be less.

I wasn't perfect. I had made mistakes. Still, the lies shocked me. I was lazy. I was a liar. I was a thief. I guess the truth is malleable when you are constructing an enemy. I understand now. Nothing unifies like a common enemy. Nothing comforts like knowing who is wrong and who is bad. In the end, I was really only surprised at how many people believed the lies.

That was a long time ago. These days when people ask me where I go to church, the question always makes me uncomfortable. I usually hem and haw. I awkwardly explain how most weeks I find a place to worship with other believers, but that I don’t belong to a particular church. I tell them that I love the local church. I have been blessed through it and tried to bless in return. But I don’t know how to belong there anymore. I have tried. Even if I did know how, aligning with one group often implicitly means aligning against another group. I don't want that. I want to belong to the community of all people who have, in some way or another, chosen to follow Christ in selfless love. I want to learn from each of them instead of sitting in judgment over those that differ from me.

Some people don’t understand that answer. I can see the bolts and locks click behind their eyes as I am slotted into some box neatly labeled “uncommitted,” or “fallen” or simply “other.” Some try to recruit me. Some politely dismiss me. Some mistakenly pity me. Yet there are a few - more and more as the years go by - who understand. I can always tell by the way they exhale, the way the muscles in their faces relax. I think it is because, in those moments, each of us knows that we are not alone. We, too, are a community of faith.

There are nights when I find myself lost in the stars. They have always moved me. They remind me that we were made to wonder. I wonder about hope and life and truth and dreams. Mostly I wonder about God, and how beautiful it will be to someday sit with him and listen as he tells my story, instead of experiencing it from this dreadful time-bound perspective inside the narrative. I am reminded that the stories borne on the light of these stars are already millions of years old. Still, they are magnificent, each one authored by a God who loves beauty and light and perhaps, above all, a good story.

I think of Abraham looking up at these same stars that hover brightly in the darkness like bits of broken glass in the light of the moon. I remember how God called him away from his home to a land he had never seen. Out here in this desert of faith, I can relate. Under these stars, Abraham believed a promise that God would give him a place and make him a blessing to others (Genesis 12:2-3). Abraham was an outsider. Jesus was too. Maybe these stars are my promise too, from One outsider to another, that God’s love and blessing might sometimes shine brighter out here where the city lights begin to fade.

It seems fitting, then, to finally say thanks to those unlikely prophets who meant for evil what God meant to me for good. Without them, I would be a different person. Without them, I would know a smaller God. Without them, I might never have left home to follow God out into this land where the City of God meets the City of Man. It is a strange promised land. But it is the promise and not the land that matters, and the promise is that God will always be with us wherever we land. So, I'll raise a tent here and an altar and I will seek to be a blessing in the name of the God who promises his love to us and seals it with a cross.

(Re)Imagining a Desert Faith Community

I attended a spiritual retreat recently led by author Carl McColman.  Though not himself a monk, he loves the monastic tradition and holds a formal relationship with the monastery as a “lay Cistercian”  As soon as he began to speak, I felt a strange kinship.  In fact, some of his words about contemplation and intimacy with a knowably unknowable (I make up words) God had dribbled from my own pen earlier in the day.   I had a chance to speak with him afterwards.  During our short discussion, I told him of my fascination with the Desert Fathers (and Mothers) and how I felt that there must be some kind of similar space in Christianity today for those who live at the periphery of the church.  

His response filled me with hope.  I paraphrase.  "We are living in a kind of new Reformation today," he said, "where we have an opportunity to re-imagine the church."  Re-imagine the church.  I like that.  I love the church, but there is a deep and central part of me that longs for something beyond what I have encountered.  

I love my Catholic, Episcopal and Lutheran brothers and sisters with their rich history and beautiful liturgies filled with wonder and majesty.  I love my Baptist and Methodist and Evangelical Non-Denominational family with their simple pragmatism and fierce devotion to heart-focused faith.  I love my charismatic friends whose strikingly supernatural and mystical worldview resonates in so many ways with that of the Desert Fathers themselves.  I love the house churches in their clutches of individualized personality and piety.  Each is imperfect, but all are beautiful.

And yet, I long for something else.  Not so much something more.  To say that implies there is something insufficient or inherently wrong with the church in its current form(s).  I just feel a calling to something... different.  Not something in opposition to the church as it is, but something in relationship with it.  Something that takes all the beautiful things of the church and mushes them together into something simple and equal and good.  I have tried unsuccessfully for years to articulate this idea or vision or hallucination.

A Lutheran pastor and friend of mine recently spoke bluntly to me.  “What you want is a church for people outside the church,” he said.  I cursed at him.  Then I agreed with him.  But that’s not exactly it.  Not a church in the common sense of the word.  God knows the world doesn’t need another church.  There are plenty of good churches, and I have a dark suspicion that one of every two church planters harbors a secret desire to build his/her own little empire.  The Christian faith has had enough of empires.

So, let me try again.  I envision a faith community without hierarchy, dogma, compulsion or demarcation lines.  A resting place for nomads, oddballs, outcasts and the spiritually injured.  A wayside gathering for those of us who are going somewhere, but have yet to discover exactly where; who need each other not so much for accountability as for inspiration and company on the journey;  who love the church, but are at peace at its edges; who are simply looking for Jesus Christ wherever he may be found.  Maybe that dream is too idealistic.  Maybe it’s impossible.  Probably.  Should I want it any less?  

What if it’s dangerous?  That’s a good question.  I suspect that all good things are dangerous.  All can be taken too far.  All can be manipulated and abused.  The gospel, too, is like that.  But safety also comes at a cost:  an opportunity lost.

Questions:  

1.  Do you identify with a deep love for the church and yet find yourself not quite "home" there?

2.  Do you live "at the edge" of the church?  How do you live an active and satisfying spiritual life?  How do you find ways to relate to the church while finding yourself at its borders?

3.  What would a re-imagining of the faith community look like to you?

A Voice in the Wilderness

(I had the privilege of sharing this message at St. Matthew's Lutheran Church in Paducah, KY on this last Sunday of the year.  It seemed appropriate to post it here as well.  Thank you to all the members at St. Matthew's for their gracious kindness and patience.  God's peace and blessing surround you in the coming year.)

The world is a crowded room filled with voices.  Voices nearby.   Voices from across the world.  Voices from the present.  Voices from the past.  Quiet voices.   Loud voices.   Authoritative voices.  Rebellious voices.  Happy voices.  Angry voices.  Countless voices.  Many of those voices are asking questions.  Some are giving answers.  Most just want to be heard.  Yet amidst all those voices, Christianity asserts that somehow, somewhere God is speaking.

But how will we hear his voice above the chaos?   In scripture, God's voice flashes like lightning from Mount Sinai (Exodus 19:19).  It roars from clouds of flame (Deut 5:22) and thunders from the mouths of prophets.   It whispers softly with the wind to Elijah (1 Kings 19:12-13) and echoes hesitantly from the lips of children like Samuel (1 Samuel 3:15-18).  It is found on the tongues of both good and evil men (Balaam: Num 22, Caiaphas: John 11:49-52).  How can we hope to know the voice of such a strange and wild and mysterious God?

Like you, I have spent much of my life listening for the voice of God.   One thing I have discovered: there is no shortage of voices who are willing to speak for Him.   They are Legion.  And they vary widely in their perspectives on God.   One of the greatest struggles of my faith has been the attempt to reconcile so many different voices; to distinguish, amidst all the words about God, which ones are the “Word of God.”

These voices come to us in concentric circles as we move outward in faith and relationship.   The first voices we hear, of course, are those closest to us.  The values, beliefs and ideals of family, friends and fellow community members have an overwhelming influence over us.   For some people, this will be the core of their faith.   Such faith can be a beautiful thing.   It can bring diverse communities together and maintain unity in the midst of conflict and division.   It gives us an identity.   It places us in a larger narrative, a story about “us.”   God is “our God.”   Faith is the faith “of our Fathers.”

Such was the faith of the Israelite people.  Unfortunately, this kind of faith also created, for some of the Jewish leaders, a view of themselves as God's chosen people over and above the rest of the world.   When the Pharisees claimed special status as the descendents of Abraham, Jesus confronted their pride, saying, “God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham (Luk 3:8 NAS).”  Later in the OT, as well as with the Jewish leaders of the NT, we find the world divided culturally into two groups:   Jews and the Gentiles; “us” and “them.”   It is a perspective that has proven all too common in our Christian communities as well, with sometimes devastating consequences.

Some people will be forced to move beyond this first circle faith.   For one reason or another they will be confronted with questions and difficulties that their inherited Christianity cannot answer.  Some will take the first reasonable answer that is presented to them.   They are not looking for “the” answer, they simply need “an” answer.   One that can accommodate their new questions.   It is no less faith for being practical.  Indeed practical faith is often the most productive.   However, such a faith is likely to find its “first reasonable answer” shouted on the loudest voices - simply because they are louder or more numerous.   But the loudest voices are rarely the most accurate or trustworthy.   Often, loud voices are just... loud.   Volume is a convenient substitute for validity.

Others will find themselves intimidated into submission by one voice or another out of fear.  Fear of social consequence.   Fear of failure.  Fear of an angry God.  Fear of the end of the world.   Fear is a club.  It is a tool for manipulation.   It does not require reason.  It doesn't even require a legitimate reason to be afraid.  Fear is easily manufactured.   Bogeymen and falling skies can be cobbled together from just about anything.

The voice of fear may be the most dangerous of all voices.  It has been used to justify the cruelest of actions in the name of God.  It has stripped away individuals' rights and freedoms... “for their own good.”   Wars, crusades and inquisitions are the legacy of fear.  Fear cannot create faith.   It can only ever be the basis of suspicion, doubt and paranoia.

No doubt some will cite scripture at me, “the fear of God is the beginning of Wisdom.”   But as the Apostle Paul observes 1 Corinthians 1:21, “In the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom.   So it pleased God through the foolishness of what we preach to save those who believe. (1Co 1:21 ESV).”   This foolishness is the gospel – the love of God expressed in Christ.  And as John writes in his first letter, “There is no fear in love...the one who fears has not been made perfect in love” (1 John 4:18).

It is no coincidence that the writers of the NT are so quick to understand Jesus and his gospel of selfless love as the “word of God.”  Early in the scriptures, we find God speaking directly to those who seek him (Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac and Joseph).   As time progresses, we find God still communicating his message through direct revelation, but now by way of a singular group of people known as the "prophets." Throughout the OT, the “word of God” is understood as this directly revealed message of God or the written record of it.  However, by the beginning of the book of Acts, the “word of God” has become virtually synonymous with Jesus' message and actions.  Jesus is the voice of God.

The question I have to ask is... Why?   Of all the voices speaking for God in first century Judaism, why did people listen to Jesus?   There were other “Messiahs.”   He was not the first to die for his cause (Acts 5:35-39).   There were other prophets, priests and kings.   Why should anyone listen to a homeless wandering rabbi who spent most of his time on the wrong side of the tracks?   Maybe it was the miracles.   Perhaps.   But miracles have a habit of being explained away.  Maybe it was his charisma.   Possibly, but crucifixion tends to rob a man of his attractiveness.   Maybe Jesus was simply at the center of the perfect religious storm.  Maybe.   Or maybe not.

One word comes up again and again in the scriptures when people listened to Jesus: “amazed” (Mk 1:22, Mk 10:24, Mk 12:17, Mk 15:5).  His words weren't like other people's words.  They were upside down and backwards and no one could quite wrap their head around them.   Yet somehow people knew they were true.  Even the people who wanted him silenced seemed to know he was speaking the truth.   They just wanted him to shut up about it.

The scriptures tell us that humanity was created in the image of God.  There are lots of opinions about what exactly that means, but most theologians would agree that at least some part of God's image remains with us.  I believe that image within us still resonates with the things of God, a kind of “deep that calls out to deep” (Psalm 42:7).  Maybe it's broken.  It is clearly fallible.   But when people listened to Jesus, it lit up like a firecracker.   If God were to speak, they must have thought, this is what it would sound like.

Jesus' every word and action pointed to a God of selfless love.   His message was not about “us” and “them.”  It was simply about “us.”  A kingdom that welcomed anyone and everyone who was willing to share that welcome with others.   His voice was rarely loud.   But there was authority and power in it, because he spoke truth.   And though he had fearful words for the arrogant and self-righteous religious crowd, the Father Jesus spoke of was one who loved relentlessly and unconditionally... who forgave without measure.

The God we find in Jesus invites us into a Kingdom of love.  Not because he wants to be a king.  Rather because our lives are not just for ourselves, but for each other.  This God calls us not so much to what some call “sinlessness,” but to a life of selflessness in love. Selflessness is infinitely more difficult than “sinlessness.” We define “sin” externally. Sin is what “bad” people do. It is what “they” do. Selflessness applies exclusively to us... to me.  I don't like selflessness.   I'm not good at it.  That is how I know God is calling me to it.

How then can we know the voice of God?  It is the voice that sounds nothing like our own.  It thunders against our selfishness and self-righteousness.  It whispers softly that you are now and will always be intimately, unconditionally loved by God... and that love frees you to spend your own love on your neighbor... and even your enemy.  The voice of God is the voice that sounds like Jesus. Listen and follow.

Happy Thanksgiving! You're Going to Hell.

It is Thanksgiving morning and I am clearing leaves from the front lawn with my kids. I am clearing. They are jumping. Down our street strolls a smiling, fresh-faced dad with three children wistfully eyeing the massive piles of leaves strewn about our lawn. Recognizing that fall has magically transformed my lawn into the small-town equivalent of Disneyland, I tell my kids to rake up a fresh pile of leaves and invite them to join in the fun.

Following protocol, the father executes the standard career query. I explain that we're still new in town and that I'm currently teaching Driver's Ed, having spent the past 10 years in ministry. He too is a pastor, “a Southern Baptist preacher at a growing missional church I started called Illuminate.” Catchy. He's not into denominations, but “all good churches are Baptist.” I tell him I spent my ministry career in Baptist churches, but am not really committed to any one group these days. 

He begins to sermonize on absolute truth and hell. This will determine my orthodoxy. Not wishing to offend, I nod politely and respond that such topics are certainly difficult. He disagrees. He just believes what the Bible says. I know where he is going. I smile. He waits. Sighing, I explain that I am not a literalist. I believe the Bible to be authoritative but not inerrant, so my conclusions may differ from his. 

Smiling brightly, he speaks with exactly the tone I would expect from someone who just handed me a crisp new hundred dollar bill, “You know what your problem is, you probably aren't really saved.”

Color me illuminated. Following a brief but anatomically detailed analogy of homosexual and adulterous behavior, he explains that those who do not feel convicted about wrong beliefs or behavior do not have the Holy Spirit and are, therefore, not saved. I suggest the wrong behavior of apathy in many conservative Christian communities. He doesn't want to talk about that. I observe that it seems convenient to say that everyone who disagrees with you is going to hell. He doesn't want to talk about that either.

I tell him of my own faith in Christ. He is unconvinced. He interrogates me. Twists my words. Maneuvers the conversation to put me on the defensive. Apparently unable to find a suitable weak spot, he remarks, “Well, I guess it is possible to be saved and still be ignorant of the scriptures.”

I let his words hang in the air for a moment. With reservation, I respond that his inerrant, literal standard renders virtually the entirety of Western Christianity prior to the 18th century ignorant of scripture and probably condemned to hell.

“Don't be mad at me,” he says through the teeth of a car salesman.

Gee, why would I? I put on the smile I keep in my pocket just for car salesmen. “Since we began this conversation,” I gently point out, “you have called me both hell-bound and ignorant. You are unlikely to have many meaningful discussions with people if all your conversations go the same way.”

“Well, I did say a person can be saved and still not know anything about the scriptures.” 

I sigh. He calls to his kids and prepares to go. He reminds me of his name and wishes me a Happy Thanksgiving as he walks away. I return his sentiment and wave goodbye.

I imagine him shaking the dust off his feet as he returns home, praying for my soul, congratulating himself on a fine demonstration of Christian faith in the face of adversity. I think about how sometimes even faith can divide the world into “us” and “them” over the pettiest of things. I rake the remaining leaves into the ditch and set them afire. The flames dance, the heat and the smoke burn my eyes and lungs and skin and I think about hell and heaven and Jesus and judgment. 

I think about how those who are the most sure about hell seem equally convinced it is for those who believe or behave differently from themselves. I think about how powerful a motivator is fear. I think about 1 John 4:18, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.” When only ashes remain, I walk slowly back home, thankful.

Desert Echoes #8 - A Comm-unity of Dreamers

One of the elders used to say:  In the beginning when we got together we used to talk about something that was good for our souls, and we went up and up, and ascended even to heaven.  But now we get together and spend our time criticizing everything, and we drag one another down into the abyss. (From The Wisdom of the Desert, by Thomas Merton, saying LXI).

There is no church without community.

There is no community without unity.

There is no unity without respect for difference.

I dream that someday the church will be whole again.  Perhaps not under a single organizational structure, but living out unification in purpose and relationship amidst the diversity of expressions of the faith.  In other words, I labor under the hope that Christianity really can be one faith, one holy catholic church, if each group learns to truly love the others and work together in celebration of their differences.  I don't think the church will ever be fully effective, truly function as the image and body of Christ, until it can do so.  I think, if it were able to accomplish this one simple yet seemingly impossible feat, it would be the greatest testimony to the truth of Christ and the Christian faith that the modern world has ever known.  In our splintered and individualized world, who could fail to be amazed by such a community of unity?

However, an unsettling realization has begun to dawn on me.  There are some attitudes within the modern church which - if maintained - appear to make unity a virtual impossibility.

I was recently given the opportunity to lead worship in the church where my wife grew up.  It was a wonderful experience and it reminded me of all the things I love about my evangelical background.  The people and the pastor were gracious, supportive, genuine and unpretentious.  The message centered on things from which we must separate ourselves.  On this most Christians would agree, that there are things that we are called to separate ourselves from:  selfishness, indulgence, injustice, pride, violence, jealousy, immorality.  However, I found myself at a loss when the speaker said that we must separate ourselves "from the saints."

"Lottie" Moon

The illustration was given of Charlotte Digges "Lottie" Moon, a Southern Baptist missionary honored even in the Lesser Feasts and Fasts of the Episcopal church.  In 1881, Moon made plans to marry Crawford Howell Toy, a scholar and professor of Hebrew at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville Kentucky.  These plans were later undone, with Moon citing "religious reasons" for the cancellation of the impending wedding.  Said "religious reasons" apparently related to his controversial beliefs regarding the Old Testament influenced by Julius Wellhausen and historical-criticism.  These beliefs ultimately led to a forced resignation from the seminary and his establishment one year later as professor of Hebrew and Semitic languages at Harvard and his later conversion to Unitarianism. [1], [2]  This controversy kindles Southern Baptist fires to this day:  Albert Mohler's Heresy is Not Heroic.

Crawford Howell Toy

The implication of this sermon illustration appears to be that "conservative" believers should separate themselves from "liberals" - defined as those who do not believe in scripture as "the inerrant Word of God."  I fully understand and respect the importance of the doctrine of inerrancy for some.  But I am confused and heartbroken by an attitude that unity is only possible with those who agree with "us."  According to such a view, those who believe otherwise can be deemed  nothing less than heretical and apostate at best - at worst, "the enemy."  Unity with one's enemy goes beyond reason.

Now, every community must have a core set of commonalities which unite them.  For a religious community, it is only reasonable that those essentials will involve beliefs about their god(s).  For Christianity, these essentials must relate to the nature and character of God in Jesus Christ.  For better or worse, that's what all the councils, creeds and treatises on heresy were about in the early years of Christianity.  The were defining who Jesus was.  Why?  Because Christianity was about Jesus.

Scripture is vital to Christianity.  It is the well from which we draw virtually everything we can know about Christ himself.  Nearly every Christian I've ever met - liberal or conservative - has agreed that scripture is inspired by God and authoritative for the faith.  They have not, to be fair, been unanimous about what exactly that means.

But Christianity is not about the Bible.  Once again, it is about Jesus.  It is about Jesus being God and revealing the Father to us.  It is about God redeeming humanity in Christ.  It is about the invitation of God to live in response to - and in imitation of - his grace and love as revealed in Jesus.

Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, 

though he were dead, yet shall he live: (John 11:25, KJV)

As such, our faith must be based fundamentally in the person of Jesus Christ, not a particular understanding of the nature or role of scripture.  With all love and respect, it seems to me that to insist otherwise goes against the fundamental message of all scripture, all tradition and every word of Christ himself.  Neither is our faith placed in a particular tradition, intellectual belief or spiritual experience.  Those things are good.  These are important.  All of them play a part in piecing together our patchwork understanding of the mystery of God in Christ - as encountered spiritually or mystically in faith, as discovered in the cogs of creation or the revelations of reason, as handed down by our forebears in the faith.  The essence of our faith, on the other hand, resides in the reality of Christ that lies beyond all understanding.

Clearly, the writer of the saying above did NOT have the modern ecclesiastical dilemma in mind.  Instead, he spoke regarding the tendency of monastic community to degrade from mutual inspiration to mutual dissatisfaction and discontent.  Still, the application is similar.  As the church, let us return to the things that mutually nurture our souls and the lives of those around us instead of turning every whim or personal conviction into a source of division threatening to drag us down into mutual destruction.  I believe the dream of a holy, catholic church can come true, but it will have to be our dream.  All of us, dreaming together about Jesus and about his Kingdom, even when our dreams aren't the same.  Maybe because our dreams were never intended to be the same.  Maybe because all those dreams together give us a picture of something bigger than anything we could dream separately.

Questions:

1.  Is the dream of a unified Christianity practically possible?  Is it naive/foolish/evil?  Why or Why not?

2.  How do certain moral views play into unity?  Can people who are fundamentally opposed on a moral issue like abortion, still live and worship in unity?

3.  Obviously there must be boundaries to what defines "Christianity".  What defines Christianity to you?  What is the widest possible net one can cast?

Desert Echoes #7 - Do Not Judge

An elder said:  Do not judge a fornicator if you are chaste, for if you do, you too are violating the law as much as he is.  For He who said thou shalt not fornicate also said thou shalt not judge.
(From The Wisdom of the Desert, by Thomas Merton, saying XLIII).




When I originally wrote this a few weeks ago, the internet and news media were ablaze with the issue of same-sex marriage. I'm not going to weigh in on the legality of gay marriage.  I doubt that anyone on either side of the discussion would be thrilled about my opinions.  However, I do feel froggy enough to jump at the spiritual side of the momentous discussions that will take place over the ensuing months and years.

One of the most frustrating thoughts I have heard from some pulpits involves the lamentation of a proposed misinterpretation of  Mt 7:1-5, in which Jesus says, "Do not judge."  I have heard pastors expound that we do, in fact, have a right - even a responsibility - to judge others.  To justify this opinion, they emphasize Jesus' parabolic discussion about splinters and planks.  Appealing to verse 5, they claim, "Jesus wasn't suggesting we shouldn't judge others," rather, "he was saying to get our own lives fixed first so that we might be able to rightly judge others."

There are numerous problems with this interpretation.  The most important is that it misses the thrust of Jesus' initial statement:  "Do not judge, so that you will not be judged."  You are not to judge others because the judgment that goes around comes around (verse 2).  The plank in the eye of the pharisees is their obsession with judging others.  They are so focused on the sins of their neighbors that they are completely oblivious to the fundamental sinfulness with which they themselves are plagued.

It seems to me that the point is not that they are judging wrongly because they are hypocrites.  The point is that we are all hypocrites so we have no business judging others at all.  The religious leaders are "blind guides" (see verse 39 of the parallel passage in Luke 6) because they do not realize that what everyone (including themselves) needs is not judgment but redemption.  And when it comes to redemption, Jesus is the only game in town.

I often hear complaints that those who take Jesus' command against judgment literally do so because they have blindly embraced our culture's "moral relativity."  How interesting then, to discover how contemporary and powerful are the words of the Desert Fathers on this subject:  "Do not judge a fornicator [even] if you are chaste."  Why?  Because "you too are violating the commandment as much as he [or she] is."  Moral relativity wasn't the issue for the Fathers, the issue was faithfulness to God, being merciful as their Father was merciful.

As I grow older three things become more and more clear to me:  my own sinfulness, my own pride and my own ignorance.  This growing awareness has led me to conclude that the morality or immorality of homosexuality pales in importance to my obligation to sacrificial love as a representative of Christ.  I will focus on proclaiming God's love and redemption and let God work as He chooses in the lives of others.  He was capable of destroying death and sin all by himself, I suspect he is capable of moving in the hearts of his children to bring them to himself in his own way and his own time.

I question the compulsion to convince someone of a spiritual peril with which God has not troubled them, particularly in the face of broader issues of injustice and suffering that confront us at every turn.  God give us the grace and strength to listen to your voice as you speak to us rather than shouting so loud that we drown you out.

Interlude

Recent family issues have prevented me from posting over the past few weeks.  Life does not always go the way we expect and walking in faith requires a little more faith at some times than others.  Moreover, there have been things I have wanted to post here.  But the things I write here have been read by people of varying faith backgrounds at different places in their relationship with God.

I have struggled with how to keep things positive on all sides when dealing with divisive issues like the role, purpose and importance of the church from the perspective of those who have found themselves skirting its edges.  I have concluded that it just isn't possible.  On the one hand, I dearly love the church and have very close friends who are church leaders and devoted members.  On the other hand, as difficult as this may be for some people, she has problems.  That certainly isn't a surprising statement for most people.  However, most people are content to say, "She has problems over there."  It's a bit more difficult when someone suggests that perhaps the problems are right here.  In some ways the problems may be universal - the problem might possibly have to do with the way the church is not just in what she does.

I've recently compiled some thoughts on creedal and doctrinal statements that I wanted to post but was afraid would be read as an attack by some of my friends.  I re-wrote it several times but still couldn't phrase it in a way that didn't have the potential to rile somebody up.  In the end, I refrained from posting it.  I've done that several times.

So here's the deal.  I don't claim to have all the answers.  I don't even claim to have any particularly original questions.  My opinions may be wrong.  They probably are wrong.  But many people I encounter struggle with many of these very things.  I myself struggle with these things.  And the shrink-wrapped answers provided by so many in church leadership do not help.  Of course, neither do unforgiving and uninformed accusations by those outside the church.  So, I'm trying to consider the issues from someplace in the middle. As I find myself actually in the middle (trained and educated for ministry but troubled with many of the same questions and concerns of those outside church), I feel like I have a somewhat unique perspective.

So, to my friends on the "inside" of the church, take these things as the well-meaning if occasionally painful observations of a sometimes wayward brother.  It has not been my intention to offend.  To my friends "outside" the church or dancing along her borders, I share with you my own thoughts and struggles not that you will use them as fodder for anger and bitterness toward the church, but that you might not abandon her, that you might find some measure of reconciliation with her and that perhaps you might kindly and lovingly help her find her way forward.

As my fortieth year hovers on the horizon, I myself am still finding my own place "inside" the church, "inside" ministry and occasionally I question if such a place exists!  But I have hope.  I believe in the "people of God."  I believe that God has chosen to work - though not exclusively - through the church.  I believe that the answer is never to walk away from the church, but to walk beside her until she is ready to let us walk with her.  Of late I have taken greater hope and consolation as I have taken broader interdenominational steps of faith, that there may indeed be a place for everyone.  It just may take a while to find it.