Despite the fact that Valentine’s Day has become as equally benign and banal as the culture who profits from something with much deeper roots, I post this in honour of she whose life, and bed, I share.
Despite the fact that Valentine’s Day has become as equally benign and banal as the culture who profits from something with much deeper roots, I post this in honour of she whose life, and bed, I share.
Given the constant pestering from my legions of adoring fans, with characteristic humility, I submit to your desire for a year-end Rob exposé. Okay, so maybe it has a little more to do with keeping up appearances and SEO ratings. Okay, so maybe I’m too lazy even for that.
Consider it a need-driven march to help lay bare some personal truths gleaned from another calendar year of living large in a small town. In any case, here’s my look back at a year, now mere hours in our rearview mirrors.
A few hours ago, that big, magical clock from which we run, upon which we hang our goals, and against which we struggle, strain, and strive for personal betterment clunk itself over from 2018 to 2019. And, in that instant, all our accumulated belly fat, financial debts, interpersonal fireworks, and personal bugaboos disappeared in plumes of rainbow-coloured smoke.
Well, for those of us who lived through it sober, ’twas nothing more than the slight rightward movement of the minute hand on my late father’s mantle clock. That is, of course, if I were awake to see the magic happen (I wasn’t).
2018. Hmm, what to say about the year. Despite being a year primarily of seeking and discernment, a kind of quiet faithfulness to duty prevailed. So much so, that I struggle to write much of anything with any real drama, sizzle or wow. A certain plodding along prevailed. A daily attention to the simple joys of waking up, having a job to do, and family and friends for whom to do it.
2018 did see a number of significances worth mentioning, not the least of which was the end of a thirteen-year long chapter. We bid farewell to the Master of Arts program in Spiritual Formation and Leadership through Spring Arbor University, Michigan. I graduated from this program in 2011. It’s one of the few genuinely cool things I get to hang on my wall.
My relationship to this program is close and deeply held. As is my reverence for the stalwart souls who envisioned and implemented it so well. Through my role as musical liturgist, and resident buffoon (I never got paid extra for that),
I was given opportunity to work with spiritual luminaries the likes of Richard Foster, Tony Campolo, Shane Claiborne, Mindy Caliguire, Robert Mulholland, Reed Sheard, Valerie Dodge-Reyna, Eric Rasmussen, Elaine Heath, Michael Christensen, Robert Moore-Jumonville, Wil Hernandez, John Michael Talbot, Juanita Rasmus Dallas Willard, and numerous others. People whose books dot my shelves and whose spirits challenge my own.
It was like letting the poor kid from the blue collar neighbourhood hang out in the executive box (is that what it’s called?) at the Superbowl (that’s the football thingy, right?). I was the starry-eyed groupie meeting his super-heroes for the first time. Not only did I meet them, but we even worked together in the process of souls intermingling at heaven’s cocktail party. It means that, now, I can shamelessly name-drop like everyone else! I’ll have one of those “wait till you hear this” kind of stories for water-cooler and narthex, post-service chit chat.
But seriously, my heart is heavy with its demise. And, yes Ms. Dion, my heart will go on, but not without a dent or two from some serious front-end collisions with God’s good people, equally hungry for spiritual food.
A rather vexing concern of 2018 was the personally arid landscape for new words. Put another way, a decided lack of writer’s cramp. Subsequently, I’d become accustomed to dropping bits and bobs of literary refuse hither, thither, and yon.
Anyone who creates anything at all is constantly confronted by this particular demon. Hips are always a little out of joint thanks to creative-angel wrestling-tomfoolery. That said, it was not entirely without a gem here or there. Besides, like the end of an old toothpaste tube, here I am all the same, squeezing out whatever is left in the curl (because I squeeze out toothpaste properly!).
My journey in a renewed sobriety continued apace. The egg-faced embarrassment of a 2016 fall from grace is still freshly washed off and replaced by the smile of A.A. rediscovery.
I discovered the little joys of posting spiritual memes rather than multi-layered tomes.
All things U.K., longing and retrospective, coupled with growing understanding of my own lineage dotted this blog as well. I dare say, it will always be that way.
My 2017 retrospective shared much of what I continue to encounter in daily living. That is, an appreciation for the beauties of, well, daily living. What could be at the root of this humanizing of an otherwise heady mysticism? Could it be the relative lack of mid-fifties testosterone? A more ready shrug of the shoulder to that which might have destroyed a younger me? The unyielding march of days set in years, marching still faster, that offer greater calm in the storm? A good running regime? Dental hygiene?
Whatever the case, my life, despite its fair share of discouragements and mystifying conundrums, seems to have taken on a more settled timbre to its previous, grittier iterations. How can one be anything but grateful for such?
My wife of over thirty years continues apace wrestling her first novel into submission. I’m sure more on that tale will be forthcoming. My sons, Calum (27) and Graeme (22), are struggling and reaching and hoping as young men do to find their respective places in the proverbial panoply of similarly struggling humanity. Graeme graduated from Selkirk College in Contemporary Music and Technology. Calum writes and produces music and paints houses.
Of them, I could not be more in awe.
Despite an appalling lack of inspiration (sometimes even interest), I plod along in my daily responsibilities as music and worship director at Yakima Covenant Church. For reasons best left a mystery, they continue to employ me. I think they even like me. Not everyone can say as much. And, that alone, gives me pause for reflective gratitude.
So then, like you, I stand at the threshold (such a tired, but useful metaphor) of a new calendar year. In one hand I hold my hopes and aspirations for what I’d like to see in my life and ministry. In the other, the memories and experience of all that helped fill the other hand.
And I sing songs of remembrance. Of hope. Of lives yet to touch. Of songs yet to sing in days yet to live.
Most of all, eight years on, you are so appreciated, my beloved innerwoven family. Your interest in my words, pontifications, occasional perturbations, and contemplations – my life – mean that you are as much a part of me as anyone else.
I am humbled by your presence here and your willingness to hang out at this cyber-fire with me. Let’s keep telling fireside stories together for our mutual edification, shall we?
Thanks for just being here with me and, Happy New Year.
Renovation of the Church: What Happens When a Seeker Church Discovers Spiritual Formation by Kent Carlson and Mike Lueken – A Review
Drive down any neighborhood street in America and one is struck by the sheer number of church buildings dotting the suburban landscape. They are all roughly the same size, striving toward the same full palette of programming options, and feigning ecumenism while struggling for the same group of spiritual consumers intent on gaining the biggest bang for their religious buck. All this while balancing a staff-for-growth strategy with the mortgage on a newly renovated building designed to make those same folks comfortable, happy and faith satisfied.
The Christian church in North America wrestles with an image crisis. More specifically, it wrestles with a crisis over image; image over anything else. Ever since the church growth movements of the seventies and eighties that saw the emergence of the mega-church and seeker movements, we have trained ourselves well as church leadership offering a goods and services model of Christian life. The colorful costuming, extensive advertising and lavish user-friendly layouts all hint at some high-interest Promised Land investment, but in the end make us guilty of false advertising. By only catering to the felt needs of the spiritual-goods and services clientele we misrepresent the gospel’s insistence upon self-sacrifice and identifying our deepest needs.
As someone who, for four years, was on the music and arts staff at a large Willow Creek Association church in British Columbia, I was instantly drawn to encounter the newly published, Renovation of the Church: What Happens When a Seeker Church Discovers Spiritual Formation by co-pastors, Kent Carlson and Mike Lueken, and offer a few thoughts.
Like so many other churches of its era and philosophy, Oak Hills enjoyed a meteoric rise from a few dozen people in a strip mall to many hundreds in just over a decade. The high production values endemic of the seeker-targeted church mentality assisted in creating a monster that “demanded to be fed.” When one stands back and looks at sheer statistics and rapidity of growth it is a hard ideology to criticize. That is especially true in our own cultural setting where we are now suffering the effects of an economic beast created through consumerist greed, unbridled capitalism and blind adherence to the free market. It has now turned to face its creator and is quite happily dining on us. The church has mimicked the prevailing culture perfectly and is paying the price. Oak Hills was paying that price. Renovation of the Church is a book that tells the story of how they recognized the high price they were paying and, instead, sought to redefine itself in an entirely new way; a sustainable way. The Jesus way.
These concerns have faced all of us to some degree. In this regard Oak Hills is no different than any other local collective of believers. What is telling for our purposes however is the ways through which they were brought into a new arena of self-reflection, asking hard questions like how to present the radical message of Christ in a church that has catered to the religious demands of the nominally committed, or how the cross and self-denial can possibly become the central facts in a prosperous, consumer culture. Or, how can discipleship to Jesus be the modus operandi in a thriving North American congregation? Carlson and Lueken openly share the ways Oak Hills turned to face the monster, stare it down and either tame or kill it. They chose neither. Instead, they were reintroduced to the Way of Jesus with its inherently subversive undertones.
A staff retreat to Donner Lake, California, playfully called the Donner Party, became their epiphany. “Gradually, we began to get some clarity on a troubling truth: attracting people to church based on their consumer demands is in direct and irredeemable conflict with inviting people, in Jesus’ words, to lose their lives in order to find them. It slowly began to dawn on us that our method of attracting people was forming them in ways contrary to the way of Christ” (p. 35). Eugene Peterson would heartily agree, offering a similar viewpoint in his book The Jesus Way. How we journey is every bit as important as with whom.
The transition from their Donner Retreat illuminations to an Oak Hills steeped in seeker-church mentality to a new entity built upon spiritual formation and kingdom life forms the basis for most of the book. By their own admission, that has been a richly rewarding but deeply painful process. Faced with a crushing clash of values, they had to admit that when they turned to face what it was that was lacking, they “found themselves hungering for a life with God that had more substance, more depth, more reality” (pg. 31). Their palette of boast-worthy ministries didn’t include well-fed souls. The lives of congregants too closely mirrored those in the surrounding culture. The human spirit has an annoying way of insisting upon its needs.
The scope of the book did not allow it, but I believe that much of our contemporary philosophy of ministry grows out of an insufficient theology so tied to the culture in its efforts at relevance that it becomes incongruous with the deeper call of the transforming gospel. Oak Hills seems to have avoided some of these pitfalls due in part to their complete reexamination of the gospel they were preaching and the philosophical crucible out of which it was spawned.
As effective as the Willow Creek model has been (the authors graciously offer praise rather than subtly boasting a ‘look at us now’ motif) it unearths this cut and dried notion of who’s in and who’s out, lost and found, saved and unsaved. This is great for building pie graphs for the boardroom. It is not so helpful in determining the state of the human soul before the God who calls us to union with Godself. Too often we give the impression of having the answer to every question.Says Lueken, however, this “illusion of understanding pinches the mystery of faith” (p. 99). The seeker model is utterly dependent on this epistemological approach. Essentially, Oak Hills began to morph from a propositional gospel into an incarnational one.
It takes great courage to begin the immense and bloody task of moving a large ship like Oak Hills that has inertia, a history of success, and much to lose. The systemic change for which they had opted required and found a unified leadership. This is one of the great strengths I believe in the Oak Hills transition from faith-wide to faith-deep. If a church or organization can weather the gargantuan groundswell of change required of them, it will do so by means of careful listening to the continued guidance of the Spirit in concert with solidly committed, interdependent leadership.
What Oak Hills came up against is the inevitable result of the runaway train of self-satisfying materialism, birthed in a political crucible lacking checks and balances and designed for its flourishing, all supported by a weak and insipid theology that, in the interest of getting more customers, is often complicit in its advance, baptizing it in Christian jargon. The gospel of Jesus Christ is promoted as the best among a pantheon of available choices. As a result, the buying public views it as such; one loaf among many.
This is the courage of Oak Hills. Says Lueken, “we began to realize the gospel is bigger and grander than a private transaction between a sinner and God” (pg. 56). Evangelicalism, of which the seeker model is the ultimate representation, is fed by the culture in an effort to preach a message about God. A spiritual formation model allows Jesus to change us, taking the culture along for the ride. It is about the God of the message.
They make the poignant observation that, if followers of Christ “are barely distinguishable from the non-churched people around us, the kingdom of God is not advancing” (pg. 87). We should not succumb to the temptation of thinking that God’s kingdom is expanding simply because our organizations are growing bigger. In fact, it is more common that the expansion of the local body, at least in the short term, is inversely proportionate to its growth deeper rather than wider. Says St. Francis of Assisi, “few be the lovers of the cross.”
Oak Hills began the process of change by first addressing their own leadership ambitions, seeing them for what they were. This needed honest recognition and open-heart surgery. Most notably, the oft incendiary nature of ecclesiastical culture wars, in this case church-wide versus church-deep, was at least partially quelled in the humble waters of their kind-hearted approach. The story is peppered with a heady, refreshing honesty all but missing in most works of this kind.
For me, the chapter on worship, alone, was worth reading the book. As the authors are careful to clarify, the seeker movement has reintroduced the arts back into the local church. But, again, only inasmuch as it points at belief in a doctrine about God rather than an expression of God; God’s beauty and our place in the vast and mysterious cosmos. “Worship, at its best, exposes…oppressive self-absorption and invites us to root the smaller story of our lives into the larger story of God’s ongoing redemption of humanity and this universe” (p. 149). The worship of the church acts as the faith jello-mold, shaping the wobbly framework of our lives and offering spiritual coagulation.
In evangelical circles, people who do what I do are often paid handsomely because of our role in putting a pretty face on an attractional church. If we play the worship game right, we’ll be assured our market share of the paying public. In this way, Christianity basically becomes a hobby. The authors suggest however that, the deeper one’s worship theology, the less it will look like the prevailing culture. Churches will shrink accordingly. They will deepen however, something much more commensurate with the demands of Kingdom life; a life willing to forego relevance and style in favor of depth and significance. It is a radically transformed life, emerging out of corporate worship that does not “neglect issues of justice and the needs of our neighbor….Biblical worship that finds God will also find our neighbor” (p. 155, 156). In other words, the quality of our worship will begin to be reflective of the quality of our lives.
If the book can be faulted for anything (other than the occasional awkward eighth grade writing level) it would be that its short, narrative style denies an even deeper reflection of the issues involved and how they are impacting so many other churches. I would like to have heard their take on church for the de-churched; those in our midst whose relationship with the larger church has been almost irrevocably damaged. Not unlike other faith communities who are aglow in their newfound Kingdom life epiphanies, their language, although much more expansive and perspicacious than earlier in their history, is in danger of creating yet another sub-culture – a spiritual formation one – with its own language, insider jargon and products. Still, their own journey reveals a willingness to embrace the unknown and shows much promise in their ever-evolving theology and ministry.
Ultimately, this book is not just an exposé of Oak Hills Church and its ministry. Nor is it primarily arguing the benefits of the church as crucible for spiritual formation. This is a book about leadership. It is a book about the possibilities available to faith communities who are willing to listen collectively to what the Spirit is saying to the church and then act vociferously on what they hear.
A church intent on growing a faith-wide organization seeks leadership. One interested in nurturing the faith-deep spiritual life of the Body seeks training in spiritual disciplines. A church intent on growing a faith-wide machine relies on unanimity of vision and approach. One set on the faith-deep pilgrimage to the Celestial City is antithetical to the leadership sub-culture since “the church is not a sect….a collection of people who see things the same way and have bought in at the same level” (p. 109).
Beyond the benefits of its testimonial merits, the authors give us a peak into the elusive leadership in faith communities looking to become Kingdom centered. It is a great primer for congregational spiritual formation.
As a graduate of Spring Arbor University’s Master of Arts in Spiritual Formation and Leadership (class of 2011), I heartily endorse this book for anyone interested in hearing a word of hope regarding the spiritual poverty of the American church and how one congregation is finding its way.
Finally, please, PLEASE toss in the bin all leadership books that utilize corporate America as their model, the very stew of consumerism out of which Oak Hills is struggling to climb.
Use this one instead.
My first installment in this new series I’ve blandly titled “7,” is on envy. I preached it as a sermon just a few weeks ago. What you’re about to read is, in fact, an amended version of that sermon.
In her chapters on Envy, pastor, author and good friend, Laurie Jackson, uses a different scripture to talk about this particular deadly – the familiar, well-loved story of “The Prodigal Son” as told in Luke’s gospel, specifically, the elder brother. A whiny codger if ever there was one.
It’s also a perfect story to discuss the sin of envy.
I’d originally thought to do the same. But, I chose the story of Cain and Abel to up the ante a bit. Laurie went PG. I went straight to R-rated. In the elder brother, we see envy being acted out in passive aggressive ways. With this story, there’s precious little passive and a whole lot more aggressive. In her book, Laurie says this about envy, and I quote, “It is possibly the subtlest of the sins and therefore, the most insidious.
I believe she may be right.
We’re surrounded in the sin of envy. Our commerce is built on it. Human relationships swim in it. Its effects are felt everywhere, daily, and those effects are deep and stealthy.
There certainly is no shortage of envy or jealousy in the Bible. And, the story of Cain and Able is the tip of the iceberg. Let’s name just a few of the more infamous instances of envy in the Bible, shall we?
How about Abraham’s barren wife, Sarah, and her handmaid, Hagar? That produced an envy which resulted in centuries of religious rage and carnage among the three Abrahamic religions.
Or, how about Rachel and Leah? There was an envy that left an exhausted Jacob, constantly pregnant women, and the 12 tribes of Israel. Productive, but convoluted.
Joseph and his brothers. Here’s a sibling rivalry on steroids, that resulted in attempted fratricide, Joseph’s imprisonment, and ultimately, the nation of Israel’s bondage in Egypt.
Saul and David. Saul virtually goes ape over someone else being anointed as king and, the resulting jealousy results in the almost cartoon-like chase after David, who is harassed for years by a crazy person. And the pièce de résistance?
Jesus and the religious establishment. The religious establishment rarely likes challenges to its authority. Their hatred and envy of Jesus resulted in some great parables, but also in a sham trial, and the crucifixion of Jesus. Good thing God gets the last laugh there, huh?
The word “envy” in the New Testament sounds like a Marvel comic villain: φθονος (phthonos). Such delightful fun to hear someone pronounce after a few drinks (or before, for that matter). It means “the feeling of displeasure produced by witnessing or hearing about the advantage or prosperity of others.” In the bible, it is ALWAYS associated with evil. Its partner word is the Greek, ζηλιάρης (Zeeliaris) that has rather broader meaning, not always negative, as it is also related to zeal.
The story of Cain and Abel is an odd one to be sure. I must confess this story has always troubled me. A shallow reading will leave one feeling as though there’s entrapment on the part of God toward Cain. A set up.
Perhaps, in a sense, it is. Like many good stories, there’s much left out that invites speculation on the part of reader. We’re forced to ask the question, how truncated is the timetable here? How much time has elapsed? Listen to how fast this moves:
“Now the man knew his wife Eve, and she conceived and bore Cain, saying, “I have produced a man with the help of the Lord. Next, she bore his brother Abel. Now Abel was a keeper of sheep, and Cain a tiller of the ground.” To the reader, one minute, Adam and Eve are “knowing” each other, the next they have two grown sons with careers and well-tended sibling grudges. If this were a movie, we’d get a screen notification saying, “25 years later.”
That alone tells us something. The kind of sibling rivalry and attendant jealousy at work here doesn’t just crop up overnight. The same could be true of the two brothers in the Prodigal Son story. This is something stoked over many years. We haven’t been in living rooms or at kitchen tables where Adam and Eve seem to favour one lad over the other, or where the father doted on the younger son while leaving the elder son to run the business. We have to trust that God and the storyteller know what they’re doing as we fill in the blanks.
Envy and jealousy are complex. Like wine or tea, they require time to age appropriately. Trust me, with Cain and Abel, jealousies are ripe for the picking. This is a cauldron ready to boil over. And God knows this.
By the time they’d brought their offerings to the Lord – Abel, an entrée, and Cain, a house salad – (I dare say we’d all be a little disappointed) murder is already waiting in the wings. The fire of Cain’s jealousy is running hot, a volcano just waiting to erupt.
Hence, it’s more likely that God’s acceptance of Abel’s offering, and dismissal of Cain’s has less to do with content than with intent. Abel’s heart contained no anger, no guile, no envy. Just satisfaction. Worship. But one imagines that, from the get-go, Cain’s heart was already choked out by dark jealousy, a one-upmanship that breeds a lust for adulation rather than pure gift of praise.
God’s statement to him? “If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it.” This sounds very cryptic until we remember that God sees everything inside of Cain. He sees everything inside of us. God’s been in the living room, at the kitchen table, in the field as he inwardly curses out his brother time and again.
This isn’t about the kind of offering. It’s about the kind of offerer.
This story illustrates for us how poisonous envy can be. And, let’s be honest, who among us hasn’t experienced this at some level? There are few things worse. Let’s pry open Cain’s head for a minute.
Let’s say, a long-awaited, well-deserved, promotion is handed to someone else. Accolades for a job well done, perhaps on a sports team, or in business, are lavished on someone utterly undeserving instead of you. Maybe that someone got there because of you.
And, at the top of the envy game? The High School hallway. Remember those wonderful, terrible days? A litany of unseen hurdles and expectations. Only the prettiest, strongest, most hip need apply. Everyone else just stay in the shadows.
This is a sin that has impacted me personally. I grew up the oldest of three adopted siblings. We lived in a tiny but happy home in the blue-collar part of Calgary. My father was a union brewery worker which meant he earned a decent living, but still a meagre one. In an effort to streamline family finances, most of our family vacations revolved around me and my music. My brother and sister toddled along for the ride. I guess it was assumed they’d get collateral enjoyment from my activities and accolades.
Guess what? Not so much. They did well, all things considered, but we were well into our forties and even fifties before we finally put all the jealousies on the table and talked through some of the resentments. Sadly, my brother and I haven’t spoken for some time now.
Envy is dangerous. It’s pervasive. It eats us alive. It gnaws away at our inner world like acid. It isn’t our friend. And where envy is, meddling, mischief, murder, and mayhem usually aren’t far behind.
But envy takes time to nurture. Just like the curmudgeonly elder brother or, worse, the murderous heart of Cain, envy roots itself deep and isn’t uprooted easily. But, we’re in the driver’s seat. We can actually determine outcomes. Sin lurks at our door and its desire is for us, but we must master it. Because God says we must, means that at some level we can, albeit with God’s help.
“So, Rob, how on earth do we master something you have yet to master?” Well, there’s a good question.
I. HAVE. NO. IDEA. But the scriptures give us help here.
Envy, just like all the other deadlies is a Goliath we must face. It is always bigger than we are. To envy is to make a statement about our own insecurity. In essence it says we’re unlovable. Unacceptable. Or less acceptable than someone else. Envy cries out for an acceptance we already have. If not in the eyes of others, most certainly in the eyes of God. God couldn’t care less about the type of offering Cain brought. God cared for the inner attitude and wholeness of the one who brought it.
Last week, we posited love as an antidote to lust. I’d like to suggest that gratitude is an antidote to envy.
Out of gratitude can grow a healthy self-love in which there is no longer any need to pursue the validation of others. It becomes much less necessary since we have all we need in ourselves already.
I have enough. I am enough. I am loved.
And, in this love comes a beautiful freedom to champion the well-being of another. When I am enough, the quest for something else to bolster my sense of self is circumvented, short-circuited, and I’m set free to help someone else find what I already have. The Bible says, “Wrath is cruel, anger is overwhelming, but who is able to stand before jealousy?”
How do we master such a beast? Envy is deadly. But, the antidote to envy is gratitude, shown in love. It is the David of gratitude to the Goliath of envy. Our need to envy is outstripped only for our need of God.
Lord, have mercy on us and grant us peace. Amen.
Seven deadly sins.
How’s that for a conversation starter? Equally robust topics for family night be Nazi surgical techniques or the best fecal matter for fertilizing roses. How perfect for those post-dinner gatherings on cold winter nights. “Hey kids, gather round. We’re gonna talk about the quickest way to eternal damnation. Oh, and bring me a beer.”
Good friend, colleague, and all-round good egg, Laurie Jackson, just published her first book, “Little White Lies and the Seven Deadly Sins.” It isn’t an ivory tower dive into the pool of hamartiology (look it up, I dare you.) It is something better.
By her own admission, she doesn’t cover any new territory here. Instead, it reads like a conversation with Erma Bombeck while eating overripe watermelon over the sink. It’s sweet, immediate, fun, and some good juice runs down your face while ingesting good stuff. It brings the rather heavy topic of sin into a more amicable place in ways both funny and insightful.
And, it’s got me rethinking the whole topic. Sin isn’t exactly my first choice of hospitable, or even accessible party chat. And, it sucks as a Scrabble word. But the Bible seems to have rather an obsession with the stuff. It pops up like the drunk uncle at a wedding, inserting itself into otherwise polite company with slurry, spitty banter and totally short circuits our drive to the buffet line. It is as ubiquitous as it is exasperating.
Frankly, these days, I’m stuck knowing how to deal with the ramifications of this word and what it represents. The conservative theological pundits have a hard-on for it and can’t stop bemoaning how genuinely rotten is everything and everyone. Sin rules the day they cry through horn-rimmed glasses, shame and potluck on their breath. We just need to “get back” to God’s word and repent, repent, repent, feeling like shit the whole time. The guiltier we feel the better. Their Gospel: I’m shit. God’s not. Jesus took a good beating from his Dad for me. If I’m okay with that, I’m not shit anymore.
The progressive idealogues are, by contrast, tacitly unconcerned with any notion whatsoever that shadows, scraped knees, or even bad smells could possibly exist in so sunny a universe. If we just skip together, prancing hand in hand, hearty choruses of “We Shall Overcome” on our lips, no boogey-man will assert itself. We do not sin. We are sinned against (although I could never figure out who was first to get the ball rolling). I need only speak positively, even about the most heinous cell-blocks, and all will magically heal, rendering us all Pollyanna-happy. Their Gospel: I’m good. God is in question. The conservatives created a mess. Together, we’ll get this shit cleaned up. God’ll get a passing nod by the religious among us.
And, for both camps, the currency of faithfulness is outrage. I’m either pissed off at the sinfulness of everything everywhere, or I’m pissed off at those who are pissed off at everything everywhere. I sin in my self-righteous indignation at sin, forcing others into my thinking on the subject, or I sin in my satisfaction of not believing I’m a sinner in the first place. How’s that for a rabbit-hole conundrum?
Both feel a little insipid frankly, and neither give a particularly satisfying understanding of either sin or, by extension, grace.
As Laurie and others have stated, sin translates as missing the mark. It’s an archery term. People who shoot arrows are intentionally aiming at something. They’re scrutinizing outcomes. Their desires are set upon something good. But, in our efforts at bull’s eyes, we miss every time.
Here’s why I love this word. It actually indicates something wonderful about God, and also about us. It tells us that God cares enough to help us in our aim. But it also reveals a universal longing in the heart of humanity, one that takes aim at what it most desires. Augustine once said “our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God.” We naturally aim at what our hearts most desire: peace, fulfillment, happiness, union with the divine.
Unfortunately, something is askew. Something keeps tugging at our arms as we line up another shot into the great unknown. Sin is the annoying guy making all those rustling and taunting noises right before we take our swing down the fairway. We aim for something because we’re made for God and long to return to God. We miss that something because sin somehow gets in the way and we’re wide of the target every time. We could call sin “aiming for the right thing in all the wrong ways often enough that the wrong thing feels like the right thing.”
That is until God steps in. God intervenes and removes the shackles, weights, magnets, and distractions pulling our arrows asunder. In Christ, the arrow of our longing has finally reached its target.
The destination is Christ himself.
The 7 Deadly Sins are merely the church’s creative means of naming the primary stalls in that effort toward aiming at God’s heart. For those of you following along in Laurie’s book, here’s a quick review of those: Pride, Envy, Anger, Lust, Greed, Gluttony, Sloth.
So then, here goes an armchair theologian’s look at…7.
Maybe it all started with the insane idea of a week spent on the sea. Skipping work. Dressing up the old-school sailboat (sails only, no engine). Equally impulsive buddies, deck chairs, and beer enough to drown a fish. Nightly onboard BBQ of still-wriggling critters scooped from the drink. Singing Guns and Roses tunes with the pals and pissing overboard at whim. What could possibly go wrong?
The Hollywood trope follows that a raging storm leaves a sole survivor who fends off starvation, sharks, and sun long enough to be rescued by a passing trawler or Filipino fishermen. Except, the opposite occurs. A shockingly windless sky refuses breath enough to push or pull the boat anywhere. Not so bad for a week, maybe two. But once the food runs out (i.e. beer) it stops being an adventure and becomes a panic.
I do fairly well in storms. Like the wind, I’ll whine and moan and often drag others down with me. But, all things considered, I often do my best work under pressure. The gift of lazy hours to dream of creative stuff to do is replaced by a thousand creative things to do, all nicely truncated into impossibly tight life spaces. I hate it. I love it.
Doldrums are not the opposite of storms. They are storms in reverse. In place of exhaustive wave-fighting, they provide utter calm, not so much as a whisper of wind to fill hungry sails with nothing to do. To battle a storm is at least to cling to the hope of survival. Wit over wind, brains and brawn unite to combat the elements. Every nerve is taut with anxiety and humming with gallons of adrenaline provided for us by our unselfish bodies. We’re far too busy to think about much else.
Not so with doldrums. The gift of survival mechanism is swapped out for the gnawing ache of uncertainty. It is imminent death by slow. The world around us puts on a cheery face and smiles us to death with a wink and a nod. Sailors dreaded them.
So do I.
I’d love to say with my typical drama and flare that I’m enduring a dark night of the soul. I’d even settle for “a period of contemplative reflection on the future.” Such sophisticated spiritual ennui would offer me a broad brush-strokes approach to what amounts to boredom. This is not acedia, that fancy-pants noonday demon that has been the demise of so many monks and creatives. Not depression. Frankly, I’m happy as f***.
I arise each morning to the same wonderful routines which still offer joy and solidity and perspective. I still activate my work mechanism as required and make the trains run on time. I’m present for my coworkers and fellow congregants for whom I am called to serve. Prayer and spiritual disciplines continue apace and I enjoy the deep perfections of watching BBC with my babe of thirty-plus years.
But, I’m so bloody bored.
In storm situations, we don’t even have time to ask what our course should be. We’re just trying to stay afloat and moving in whatever direction allows us to stay that way. A mariner’s direction is dependent upon two things, maps for direction and wind for movement. One determines the where. The other, the how. I assume (of course, since I’m no mariner) that one maintains current course unless or until it becomes apparent that a change in course is needed.
In such cases, the boat remains in motion. Maps are revisited, scoured for clues; reconsidered for evidence of misinterpretation, or to gain new insight and inspiration for what to expect.
Through it all, sails remain unfurled, gulping wind to fuel forward motion. Motion means life, or at least anticipation. It indicates direction, even if that direction demands recalculation.
It’s a rare thing for a boat to stop entirely, sitting dead in the water. This ship remains faithfully at sea, chugging along in the same direction. But, maps seem blurry, even unfamiliar. Any wind at all seems counter to the lie of the sails. When there is wind, the boat wants to sail against it. Boats are made for more than just floating. They want – need – to move.
So, doldrums it is I guess. The beer is long gone (tonic water in my case). The jokes have all been told. What once were laughs are now sneers and accusations of “who the hell’s idea was this anyway?”
Well, I don’t own a boat. I’m not even on them very often. But, mine feels a little water-logged. A little bit of wind might get this lug moving again.
Land ho! Oh wait, that’s my hand.
What follows is a brief faith journey given at my denominational licensing interview. If you’re an avid reader of my work here, you’ll likely recognize some bits here and there from other bits elsewhere. Thanks for reading all the same!
In her coming to faith memoir, Traveling Mercies, writer Anne Lamott describes her coming to faith as a series of lily pads. A moving from one place to another in an inexorable path toward the light of Christ. My own spiritual evolution has been similarly episodic, but gradual. Like the beating of a heart. A spike of new oxygen, then space for it to make a difference before the next one. In the brief time we have, I offer my faith journey in 4 chapters.
Chapter I – The Mystic
“‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…” (Matt. 5:3)
November, 1974. Calgary, Alberta. I was eleven years old….The deep, night sky boasted her cavalcade of winter stars in unabashed glory. I began my journey to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church for my weekly Boys’ Brigade meeting. To fight my typical anxiety, I decided to sing. The words of some Sunday School song tasted like hot chocolate Jesus on my young palette.
I lost myself in the comforting words letting them buoy me up in the starlit dark. A short time later I stopped, the church directly in front of me. Then, something happened – something outside of me – that has forever shaped my embryonic understanding of an eternal God. I can only describe it as a…knowing.
Whomever God was to me at eleven years of age “spoke” silently reassuring words to me that intimated, “I am with you tonight even as I have been so since before you were born.” I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe. I was at once horrified and blissfully happy. I was, as if for the first time, fully awake. The only thing holding me to the ground was a tractor beam of grace, a preternatural awareness of something far beyond my ken.
That night I was confirmed as a “believer.” As a mystic. I cannot explain it. I simply, know.
Chapter II – The Believer
“‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled…” (Matt. 5:6)
I’ve been hungry my whole life; curious about everything, but primarily the unseen world I knew existed, but which felt so ridiculously elusive. The warm familiarity I’d enjoyed with God gave way to the angst of youth and the attendant emotional conundrums that go with the territory. My spiritual hunger had found the fatty food aisle of music, alcohol, sexual promiscuity, isolationism, and about a thousand books: narrative, history, Celtic mythology, biography, theoretical physics, the occult…the list goes on.
My hunger only grew, unsatisfied.
However, as a touring musician I met Terry. A lapsed Christian himself, his life still seemed more satiated than mine. On a very hungover drive home from a two-week gig in Edmonton, Alberta, he led me to heaven’s Trader Joe’s, the holy food and drink who is Christ Jesus. I ate and drank and was satisfied.
I’ve been feasting ever since.
Chapter III – The Contemplative
“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit.” (2 Cor. 3:17-18)
Palettes change as we mature. We don’t typically feed a spicy curry to a toddler even as mushy peas is an unsatisfying meal to an adult, unless of course you’re British.
The propositional, paper-thin cultural expressions of Christian faith, began to taste of mold and dust and my hunger once again raged like a monster truck rally in my soul. The applicational, scientific, outside-in Christianity of which I’d grown accustomed just didn’t satisfy anymore. It still doesn’t.
I grew more curious about whether my faith could actually find transformational teeth. Can a person genuinely walk like Jesus as one walks with Jesus? Is personal change truly possible or just some cute theological abstraction? What if our justification and sanctification are not two separate things, but inextricably linked in a kaleidoscopic unity? What would life be like outside the confining walls of systematic theology where the uncontrollable Spirit lives unhindered? Life as poetry, not science? To become the Word, not just study it? Where’s the danger in certainty when the risk of mystery is so much bigger?
My journey toward a more unitive consciousness, a less dualistic view of the world, and a better meal overall was found at the table of silence, solitude, and saints. Having already discovered Jesus, I now discovered my soul in community with the fuller Christian community, and the very host of heaven by the agency of the Holy Spirit. I was rebaptized, metaphorically, as a contemplative.
Chapter IV – The Activist
“He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?” (Hosea 6:8)
One cannot sit long in the presence of the God who speaks without aching to share that with another living soul. Already a convinced mystic, baptized believer, deepening contemplative, now I seek to be an avenue of that same communion with others, inasmuch as I am able.
I am still very much a marketplace Christian, actively engaged in the vicissitudes of embodied truth. The field of dreams for me must be on the field, not in the dreams. It is hands and feet and kinetic energy I require to keep my inner kingdom alive and growing.
The agora is yet my home. My vocation is to pursue the heart of monasticism amid the mire and stress of busy, workaday folks. In the rat’s nest of holy chaos that is the avenue, the neighbourhood, the hospital bed, the early morning rush hour, all of it awash in the presence of the God who sees.
The larger call and vocation upon my life will emerge more clearly in the minutiae of the face to face reparté of those who need what I’ve discovered in the deep recesses of Silence. A purveyor of Jesus to other hungries like me, albeit as a mystic in the mess where mystery meets mammon.
Chapter V is God’s to pen. Amen.
We believe in being brave.
Stuff That Needs To Be Said
Writing from the In/Between
Grace // Jesus // Life
Spiritual Direction for Integrated Living
A journey from liquid courage to sober courage
Building a community for sinners, saints, and skeptics who join God in the renewal of all things
an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
“The idea behind spiritual practice is to help you discover the truth about who you are, who God is, and that in fact these two are not separate realities.”
The Beautiful Due
Collaborating with the Muses to inspire, create, and illuminate
...in such kind ways...
"That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works." Psalm 26:7
Spirituality, Sustainability, Hospitality and Community
simple people, living a simple life... sometimes wrong, but usually funny
Theology, Imagination and the Arts