Friday, November 29, 2013

How a duck helped me be happier with who I am.


As seen from Sky City, the Space Needle restaurant.

My ambitions border on arrogance. And my passport is stamped with too many crossings between the two.
When I read theology, I long to have the hours to pursue, prepare, and present my own perspectives. When I see Christians in conflict I want to step in to resolve the core issues and reconcile their relationships. When I sit with the dying, I wish that more families would accept the spiritual care facilitation and counseling that our Hospice offers. When I preach, teach, visit, and counsel at The Glenburn Community Church, I simply want to be the best pastor ever. When I interact with those who are employed full-time in death education, bereavement intervention, and grief counseling (part of my work in Thanatology—the study of death, dying, bereavement, grief, and mourning), I strongly desire to keep current on the research and its implications for my doctoral program. (Which reminds me: I also want to be the most scholarly, pastoral, culturally-engaged, relevant and deeply spiritual Christ-follower Multnomah Biblical Seminary has ever seen.) And when I spend Thanksgiving surrounded by the ten people I love most in this world, I want to be attentive, loving, patient, generous, kind, and especially not distracted by whether I remembered to print out the bulletin inserts for Sunday, or whether I can sanction my guests for putting powdered caramel-vanilla creamer in 100% Kona coffee. (So, let’s not ask how that worked out for me, okay? I really am sorry I said anything.)
This was our duck for the day.
Here’s what brought these competing, overlapping, and exhausting pursuits to a head recently.
In the course of two master’s degrees, I actually had to take the same course twice. I was blessed by two vastly different sets of content (Major Prophets in one, post-exilic Minor Prophets in the other), taught by two eminently qualified Old Testament scholars (Dr. Mark Boda and Dr. Bruce Baloian—real experts: as in, these guys write commentaries, etc.). Now, in my first assignment as a “real” seminary professor (I’ve been guest-lecturer and co-instructor at Multnomah, but now I’m “the professor of record” for my alma mater, A.W. Tozer Theological Seminary.), I am teaching a similar class. “Old Testament: Kings and Prophets” (OTK&P) is a course I am uniquely suited to teach, but having studied under Boda and Baloian, I wish I had another master’s, or even just an article or two published in JSOT (The Journal for the Study of the Old Testament). I don’t. Nor will I. My Hebrew skills are not the reason I’m teaching OTK&P, and I think it will be a better experience for my students as a result. But I still wish there was time to jot a few notes for JSOT, just the same.
Offering easy single-file loading.
In the midst of all this, here’s how a duck helps me keep my sanity, despite my arrogant ambitions.
In 2009, as part of our twenty-fifth anniversary vacation (finally taking us where our honeymoon trip was supposed to have, instead of the Kaiser Hospital in San Diego—another story for another time), my wife and I spent a couple of days in Seattle before embarking on an Alaskan cruise. There in Seattle, to get the quickest tourist-oriented overview (and in honor of my wife’s long-held attraction to all things “rubber-duck”), we “rode the ducks” at a business unsurprisingly named “Ride the Ducks.” Piloted by Captain Credible (“Please, use my full name: Justin Credible.”) We toured Seattle in an amphibious World War II landing craft, including a plunge into and cruise past the sights of Lake Union. The major difference between the equally fascinating land and sea portions of the voyage? On Lake Union, we weren’t holding up traffic.
You see, Sparkman & Stephens are competent marine architects. They make good boats. GMC makes reasonably useful trucks, and did so especially during WWII. The result of their collaboration, the DUKW six-wheel-drive amphibious truck (more information here: http://www.ridetheducksofseattle.com/history.htm), was described by Roderic Stephens, Jr. (Yes, one of those Stephenses.) this way: “She’s not very fast, but she’s better in water than any truck, and she’ll beat any boat on a highway.”
Captain Credible drives (not too) deep into Lake Union.
During our tour through Seattle, we saw no other trucks on Lake Union. There were no other boats cruising along the streets and highways. But I can imagine that Mr. Stephens’ assessment is accurate.
Is it possible to be the best Conservative Evangelical pastor among the Thanatology and Hospice communities? The fact is, there’s not a lot of competition there. Is it possible to be the best Thanatologist among Conservative Evangelical pastors? If my experience is any indicator, then I’m alone in that endeavor. So, instead of trying to out-scholar McGrath, Carson, Erickson, Witherington, Wright, and others, or out-thanatologize Doka, Worden, Rando, Klass, Neimeyer, the Corrs, or anyone else—can I simply accept who I’ve been made to be, and do what I can uniquely provide to each group I’m called to serve? Yes, probably. But only to the extent that I accept the expertise and experience of others, and the privilege of communicating their excellent work between those two communities.

Monday, November 25, 2013

“Missional” and its “Trial-Sized Free Sample” form


Mosaix 2013

Note: The following is a bit academic, and somewhat narrowly focused on the concerns of Christian leadership for the congregations and communities we are called to serve. There are, however, some parts of the post below that I think almost anyone might find interesting, provocative, or even entertaining. Where you find the need to question or comment, please do, and I’ll respond as soon as possible.
Recently, in the online forum component of my doctoral program, my friend Mark Nicklas posted notes from one of the plenary speakers at the Mosaix Multicultural Church Conference. Efrem Smith also led a workshop entitled The Post-Black, Post-White Church, in which he compared The White Church, The Black Church, The First Century Church, and our need of a church that is Biblical (reflecting the mosaic of God’s design), Missional (in that we are called to serve the least of the least—Mathew 25:31-40), Multicultural (reflecting the demographics of our communities), Connectional (“all of us eating at the same table”), and Devotional (“where we get closer and closer to Jesus”).
Efrem Smith
This raised the question for me, “Which is the cart and which is the horse?” That is, given the reality of holding only one task at a time in clear focus, is there one of these definitions that encompasses the rest? If you’ve read much of this blog, or listened to even a few of my sermons (available here: http://www.glenburnchurch.com/sermon_.html), then you know my preference “to serve the least of the least.” I’ll try to focus on that in a post before too long. But for now, here’s my contemplation of that “Missional” focus.
Referencing Mark’s notes from Smith’s lecture, “We need a church that is…”
I would choose “Missional,” except that my seemingly allergic reaction to the term probably signifies toxic overexposure to its usual additives and impurities. Calling it “cruciform, sacrificial servanthood” requires just as much explanation, but I think that’s a more precise label, even if equally prone to misuse.
If, however, the cruciform, sacrificial servanthood on which the Apostle Paul expands in II Corinthians 4 is correlated to the Matthew 25 sheep under the “Missional” banner, then the following seems to follow logically.
"Try Our Bite-Sized Sampler Plate"
The “Missional” approach and its resulting congregational demographic is Biblical. Where it builds relationships with individuals, families, organizations, and structures within the community we are called to serve, it is integrally Missional and authentically Connectional. And where it engages the needs of that community, overwhelming as they are, it is Devotional: we realize quickly that we cannot continue even marginally in this kind of ministry without getting “closer and closer to Jesus.”
Is that what we mean by Missional? Or do we buy into “Missional-Lite?” I find that I react strongly to the clichéd, seminar-driven, “take this home and try it” version of “Missional.” It seems designed as a “trial-sized free sample” to be topically applied to the façade of a church wanting nothing more than fresher marketing materials.
But I also don’t hold real hope for most churches’ efforts to “absorb these concepts into their DNA.” The congregational heart transplant necessary can only be prescribed once diagnosed, and only diagnosed when the symptoms are exacerbated by exertion. Bed-ridden, atrophying bodies of Christ only abound because we withdraw from our communities, pretending that authentic life in Christ can happen even when constrained within the four walls of the church (or in reclusive mono-cultural Christian networks).
"Come here when you're hurting."
"You're hurting? We're on our way!"
Imagining the local church as a hospital or, worse, a self-help social club, is far too prevalent. We frequently presume, often correctly, that those in the communities we are called to serve recognize their own damaged, diseased, and dysfunctional condition. But we also presume, tragically, that they are somehow attracted to a gospel of help and hope…available only by congregating among Christians who recoil from them, rejecting their neighborhoods, and who “rescue” their own children from the community’s schools.
Adopting a few slogans, teaching some lessons, and preaching a six-week sermon series on “the mission-field on our doorstep” is a topical analgesic, numbing us to the realities around us while we congratulate ourselves on being “Missional.” But where there is even one who begins to serve the needs of their neighbors, who might then be joined by others who see the interrelationships of other needs and others in need, and then, whether “congregationally-approved, sanctioned, and/or budgeted” or not, engages in ministry as a member of both the community and congregation—even these first steps will strain the weak heart of most churches.
But as anyone who’s undergone competent cardiac rehab knows: that’s a good thing.

 





Monday, November 11, 2013

Resentment’s Resilience, even in the face of Verified Validation



The Glenburn Community Church
I resented having to be in church yesterday. And yes, I mean the beloved congregation that I consider myself extraordinarily blessed to serve as pastor. I didn’t want to be there.
Yesterday, in West Union, Ohio at 1:00 p.m. EST (roughly fifteen minutes after our Sunday morning Bible study convened out here in Glenburn, California), my Uncle Harmon Dryden officiated the funeral of my Uncle Bruce (Wm. Bruce Gulley, about whom I’ve recently written: http://deathpastor.blogspot.com/2013/11/wm-bruce-gulley-1921-2013.html). I wasn’t there. I was at The Glenburn Community Church.
The obstacles preventing me from receiving permission to fly to Ohio for my uncle’s funeral are several and varied, and mostly stupid and galling. The obstacle preventing me from going AWOL (Absent With-Out Leave) is simpler. Early in my ministry I came to understand the importance of constituted authority, and I believe it applies in even a one-congregation denomination (as the State of California defines GCC). As much as I may joke that “it’s always easier to get forgiveness than permission,” simply absenting myself from my duties as the solo pastor was not an option I allowed myself.
Who would deny their pastor permission to attend the funeral of one of their closest relatives, even if it meant missing a Sunday, without time to arrange pulpit supply, or a pianist, or…well, any of the other things I do on Sundays? No one would deny that permission, so far as I can guess. Likewise, though, there is currently no one to give permission. Like all congregations and their leaders, ours is made up of always flawed and occasionally inattentive human beings. (As one of those responsible for the current level of dysfunction in our decision-making/permission-granting/policy-applying vacuum, I include myself, of course, in that description).
A great place on Sunday mornings (except one, for me).
So while neither of the individuals who may or may not currently be the chairperson of our board of trustees were available (we are apparently amidst a three-month leadership hiatus while the adjustment of our fiscal year—formerly ending September 30—aligns to the calendar year after December 31), and while the currently non-existent Pastor-Parish Relations Committee was equally non-available for comment (no one has been appointed to serve in that capacity for at least the past four years), and while the Elders are still in the developmental stage of this new phase of leadership structure, I prepared to steel myself in the midst of my own bereavement so that I could preach the sermon I had prepared long before my uncle’s illness became critical. It was the first sermon in our next expository series in Samuel and Kings, and it addressed "The Mis-Treatment of the Bereaved.” (I was specifically looking at Hannah’s encounters in I Samuel 1:1-8. I’ll send you the audio-file if you’d like.)
Several from our own congregation are in the midst of the early phases of their grief and mourning, having been bereaved through death and other significant losses. Present in our congregation yesterday, though, were also two sets of first-time visitors. Both had experienced the untimely loss of loved ones under uniquely difficult circumstances in the recent past. I had known of each situation, and prayed for them as their local family members provided updates. But it was my first time meeting all but one of them and, I believe, the first time any of them had attended church at Glenburn. They were in the right place at the right time for the right sermon for all the right reasons.
You'd think he could be in two places at once.
I was in the right place at the right time for the right sermon, too. And despite the fact that I was there for, in my humble estimation, all the wrong reasons, I took their presence, the presence of others in need among our regular attendees, and the response from each of them, and from even those I had no idea were in the midst of significant losses…well, I believe God verifiably validated my presence there, then, for them…and probably for me, too. But make no mistake about it: I didn’t want to be there.
I’m absolutely certain that God wanted me to be there. I see why. It was awesome to see the Holy Spirit touch people’s lives through a sermon I didn’t want to be there to preach. God used it, and people were blessed. But I’m still mad about it. Of course, this isn’t the first time God chose not to take my advice about how best to run my life (or who I should minister to and where). And even when I haven’t had such clear evidence that He knows best, I’ve gotten over it in the past. I’ll get over this, too.
So, I’m sorry I missed your funeral, Uncle Bruce. But unless I am entirely mistaken about your testimony of faith, I know you can feel free to take it up face-to-face with the One I blame for it. Or maybe you’ll just chalk it up to one more thing you got to teach your nephew, even when I thought the opportunity to learn from you had passed. Either way, thanks again.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Wm. Bruce Gulley (1921-2013)


Wm. Bruce Gulley (1921-2013)

The Greatest Generation is down a man, as of five o'clock Eastern Standard Time this morning.
When he drove an LST in the Southeast Asian theater, he followed up the beach, rifle in hand, with the last of the troops to be delivered. When I turned thirteen, and my friends and I were playing "war," we had a talk that forever changed my attitudes toward it. Since then, it has always seemed that the only ones who think war is a good idea are those who’ve never fought one.
Later, during a Veteran's Day phone call, he was in a mood to talk about the differences his generation and ours faced in returning home. He expressed great sympathy for young men and women who were in a firefight one day, and the next were sitting at their family's dining table. His long journey home involved weeks of time with others who had seen what he had seen, talking through what that meant to them, and what it could never possibly mean to those awaiting them at home. As much as I try, I know how inadequate my counsel is to my friends who have dealt with PTSD, and that I occasionally forget to say Thank You clearly enough to those who have served. But I also know my uncle was glad to know I tried.
Other than one long talk, and several brief mentions, I have no idea of so much that he experienced. But the long-term effects included loyalty, self-sacrifice, and a willingness to accommodate behaviors that many would find entirely unacceptable (though not entirely without comment or even complaint at times).
For all that I remember that he taught me, I’m sure there are many more I still know, but simply never noticed that he was teaching me at the time. I can whittle a top, or a birch-whistle. I remember the multi-part lesson working in a muddy foundation on Peterson Place. (Until the third part of the lesson, each step in the process was preceded by either my butt or my stocking-encased foot becoming submerged in the mire. For your edification: twist your foot inside the boot as you lift your foot slowly, bringing the boot and the foot together out of the mud, while keeping your knees bent for balance. But don’t tell the kid all that at once; it would spoil the fun of watching him sit or step bootless into the mud.) Oh yeah, I also know not to use a keyhole saw to put windows into the house we made out of a refrigerator’s shipping box (at least not while my sister was inside).
I also know that when someone asks me to believe their words, and their actions don’t match—to believe what they do, not what they say. If I were to tell someone I’ll be there tomorrow, and I’m not—I know that it’s just as much a lie as if I’d told them I was there yesterday and wasn’t. And when you’re feeding even an early-adolescent tagging along from the job-site (that would be me), a smorgasbord is a safer place to take them than anywhere you’d have to pay for all that food they eat.
There’s probably much more I never noticed I was learning. And in ways simple and complex, I can only hope I communicated clearly in words and actions alike: I love you, Uncle Bruce. Thanks for everything.
Those of us who share in the heritage he leaves bear an unmistakable obligation to pass the legacy on to those who follow. Those who never had the privilege of knowing him...well, I pray that you see just some glimmer of him in those of us who did. It would be a blessing to you to see it; it would be a blessing to him to know it was seen.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Where We Disagree: How Christian-Muslim Dialogue Might Teach Us To Pursue Christian Unity



Dr. Paul Louis Metzger wrote on Monday regarding the issues central to the mutual exclusivity of Islam and Christianity (i.e., You can be one or the other, but despite a Muslim leader’s claim that one who converts from Christianity to Islam “does not lose Jesus, but gains Muhammad,” you cannot do both. The “Jesus” that could be accommodated in Islam is something other than the historical/Biblical Jesus). My thoughts below were prompted by his post found here: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/uncommongodcommongood/2013/11/is-the-cross-the-crux-of-the-divide-between-christianity-and-islam/

I have recently been blessed by a couple of conversations with a Buddhist acquaintance in which we were able to clearly identify the crucial (pun intended) point of departure in our spiritual lives as being the nature of God and specifically the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. So, it resonated strongly with me when Dr. Paul Louis Metzger wrote regarding the primary point of departure between Muslims and Christians, “We need to be clear on what we mean by Jesus, Christian, and Muslim.”

But sadly, what also resonated is Dr. Metzger’s quote of the excellently clear and concise statement by Daniel W. Brown regarding this primary point of departure between Islam and Christianity: “whether the character of God is most clearly revealed in a perfect life culminating in redemptive death or in a perfect book giving rise to a perfect life.” What saddens me about such inspiring clarity? It is that this also describes the point of departure in the murky dissection of Christ’s body as cessationism is currently being championed so divisively. (“Cessationism” is the theological stance behind Dr. John McArthur’s recent attacks on fellow-Christians of the Charismatic persuasion)
 
As we engage those of other religions and cultures, perhaps we might learn better how to seek dialogue with the divisive in our own camps. To borrow from Dr. Metzger’s phrasing: “We need to be clear on what we mean by Jesus Christ, our Heavenly Father, and the Holy Spirit, as well as our own perfect book as His means of guiding us into becoming and being Christian.”

Could it be that patterns developed in multi-cultural engagement may best inform our engagement with one another as we seek to bring into clearer resolution our conflicts, and reconcile our relationships within the Church? Again, taking some liberties to quote Dr. Metzger again, this effort to discern the core issues of our disagreement is certainly “Easier said than done.” But it might be a worthy enterprise.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Sometimes a Watched Pot Boils – Part Two


Note the difference in the final photo.

“A watched pot never boils,” but sometimes they do. “And patients never die while someone sits vigil.” Well, that’s most often the case. But sometimes they do.
This morning, I found myself watching a pot come to a boil, then reflected on a patient who died during a very brief time alone (that’s Part One, which you’ll find below). But that was only after finding myself again in the midst of mourning the loss of a friend who most certainly did not die alone.
It has now been twenty-eight years since I was called to serve The Fort Jones Community Church. There’s a lot to say about my tenure there, but on my mind this morning, watching the pot slowly build up steam, was the Elder who wasn’t an Elder, yet. He served as an Elder would in every way but one. He just wasn’t “official,” initially. He was not allowed to attend Elders’ meetings, nor was he allowed to be called an Elder through the official channels of recognition in that congregation of that denomination at that particular time.
He’d been a one-man woman for as long as anyone knew. But there had been an earlier marriage during the earliest part of his military service. The combined damage of that relationship, later experiences in Vietnam, and especially the inexorable deterioration and multiple diseases that accompany severe radiation exposure (he served on spotter planes above detonations on Enewetak Atoll), left him very mindful of his limitations, and the wisdom of simply serving wherever Christ called you, no matter what others may call you.
His advice, counsel, questions, and reproof of a then-twenty-four year old pastor in a redevelopment church was perhaps the single largest factor to my continuing in ministry there. His continued input and reminders over the subsequent years contributed significantly to my continuing in ministry…at all. For more than half my life, he called me his pastor, and he was my Elder and, I claim proudly, my friend.
The above barely does justice to him, but in this limited space, perhaps it offers some explanation for my reaction when I received a call from his wife some time ago.
After lengthy battles with the variety of damages his early experiences had imposed upon him, “He’s taken a turn for the worse,” she said. She wanted to know what my schedule looked like over the next week or so. She wanted to know where to find me when it was time for “his pastor” to help arrange the funeral for my Elder, my friend. That warning call came on a Saturday. Of course, I had duties the following morning. So, despite her concern that I might end up making two trips in the same week (and that in the time it took to drive there, he could be gone), I agreed that we would make the five-hour trip only after calling to confirm that he was still there to be visited.
We arrived that Sunday evening. He was still there. Using talents I’d developed in working with ALS, Cerebral Palsy, Muscular Dystrophy, and brain injury patients, I was able to enjoy a lengthy conversation with my Elder, my friend. He was weak, bed-ridden, but still able to reprove his pastor with good humor, even when I had to ask him to repeat with greater enunciation a particular gibe in my direction.
The next morning, we stopped by their home to visit briefly before heading back for the week’s responsibilities, knowing that my agenda and schedule were likely to be interrupted by news of his death. As we stood around his bed, though, his hand in my left, his wife’s in my right, and my wife completing the chain between husband and wife by grasping his big toe through the bed sheet, I prayed for my Elder, my friend—and I felt the unmistakable slackening in his grip, followed by the sigh I had heard from others many times before.
It momentarily threw me. I had never had someone die in the midst of prayer before. But knowing that he desired no “heroic measures,” I simply concluded my prayer (though probably more abruptly than I would have otherwise). At that point, his wife, retired from her nursing career, and I, an experienced Hospice chaplain, went into technician mode: things to check, calls to make, a pathway to clear. And then the long wait for contact from law enforcement (in some counties even a death on Hospice care requires the same attention as any other “unattended” death), their arrival, the arrival of the mortuary service and their departure with the body of my Elder, my friend. And then, the long drive home, trying to regain my bearings.
Not a watched pot. Just potted watches.
Somewhere along the twisting roads of the Northern California mountains, heading inland from my friends’ seaside home, I came to a realization. Nobody ever really dies alone. Granted, not all die surrounded by friends and family in the midst of a time of prayer. I trust that it was a blessing to my Elder, my friend, as the last words he heard on this earth were the prayers of his pastor. But as much as Jesus was with us in that moment, Christ is here, today, with every one of us.
Why, then, does it seem like so many choose to let go of the last threads of this life when all their fellow-humans have left the room? Maybe a lot of us just wait…until there aren’t so many interruptions to our conversation with Him.

Monday, November 4, 2013

Sometimes a Watched Pot Boils – Part One



“A watched pot never boils…and patients never die while someone sits vigil.” There are exceptions, though. This morning, just to prove to myself what I’d seen, I watched a pot come to a boil. But still, the adage is well-founded. It’s not something I would do very often.
The fact is, patients do most frequently die when alone. Some will hold on for that one last special visit. Some seem to remain long enough to hear the conclusion of a particularly interesting conversation. But it is in the little breaks in a vigil, when everyone leaves the bedside to see the new grandbaby, or the primary caregiver needs just one quick cigarette, or when a loved one comes away to the desk to escort the next shift’s visitor to the room…
Saturday, 2:00 p.m. – I was the one to find that he’d gone. The long-term care facility’s nurse had directed me to the room and said she’d be along in just a moment. She’d been sitting, reading to him, watching his breathing grow slower over the past half hour.Saturday, 9:00 a.m. – Some of the family had gathered at our favorite breakfast place. On our way out – “Would you mind stopping by to check on Dad? He’s not doing too well, and I know he’d love to see you.” I promised I would go after the funeral. After all, the request was made by a son just hours before his mother’s funeral. His mother and father had long-since divorced and remarried others. I’d buried the step-father some months earlier. So, that afternoon, I left the widow’s funeral for the local long-term care facility where I entered her ex-husband’s room to find that he’d died.
Saturday, 3:00 p.m. – Because I’ve trained for, served extensively at, and taught others in making an appropriate death notification, I was asked (and it seemed only right for me) to handle this one. I made a couple of phone calls to determine where the family had gathered before dispersing to their distant homes. As I drove to the hotel restaurant at which they’d gathered, I prayed that I would be able to gather the four men in order to break the news all at once. But the potential of one being in his hotel room, another in the bar, one at a table in the restaurant, and perhaps the fourth standing outside saying goodbye to friends or relatives…I imagined they might make assumptions about the purpose for my visit. I was prepared for a less-than-optimal situation.

But when I walked in, the four brothers were standing together, engaged in conversation with one another, with everyone else in rapt discussions around various tables, seemingly oblivious to my presence. The second youngest saw me, welcomed me, and asked if I had stopped off to see his dad. With just the four brothers, I was able to explain that I’d stopped by, that the nurse directed me to his current room, but when I spoke to him he was unresponsive and, in fact, I had called the nurse into the room to confirm my suspicions. “She did, and apparently in the couple of minutes he was alone, he had died.” (I try to, and train others to break the process down into seven gradually leading elements. Given the circumstances, I was very glad to come up with even six steps.)
Shortly thereafter I found myself in the center of the hotel bar, joined hand-in-hand with a circle of thirty-some family and friends, praying with them. Having gathered to mourn and reminisce together, a new grief, anticipated but still shocking in its timing, was introduced. One of the daughters-in-law asked afterward, “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” We were in good humor at that point, so I responded, “You mean, have I ever done a mother’s funeral, then left to visit the father, her ex-husband, been the one to find the body, come to the post-funeral family dinner and break the news of the second death to the family? No, I’m not sure that’s ever happened to anyone before.”
But this morning, I stood in my kitchen and watched a pot come to a boil. It’s not something I would do very often. But I’ll tell you why in part two.



Friday, November 1, 2013

365 Shopping-Days Left before Next Halloween


How important? Think millstones & necks.
Things got busy yesterday. It’s only just today that I’ve seen the impassioned condemnations of families who “make light of evil” or “pretend that witches and demons aren’t real,” or subject their children to “the sins” of trick-or-treating. Granted, unregulated early-childhood sugar consumption has consequences. But after the first call for “wet-cleanup on aisle bedside,” most parents learn to set appropriate limits.

But today, appropriate limits do appear lacking, though primarily among Christians who would require that others who do not share their convictions join them in ignoring the children at their door, except to condemn them for their participation in the vestiges of what has been a Christian ritual. So, I offer the following comparison.

One of these things is not like the other.
I don't choose to ignore Christmas, despite the fact that it was scheduled and built upon the foundations of the Romans’ “Saturnalia” and incorporated many of that festival's symbols and characteristics. I also recognize that, for most North Americans, Christmas is merely an excuse for excessive consumption (celebrating gluttony, materialism, and competitive indebtedness). Certainly, these aspects are far more visible than the Christ Who is proclaimed during an hour or so on Christmas Eve in far too few churches. I think the birth of our Savior is important enough to not only look beyond the cultural trappings that obscure Him, but also to uphold Him in the midst of them as a worthy competitor to vain attempts to foster mirth and goodwill through economic expenditure. Therefore, I don’t choose to ignore Christmas. I celebrate it.

Fear the dragon, but only so much as the child.
Similarly, I don't choose to ignore Halloween (i.e., All Hallows’ Eve), despite the fact that it was originally an expansion of the celebration of Christianity’s All Saints' Day which was intended to either compete with or replace (depending upon whose histories you read) the Celtic harvest festival of Samhain. I also recognize that, for most North Americans, Halloween is merely an excuse for excessive consumption (celebrating gluttony, perhaps some measure of materialism, but not necessarily competitive indebtedness). Certainly, these aspects are far more visible than the mockery of demonic impotence symbolized by dressing children in the guise of frightening creatures or heroic rescuers, celebrating our freedom from the fear of evil and death. I think that God’s power and triumph is important enough to not only look beneath these cultural trappings that may obscure the celebration of Christ’s victory on our behalf, but also to uphold Him in contrast to what the demonic powers would try to scare us into believing as we hide in darkened houses, avoiding little children. Therefore, I don’t choose to ignore Halloween. And once we’ve finally redeemed Christmas, I’ll probably begin to more directly celebrate it.

I should also acknowledge that there is a key theological difference underlying two competing approaches to these “de-Christianized” holidays. I’m sure you’ll recognize my preference between them.

  1. One option is to reactively withdraw into self-protective Christian networks where demonic influences are presumed to be absent. This simply leaves the enemy of our souls free-er reign over communities abandoned by too many Christians. Those who believe they must preserve their salt and light (contrasting Jesus’ instructions in Matthew 5:13-16) will likely be successful in handing over their unused talent to Christ when He returns (Matthew 25:14-30).

  1. The other option is less popular, but it appears to be more Biblical (as well as more compassionate, evangelistic, and Christ-like) to proactively engage our communities and cultures redemptively (Matthew 28:18-20). This means pointing to the presence and purpose of Christ in the midst of even the most pagan of settings (e.g., Acts 17:16-34), and choosing the inherent risks of “cruciform, sacrificial servanthood” (Matthew 16:24-25; II Corinthians 4:5; Philippians 2:5-8, 4:8-9; Ephesians 4:11-16; etc.) over the comfort and convenience of our Christian enclaves.

So, my prayer is that God would bless each of us by taking away our bushel-baskets and compelling us to be, and to do, and to live where His salt and light can do the most good.

Why McDonald's Succeeds Where Church Fails

An old friend recently shared this meme. We agree on so much, it’s hard to say, “Au contraire, mon frere.” ("Exactly the opposite, my b...