Miraculously Diverse

There are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. (1 Corinthians 12.4-6)

Everything Falls Into Place

When people ask what I do for a living, I blithely answer, “I put on shows in barns.” There’s always a chuckle, followed by, “No, really, what do you do?” And I explain that I actually do put on shows in barns. Corporate clients hire the teams I work with to stage large employee gatherings. We start with nothing but an idea and figure out how to fashion live experiences that convey the messages our clients want to deliver. I’m the creative director—the idea guy. But the finest ideas in the world will come to naught without the rest of the team doing its best to bring them to life. The event producer visits the selected location and evaluates the available space—usually a large hotel ballroom or convention hall—to see what’s possible. Then we add designers and technicians, all of whom take responsibility for their share of pulling the pieces together. When I arrive onsite, I walk into a hollow room rapidly being transformed into a meeting venue. The stage is under construction. Lighting and sound gear is being rigged. Video equipment is put in place. In roughly 24 hours, a barren room becomes a theatrical environment where all the creative elements come together to inform and motivate an audience of several hundred people. 

Obviously, I could never do this on my own. The task is too great. It requires more time and manpower than I could possibly provide. But, more than that, I don’t possess the talent and know-how to do it alone. And one of the first lessons in my business is learning to trust and respect your teammates. They know what they’re doing and if the job is going to get done right, you’ve got to let them do what they’re supposed to do, while you do what you’re supposed to get done. I’ve been at this for 25 years now; to this day, I don’t really understand how everything falls into place. But it does.

This is the principle Paul describes in 1 Corinthians 12, where he discusses diversity of gifts. Initially, his explanation of how the Body of Christ functions would seem logically straightforward. “The community of believers is equipped with an enormous variety of talents and abilities,” he says, “all of them provided by the same Lord.” If we use my profession as a metaphor, Paul is telling us that God is the Client. God selects and endows each of us with gifts so that, working together, we can create something out of nothing, something that will bring God’s vision and message to life. Whether or not we accomplish what God desires of us depends on three things: recognition of talents we’re given, willingness to participate, and ability to trust and respect those we work with. The task is too great for one of us to manage alone. And although we will never fully understand how everything falls into place, when we commit our talents to God’s use, somehow the work gets done.

The Common Good

Once we digest Paul’s explanation, however, things become less clear. We start asking questions. What are my gifts? What do I bring to this project? Where are my strengths and, conversely, where am I limited? All of this boils down to the hardest question of all: who does God want me to be—what does God want me to do—to help build God’s kingdom? Some soul-searching is required. We need to inventory our talents to discern how they can be used constructively in the community of faith. Alas, Paul’s practicality falls by the wayside when he lists gifts God has given the Body. He dives into the mystical end of the pool, describing decidedly supernatural abilities: spiritual wisdom, knowledge, and discernment, faith, healing, miracles, prophecy, diverse tongues and interpretations of tongues.

If such phenomena were evident in our lives, most of us wouldn’t know how to recognize them—let alone deploy them properly. While we may have witnessed these gifts in others, we shouldn’t mistake Paul’s roster as definitive. Nor should we imagine that not possessing these specific talents precludes us from offering the gifts God has bestowed on us. “To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good,” verse 7 says. The ultimate question becomes, “How do I manifest God’s Spirit in my life?” And that can happen in an infinite variety of ways. Some of us possess gifts of joy, others gifts of compassion, and still others gifts of service, activity, and artistry. Every list of gifts is unique to each believer, all of them provided for the common good. Whatever we contribute to the building of God’s kingdom is worthy and necessary. So what are your gifts?

Miracle Workers

There is a second part of Paul’s story we should also reckon with. Often we know what our gifts are, but we worship and serve in faith traditions where they’re unwelcome—not because they’re not valued, but because we’re not valued. The talents and abilities God places in us are as native to us as other components of our making: gender, ethnicity, and orientation. They are inseparable from everything else God created us to be. As a result, the compulsion to use our God-given gifts for God’s glory often drives us to reject—or hide—our God-given identities. The world is full of women endowed with leadership talent who accept lesser roles for the sake of remaining in patriarchal traditions. Tens of thousands of gay believers endure the agonies of belittling doctrines and preaching in order to offer their talents to homophobic faith communities. Worse still, divinely gifted believers of every kind have withdrawn from the Body of Christ entirely because of discrimination and disrespect. And we must ask, how does any of this serve “the common good”? Why do we cling to religious exclusion when it's so obvious that it causes great suffering within Christ's Body?

Choosing where we worship and serve is a complicated decision based on many factors: our upbringing, where we live, our comfort with certain theologies, liturgies, and approaches to community life. Yet we must come to grips with the dilemmas that grow out of our decisions. If we remain in communities where we must surrender our identities in order to use our gifts, we dishonor our making. On the other hand, if we find new homes where we’re trusted and respected, we may have to sacrifice the comfort of traditions we’ve grown to love. We pray for the day when all believers are trusted and respected across Christendom. And we mourn the great losses that many traditions suffer by undervaluing believers who don’t fit their norms. Paul’s vision of the Church’s vast diversity of gifts imagines a miraculously diverse community of faith. When we make peace with who we are and the gifts God gives us, that miracle will become a reality. May God grant us strength and faith to be true miracle workers, wherever we are.

The gifts God gives each of us are as intrinsic to our making as our gender, ethnicity, and orientation.

Substance, Not Size

Let every person be subject to the governing authorities… For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Do you wish to have no fear of authority? Then do what is good. (Romans 13.1,3)

This election will mark the ninth time I’ve voted for president. If memory serves correctly—and I’m fairly confident it does—the size of government has been hotly debated in every contest. The candidates play to their parties’ predispositions, promising big cuts and less interference on one hand and more effective use of spending and power on the other. When elected, rarely does either side live up to its promises. And that shouldn’t surprise us, because candidates enter office with no way of knowing the challenges they’ll face. When the hoopla dissipates and the real business of running the nation takes hold, size is a phantom issue. Leaders—if they’re wise—do what must be done; expedience drives policy, not the other way around. So we should ask ourselves if all of this wrangling over size is worth the effort. Is there a better question? For believers, there is.

In Romans 13, Paul couldn’t be clearer that Christians are to respect to their leaders. This had to be tough for the Romans to swallow. At the time of his writing, they’d survived Caligula, were dealing with Claudius, and would soon endure severe persecution under Nero. Given their distrust of Caesar, Paul’s admonition that they “be subject to the governing authorities” had to sound nuts. And one struggles to imagine they found solace in his reasoning. “For there is no authority except from God,” he writes, “and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment.” (v1-2) Equating submission to Caesar with obedience to God’s will—and threatening judgment for resisters, no less—sure sounds like a catch-22, a real lose-lose proposition.

What do we do with this? Can we toss it out with Paul’s other cranky bits—his misogyny, for example, or comfort with slavery? Not really. Paul’s doctrine is deeply rooted in faith in God’s sovereignty above all. God sanctions human government as the penultimate authority, reserving final say for God’s Self. Without a doubt, many rulers abuse power and visit great suffering on their nations. But Paul focuses our attention on God’s intentions and our obligation to honor them. Verse 3 tells us, “For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Do you wish to have no fear of authority? Then do what is good.” When we see leaders defy this ideal, promoting bad conduct rather than good, Paul’s words are no easier for us to swallow than for the Romans.

Again, what do we do with this? We are exponentially more fortunate than the Romans. We are free to choose the authorities who govern us. Thus, as believers, we should first question the substance of those we elect. Can we trust them to be “not a terror to good conduct, but to bad”? Will we be able to live out our faith while complying with their principles and policies? For believers endowed with democratic privilege, substance, not size, is the deciding factor. If we let substance guide our choice, we’ll have no reason to fear those we elect.

Homecoming

This is the word of the LORD to Zerubbabel: Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, says the LORD of hosts. (Zechariah 4.6)

Pinnacle of Hope

An extraordinary passage of Scripture surfaces in today’s lectionary readings—no doubt chosen for its relevance in the run-up to this weekend’s Feast of Pentecost. It comes from Zechariah, a complex record of divine messages and visions given to the prophet as the Jews come home after 70 years in Babylonian exile. Much of Zechariah finds scholars scratching their heads, trying to sort out the historical, political, and theological layers tightly compressed in God’s promise to resurrect the nation after its long night of sorrow and loss. Yet ever so often a thrilling shaft of light breaks through, the most famous in Zechariah 4.6: “Not by might, nor by power, but my spirit, says the LORD of hosts.” The allusion to God’s Spirit—which operates in a way that transcends might and power—makes the text a timely precursor to Pentecost’s outpouring of the Holy Spirit. “Don’t look for this thing to happen like anything you’ve known or seen,” it says. Then, when we take a moment or two to discover what “this thing” is, it knocks our socks off.

The message is forwarded through Zechariah to Zerubbabel, a prince appointed to reestablish the Jewish nation and, most important, rebuild the Temple the Babylonians destroyed while sacking Jerusalem. The original Temple sat atop Mt. Zion, the city’s highest peak. Prior to the Babylonian conquest, it shone as the Jews’ pinnacle of hope—hard proof of God’s faithfulness to them. After centuries of looking to the Temple to inspire future hope, all that remains on Mt. Zion is the rubble of dashed dreams. So great is the people’s attachment to the Temple that Psalm 137 says the Babylonian exiles wept when they remembered Zion. Now that the Jews are returning home, reconstructing the Temple is the first order of business. More than that, refuting lost hope is of vital importance.

Ten Soft-Spoken Words

Perhaps the best way to tap into the epic emotions riding on this enormous project is comparing it to the devastation we felt on 9/11, as well as our urgency to replace the World Trade Center with something more magnificent and richer in meaning. Anything less would mean the terrorists won, we said. The same drive to surpass the glory of Solomon’s Temple weighs heavily on Zerubabbel and the Jews. And given their primitive circumstances, I don’t believe we can begin to comprehend how overwhelmed Zerubabbel and the people must feel. Their entire land has been decimated. Their financial means and skill sets are woefully inadequate. What’s more, the young people Zerubabbel must rely on to do the hard labor never saw the first Temple. To a one, they were born after its destruction and it’s very possible that the will to see its resurrection through isn’t there.

To give us an idea of how long 70 years is, consider this: seven decades ago we were in the throes of World War Two. Now imagine we’d lost that war and spent 70 years under Nazi oppression. Could we possibly marshal our energy to restore our former glory? That’s what Zerubbabel is up against—with the added challenge of rebuilding the demolished Temple by hand. He feels powerless, totally incapable of the job he’s been given. And God’s answer to his long list of questions comes in ten soft-spoken words: “Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit.” If we were in Zerubabbel’s position, how would we respond? My best would be, “Okay… if You say so…”

Zechariah doesn’t chronicle Zerubabbel’s direct response to God’s message. But this we know. He and those working with him make astonishing progress in the Temple project. Although it takes many generations, glory returns to Mt. Zion. The second Temple becomes something far greater than the first: it’s a testament to God’s Spirit—not political might or human power. And it is this Temple where Jesus preaches, heals, and declares the New Order of God’s grace for all of humanity.

Our Life’s Work

To source timeless truth in biblical prophecy, we first liberate the text from its historical import so we can apply its principles to our lives and times. So we read Zechariah with eyes wide open for a word God would have us know today. To be sure, this text speaks broadly to all believers, promising eternal sustenance and restoration through God’s Spirit. But I would also encourage us to ponder it in the context of spiritual exile and reconstructing a Temple worthy of Isaiah 56—another post-Babylonian prophecy, which promises a place of welcome for outcasts and foreigners: “These I will bring to My holy mountain, and make them joyful in My house of prayer… for My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.” (v7; emphasis added) Thus, this prophecy comes to everyone who’s been forced into exile by exclusionary doctrine, to those alienated by false doctrines of fear and condemnation, to every child of God who’s lost hope and weeps when recalling the towering promise of grace that once secured their trust in God’s Word. And it’s especially relevant to all of us who’ve heard God’s voice convene a great homecoming for every faith exile. The task of rebuilding a Church in ruins, a people ravaged by the deceit of sexism and homophobia and legalistic bullying, seems too enormous to undertake. Our first impulse leads us to assert power and amass force to complete the task. But God would say to us, “Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit.”

Reconstructing a Church that shines forth as hard proof of God’s faithfulness and the Spirit’s renewal will take a long, long time—in all probability, longer than any of us will live. Many of the returning exiles know nothing of the Church’s true significance as a homeland for their souls. To them, it’s just a fabled institution that’s fallen to corrupt powers. They look to Zion and all they see are crumbling reminders of broken ideals. We must speak this word to them—telling them that God’s Spirit transcends might and power, and God’s promises are eternally true. We are in the first stages of an historic homecoming that will triumph in the building of a House of Prayer for All Peoples. Every gender, orientation, ethnicity, class, and personal circumstance will be welcome. We who hear God’s voice and trust God’s Word must make this effort our life’s work. Progress will be slow, but providence will prevail. This is God’s promise to us. And it is true.

Though the task of rebuilding the Church into a House of Prayer for All Peoples is enormous, God promises we will succeed—not by might nor power, but by God’s Spirit.

Our Children and Their Children

Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them. (Deuteronomy 4.9)

The Photo That Brought AIDS Home

About a year ago, I crossed paths with Therese Frare, a staggeringly gifted photographer in the Pacific Northwest. I was part of a team working on a new HIV product launch to occur less than a month before the 30th anniversary of the first AIDS diagnoses. The serendipitous timing opened the door to include a retrospective of the extraordinary leaps in HIV/AIDS treatment and reaffirm our client's contributions as a major leader in the field. We wanted Therese to photograph the event for a number of reasons. Her talent spoke for itself, and when we approached her about taking the job, the conversations revealed her to be an ebullient, sharp-minded person—someone we’d enjoy working with. Her role on this particular job would be particularly significant, though, as she holds a unique position in HIV/AIDS history.

In 1990, during graduate studies in photography at Ohio University, Therese volunteered at Pater Noster House, an AIDS hospice in nearby Columbus. An assignment for a visual storytelling class led her to ask one of the patients, David Kirby, and his caregiver, Peta—an AIDS patient himself—if she could document their experiences with the affliction. After some justifiable resistance from the hospice (due to patient privacy concerns), Therese was cleared to shoot David and Peta’s interactions. David was in end-stage, meaning Peta’s main concern was making his final days as comfortable as possible. On one occasion, Therese was at the hospice when Peta was called to the young man’s bedside. Seeing his parents there, she discretely waited in the hall. His mother asked Therese to come in, telling her, “We’d like you to photograph the family saying their final goodbyes to David.” As the heart-wrenching scene played out, Therese stood in a corner, capturing it moment-by-moment. While proximity to the event muted her appreciation of her photographs’ power, David’s expressed desire that his story be told inspired Therese to mail copies of one shot to the World Press and Life magazine. Life immediately picked it up and published the picture in its November 1990 issue. It’s now known the world over as “the face of AIDS” and “the photo that brought AIDS home.”

Dark Shadows

When Therese’s photograph appeared, we were ending the AIDS crisis’s first decade. We’d seen a multitude of images of the virus’s emaciated victims—from iconic celebrities like Rock Hudson to nameless African children—and heard hundreds of agonizing stories. Those of us cursed to witness AIDS’ ravages up-close and personal were emotionally depleted, but for seething anger at how little concern was shown for the lives devastated by the disease. Like every other catastrophic illness, an AIDS diagnosis triggered a ripple effect that emanated from the patient to loved ones nearest him/her, then on to more casual friends and acquaintances, and finally into her/his various professional and social circles. Because its first US targets were gay men—many with long histories of casual promiscuity—it was all too easy to minimize AIDS suffering as a minority issue. The public at large felt safely insulated from its threat and, therefore, not responsible for its treatment, containment, or cure. This false sense of security was further enhanced when the virus began surfacing in other specific populations: blood-transfusion patients, IV drug abusers, sex workers, and so on. AIDS was a “not-us” sickness, and hence “not our problem.” Therese’s photograph changed that.

For the first time, people removed from AIDS’ realities stepped into its dark shadows. Fathers felt Mr. Kirby’s anguish, as he cradled his son's gaunt face and clung to his rail-thin arm. Mothers perceived the stormy emotions raging behind Mrs. Kirby’s stoic expression, while she pulled David’s kid sister—confused, frightened, a child too young to know such sorrow—to her bosom. The emptiness in David’s eyes led one to imagine, for all practical purposes, he was already gone before this final farewell. It pierced the heart of every mother’s child. The anonymous hand reaching into the scene softly spoke of someone outside the family with compassion and courage to touch the dying man—of someone who chose to be there. Above them, the outstretched, nail-scarred hands of Jesus beckoned David into His eternal care, promising to hold the wounded hearts he left behind. This was too real—too personal—to ignore. Therese’s photograph allowed millions around the world to see what we who’d had sat at far too many bedsides had seen. Never again would they look on AIDS in any other way.

Sacred Duty to Remember

Twenty years later, our hearts overflow with gratitude for God’s mercy and provision. Medical breakthroughs have diminished AIDS’ savagery. How thankful we are that horrific scenes like David Kirby’s are rare exceptions and no longer the rule. We no longer speak of an “AIDS holocaust” and rarely do we see images of AIDS-related suffering. Yet in our rejoicing, we must not confuse AIDS’ disarmament with decisive defeat. Its status as a treatable condition on par with hypertension, diabetes, and other chronic illnesses introduces the peril of assuming AIDS is no longer a grave disease to be avoided at all costs—that it can be “lived with” and its threat has decreased. Worst of all, we can never conclude that its relative invisibility in the media and our daily environment means AIDS has “gone away.” It is present to the point of prevalence. It is very real and, until it’s completely destroyed, it’s not going away.

We who survived AIDS’ initial onslaught have a sacred duty to remember, honoring the thousands of precious souls prematurely torn from our midst. Yet our sacred duty to remember extends to never forgetting our children—and, now, their children—have not seen, felt, or known what we experienced. We’re fools to expect they'll independently ascertain the gravity of what they’re playing with when they put themselves at risk of contracting the virus. As Therese did, we must reveal to them AIDS in all of its heartbreaking ugliness. We must tell them stories of its unbearable suffering and sorrow. We must keep it before them, even though they look away. In Deuteronomy 4.9, God commands, “Be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them.” May hearts of compassion and desire to please our Creator compel us to obey.

Amen.

The New Wave

Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you.” (Matthew 21.31)

Early Adopters

A big part of me wishes I were what tech gurus call an “early adopter.” But I’m not. When it comes to gizmos and Web-related stuff, I’m a 2.0 type of guy; before I jump on the newest wave, I hang back to see if it actually materializes as the next wave. And a big part of me is okay with that, because I seldom find the process of mastering the latest—allegedly “intuitive”—convenience intuitive or convenient. Deciphering inscrutable instructions and reordering one’s life to adopt new technologies can be maddening, particularly if the effort outweighs the benefits or one’s frustrations come to naught when the concept doesn’t catch on. So, despite appearing lazy and technophobic, I tend to wait until early-adopter friends can explain an innovation’s value and functionality in language I understand. This tactic has taught me to appreciate the wisdom and courage of early adopters and why watching them closely is so essential.

We all know conspicuous consumers who strive to be up-to-the-minute by spending fortunes on high-tech marvels and leaping on every Web craze. Yet they rarely do more with them than older models they replace. Their excuses for not availing themselves of progress’s potential typically boil down to resisting change that newness requires. In contrast, early adopters look before they leap. To welcome change, they need to know it’s worth welcoming. If they sense pushing new buttons and adapting behaviors will get them no further than they are, they pass. But once they’re convinced something revolutionary is underway, they trust their instincts. They’re unconcerned with whom they impress or how nerdy their enthusiasm looks. All they care about is what the new wave signifies in terms of eliminating barriers and opening new vistas in their lives.

Disruptive Behavior

In Matthew 21, Jesus silences a challenge to His authority with a parable that describes the first-century equivalent of conspicuous consumers and early adopters. He doesn’t embroider the tale. Indeed, it’s one of His least nuanced stories—and for good reason, because the religious leaders who confront Him about His disruptive behavior love nothing better than getting lost in the weeds. And before we examine His response, we should concede those questioning Him are well within their rights. Jesus has just staged a raucous Passover arrival in Jerusalem, intentionally mounting a young donkey to fulfill prophecy that the Messiah will come to Israel riding an untried colt. After dismissing criticism that He’s incited the palm-waving crowd’s adulation, He marches into the Temple’s courtyard market and literally turns it upside down. He returns the next day—as if nothing happened—and has the temerity to teach the congregation. The Temple leaders immediately shut Him down, demanding, “Who do You think You are? Who authorized You to behave so outrageously?”

Jesus responds by questioning them. (Talk about audacity!) “Answer Me and I’ll answer you,” He says, asking, “Was John’s baptism authorized by God or just a fad he started?” It’s a brilliant move, leaving His challengers no viable option. Saying God ordained John to baptize begs why they didn’t believe him. If they say he invented baptism as a signature gimmick, the crowd—who regard him as a prophet—will turn on them. “We don’t know,” they opt out. “Well, I’m not going to explain Who authorized Me, either,” Jesus says. Then He reframes their dilemma as a parable.

When a man with two sons tells the first to go work in the family vineyard, the son refuses. But after thinking it over, he does as he’s told. The second son agrees to work, only to welch on his promise. “Who did the will of his father?” Jesus asks. (Matthew 21.31) “The first son,” His accusers say. With that, Jesus yanks the rug from under them. “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you,” He declares. They’re early adopters. They sensed something revolutionary transpiring and believed John. Reminding the Temple leaders they doubted John, He essentially casts them as conspicuous consumers who resist change. “Even after you saw it,” He asserts, “you did not change your minds and believe him.” (v32)

Going into the Vineyard

Although the parable and its application occupy only four verses, unpacking it opens numerous points of entry. We first have to come to grips with our fondness for the path of least resistance. It’s more convenient to maintain a 2.0 stance and let others deal with the frustrations of adopting—and adapting to—the new wave. It’s easier to promise and not deliver than to change our minds about what we’re unwilling to do. Appearing phobic and lazy seems less risky than summoning wit and courage to assess the validity of change and meet its demands. We’d rather be late than laughed at, safe than sorry. So we’re content to wait and see what the hubbub’s really about, never imagining it will amount to much and therefore never recognizing the significance of what we’re looking at. Besides, if this new wave does turn into the next wave, we can always catch up. (Note Jesus doesn’t say the Temple leaders will never enter the kingdom. He merely says their reluctance to change will ultimately cost their leadership status by putting people they revile in the vanguard position.)

But this parable also speaks specifically to those of us who—despite being misconstrued as sinners and reprobates—perceive faith’s revolutionary new wave and dare to believe it’s divinely ordained. Yes, it took a while to revise our views of what following Christ means and why it’s worth risking our reputations to believe. Being convinced of faith’s power to remove barriers and open new vistas in our lives, however, compels us to honor our calling as early adopters. We’ve got to do as God asks. Whether or not our brothers and sisters join us, going into the vineyard is the only way we’ll figure out how this new thing works. Being there is our sole means of bringing the promise of inclusion to fruition.

We should expect those tending the vineyard to be outraged when our presence turns everything upside down and challenge our right to be there. Still, we need not answer them, since they’ve yet to believe what we know is true and divinely ordered. Our task is to be seen obeying God’s will. Those who oppose us may not believe what they see. They may resist the change happening before their eyes. They’d rather be late than laughed at, safe than sorry. Nonetheless the new wave is here. It’s sweeping the Church, steadily demolishing barriers and opening new vistas. While appointed leaders balk at the excitement and disruptive behaviors it generates, we’ve been given divine authority to take the lead. And lest we get all cocky and confused about our vanguard position, we need to remember what early adopters do. They get there first so those struggling with newness can get there, too.

Dear Father, we’re tired of worrying about what people think and promising without delivering. Let them call us what they will and hate us for what we are. You asked us to work for You and we’ve decided it’s the right thing to do. So teach us to be wise and courageous. Lead us into Your kingdom and bless us to show the way to those who have yet to believe what they see. Amen.

Although early adopters stir up a lot of commotion and disrupt the status quo, they ultimately validate the significance of the newness they believe in.

Fortresses and Façades

Because they lead my people astray, saying, “Peace,” when there is no peace, and because, when a flimsy wall is built, they cover it with whitewash, therefore tell those who cover it with whitewash that it is going to fall. (Ezekiel 13.10-11)

Midnight of the Soul

On this date, 150 years ago, Confederate soldiers sweep into Charleston Harbor and attack US troops stationed at Fort Sumter. Their gunfire rings in America’s midnight of the soul—an hour whose darkness grows so impenetrable it hovers above us still. It was destined to happen, of course, this violent reckoning with contradictions the Founders naïvely entrust future generations to reconcile. Democratic ideals like personal freedom and social equality are too rich for our pragmatically capitalist blood. While a federal government ensuring states’ rights works in principle, it’s stubbornly impracticable. The revolutionary pledge to promote such inalienable human rights as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness only holds for male landowners of European descent. The Founders aren’t so naïve they don’t notice potential cloud chambers pocking their Great Experiment’s fortress of freedom. They see where its walls are flimsy, its joints weak. As Founders, their first duty is laying solid groundwork for upcoming architects and builders to refine their original design and shore up its initially patched-together construction. In this, they’re utterly magnificent.

Their faith that future Americans will heed their precedent of revering national unity above political ideology and personal ambition is naïve to the point of foolishness, however. Succeeding generations find choosing sides far less demanding than compromise. Greased palms feel friendlier than hands calloused from tireless labor to build an increasingly great nation. Instead of bolstering the Founders’ beacon against clouds that dim its brilliance, they settle for slapping on a fresh coat of red, white, and blue from time to time in the name of “patriotism.” Then April 12, 1861 arrives. Before God’s sun rises, our midnight lands in a blaze of artillery. America’s bastion of liberty all but implodes as nearly a century of pent-up bickering and neglect eclipse the horizon.

Naturally Superior and Morally Bound

We’re well versed in mounting conflicts that erupt into Civil War. We’re taught the South’s agrarian economy can’t survive without slave labor; the real issue is states’ rights, not slavery; slave trade has become such a fixture in Southern culture few who benefit from it question its justice. Yet when we envision hundreds of gray-clad youths stealing into position to slaughter their fellow countrymen, we can’t discern what they hope to gain by use of violence. What’s in it for the wealthy elite—plantation owners and merchants reaping huge profits at human expense—is too apparent to refute. Nor is it sane to suggest anything but wealth and favor motivates toadying politicians and preachers who hawk distorted ideology and diabolical doctrines of racial inequality. Confederate military command is decidedly upper crust, either ardent slave owners or their sons. But the faceless troops—hardscrabble farmers, day laborers, millworkers, and miners whose misery mirrors slavery more closely than the privileged manner they volunteer to die for—what’s in it for them?

The standard answer: they fight to protect their way of life, a laughable conclusion about an average Confederate soldier with neither means nor need to own slaves. No, these men risk their lives because they’re seduced to believe they’re inherently superior to slaves and morally bound to murder anyone opposed to their belief. (Sidebar: how is it we Americans harshly reproach Germans who tumbled for Hitler’s evil while sentimentalizing our very same dance with the Devil?) Without a morally sound foundation on which to build, the Confederacy’s architects erect a façade that mimics America’s freedom fortress. Borrowing from their recently disavowed compatriots’ playbook, they mask their rickety structure in red, white, and blue patriotism—cleverly sticking to stars and bars and all that goes with inflaming unwary American minds to hate, wound, and kill for “love of country,” rather than defending their nation’s ideals. (Remember: that’s really hard work to be avoided at all cost—“cost” being the operative term.)

Thus, in the first instance of what would become a deadly habit, decades of lazy politics and poor citizenship lead America to equip enemies of freedom and equality. The young Rebels have absolutely nothing to gain by killing and maiming their brothers. If anything, the slavery crisis provides their generation’s best reason for uniting to remedy a fundamental flaw in the Founders’ plan—to make the freedom’s fortress sturdier, more impregnable to threats of tyranny, corruption, and senseless violence. With neither side having witnessed this, though, taking up arms seems logical to both; a lifetime wasted on watching paint dry conditions North and South alike to turn a blind eye to their civic duty to uphold moral principles and social justice. When midnight descends on the American soul, the Union stumbles and staggers in search of a way out. Meanwhile, the Rebels can’t see they’ve elected to be slaves to slave-owner wealth and power. Lives across the divide are cheapened past the price of the cheapest slave—and debt our nation accrues in the process has yet to be cleared. April 12, 1861’s toll on racial harmony, equal rights, and personal freedoms may never go away.

Addicted to Whitewash

Inattentive upkeep of fortresses and fondness for façades are neither recent phenomena nor uniquely American. They’re common to a universal tale as old as time. Ezekiel’s prophecy addresses a nation born in bondage and nurtured in freedom, only to be divided into two kingdoms, north and south, that turn on each other and consequently fall captive to Babylon. (Their 70-year exile is lamented to this day as the midnight of the Jewish soul.) The prophet is a captive through whom God charges the people with apathy that accounts for their demise. Content to watch paint dry, they disregard the hard work of building their nation. Convenient ignorance evolves into a crippling habit they can’t break. In Ezekiel 13.10-12 we see an oft-repeated pattern throughout the prophecy. God cites leaders for abusing their nation’s trust but ultimately indicts the people for letting them get by with it: “Because they lead my people astray, saying, ‘Peace,’ when there is no peace, and because, when a flimsy wall is built, they cover it with whitewash, therefore tell those who cover it with whitewash that it is going to fall. Rain will come in torrents, and I will send hailstones hurtling down, and violent winds will burst forth. When the wall collapses, will not people ask you, ‘Where is the whitewash you covered it with?’”

America has become addicted to whitewash. No sooner do we kick the habit than we permit leaders to seduce us with fresh paint. Our resistance weakens with each relapse. Cycling up to deadly overdoses takes less time: 80 years to the Civil War; 60 tolerating robber barons and political graft before crashing into Depression; 40 excusing paranoid propaganda and moral hypocrisy before the Sixties unleash a tsunami of unrest and violence; 25 pretending not to see the Religious Right creeping into bed with neoconservatives and big business; 15 tuning out cautions that rampant materialism and media overload will be our undoing. And every cycle cheapens lives past the cheapest slave’s price.

Every time our walls cave, we grab the whitewash and leave freedom’s trowels and hammers to somebody else—somebody who doesn’t exist, never did, and never will. Out of the mouth of God we’re warned that whitewashed walls will surely fall. The most patriotic façade is still a façade. It cannot endure. Fortresses require constant attention and fortitude to strengthen ramparts, seal cloud chambers, and mend moral decay. As believers who know the ways of justice and righteousness, we have no excuse for not speaking out against moral apathy or conveniently ignoring flaws we can remedy. If no one else pitches in, with God’s help we can do the hard work of liberty and equality. We can break the whitewash habit and kill our contentment to watch paint dry. May it be so.

On April 12, 1861, eight decades of convenient ignorance erupted in a blaze of brother-on-brother violence. Since that day, our whitewash addiction has escalated into increasingly shorter cycles between calamitous overdoses.

Community

All of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing. (1 Peter 3.8-9)

Organizations

When talking with LGBT and other believers who’ve withdrawn from the Body of Christ, sooner or later the conversation comes down to this: “I have faith. But I want nothing to do with organized religion.” There’s no good answer to this—even though I’m convinced avoiding religious rejection is tantamount to accepting it. When we permit unwelcoming denominations, congregations, or individuals to force our surrender from seeking inclusion where we're welcome, we reinforce the notion we're unworthy of acceptance. We become complicit to the lie—the heresy—that God prefers certain kinds of people and doesn’t love all of us equally.

That everyone who comes to God will be received isn’t open to debate. It’s the bedrock of Christianity Jesus lays in statement after statement, most famously in John 3.16 (the most-beloved, oft-quoted, and—apparently—misread scripture of many who subscribe to exclusionary doctrines): “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (Emphasis added.) Given grace’s pricelessness, however, it’s easy to understand why some try to protect it with qualifiers. No less than Peter makes this mistake. In Acts 10, it takes an epiphany for him to confess, “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism.” (v34) Yet, despite Christ’s emphatic teaching and the Apostles’ determination to honor it, since the first, Christianity has been plagued by attempts to shut people out.

There’s no good answer for those who disdain organized religion because they’re absolutely correct. Organized religion falls short of its higher purpose by trying to safeguard core ideals with government and guidelines. Since faith is a human endeavor, it lends itself to a human approach. Thus we define what it is by what it isn’t—the same way we organize everything in life. From there it’s a hop, skip, and jump to categorizing who can and can’t believe, and what does and doesn’t evidence belief. Harms caused by our instinctive “this-not-that” scheme explain why so many resist organized religion. But, if we step back to see the wider perspective, we recognize their complaints focus on symptoms of a rarely acknowledged paradox: organizations are natural enemies of faith. By design, they set parameters and implement procedures, whereas faith breaks barriers by imparting principles to overcome them. That’s why “churches,” i.e., religious organizations, remain at perpetual loggerheads with The Church, the transcendent, universal community of faith—the Body of Christ, the physical entity that expresses God’s presence and fulfills God’s purpose in the world.

Organisms

The Apostles struggle mightily with this conflict. As we read the Book of Acts and the Epistles, we’re consistently struck by the Early Church’s fragile condition. Its leaders and people are keenly aware they’re doing something new and revolutionary. They have no template, model, or precedent, let alone a formally adopted text or theology, for reference; basically, they’re inventing The Church as they go. Its phenomenal growth—starting with 3000 at Pentecost, with hundreds being added by the day—as well as its unheard-of diversity (based on adamant belief in unrestricted inclusion) and rapid expansion across the Roman Empire create organizational nightmares. Urgency to adhere to Christ’s principles generates urgency to institute lines of authority so the teaching and far-flung congregations stay intact. After much prayer and discussion, the Apostles meet this challenge in a unique fashion. Instead of institutionalizing Christianity as a religion, they revert to its roots as a community of like-minded believers. Faith for them surpasses religion’s legal and ritualistic impositions on constituents’ lives. It’s a way of life that all believers share in common, yet each expresses individually in relation to Christ, just as the original disciples related to Jesus.

Therein lies the distinction between churches and faith communities. The former are organizations striving to protect ideals they profess by conforming to time-honored governance and guidelines pursuant to faith. The latter are organisms whose faith evolves with time, as they pursue commonly held ideals in response to the Holy Spirit’s guidance. In other words, churches are built; communities grow—if not numerically, always in spirit, knowledge, and obedience to Christ’s commands. Churches foster allegiance to their leaders, who are no less fallible than those expected to comply with their direction. Faith communities honor their leaders’ service to God, as Paul explains when chiding the Corinthians’ organizational disputes over leadership. “Since there is jealousy and quarreling among you, are you not worldly? Are you not acting like mere humans? What, after all, is Apollos? And what is Paul? Only servants, through whom you came to believe—as the Lord has assigned each to his task. I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow.” (1 Corinthians 3.5-6)

Reliable Indicators

Differences between churches/religious organizations and communities/spiritual organisms are subtle, yet nonetheless huge. What makes things all the trickier is faith communities are most commonly housed in churches. That’s why writing off organized religion is unwise. Believers in search of community who’ve also been hurt by church have to separate the two, realizing they’re unlikely to find one without the other. Now the question turns to how does one know he/she’s found an organic faith community nested in an organized church?

Contrary to popular thought, size, structure, style, activity, and/or presentation aren’t reliable indicators. Many large, enthusiastically run and supported churches thrive as organizations. Yet they falter as organisms by neglecting to nurture the common purpose and interpersonal dynamic 1 Peter 3.8-9 describes as chief markers of authentic faith communities: “All of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.” Community is where we practice our faith. It’s where we join with other believers in like-minded obedience to Christ’s commands. It’s where our capacity for sympathy, love, compassion, and humility is tested, where failure is forgiven and frailty is overcome. It’s where we learn how to answer our calling to repay wrongs and insults with blessings. Community is where we grow.

When we enter a church and observe these traits, we’ve crossed the threshold from organized religion to organic faith. And while it’s true, one need not be in community to have faith it’s no less true faith is unlikely to grow without it. Our gifts and needs ache to be expressed. Our faith longs to grow. Dismissing The Church as a monolith of organized religion—a human institution as apt to harm as to help—only hurts us. There is community somewhere inside its walls and not until we overcome our phobias to seek community where we’re genuinely welcome and accepted can it be found.

Churches are built. Faith communities grow.