Toward an Understanding of the Church’s Role in Politics

As a part of my studies in the doctoral program at Multnomah University, I participate in online discussions among the colleagues in my “cohort” (the group of us proceeding through the program together). This will be redundant for them, but hopefully instructive for others, so I’ll include it here in my blog as well.

Dr. Paul Louis Metzger is quoted as having said, “There is no such thing as an apolitical theology. Why don’t our social justice people identify with the poor? Why do we realign to new centers of power? We have to confront the powers!” The question regarding those statements was, “How do we respond to this? Let’s take this on biblically and theologically.” In support of holding a supra-political theology of God’s sovereignty that, in particular instances, variably requires the church to engage, inform, influence, confront, oppose, or even destroy governmental systems (anarchy and chaos being infinitely preferable to a well-organized bureaucracy efficiently inflicting oppression, exploitation, and destruction upon the people God has called governments to serve), I offer the following.

Remembering that for Richard Niebuhr the word “culture” refers to society, and especially interactions with political government (which I would differentiate from bureaucratic and corporate government, but which may be considered part of the whole here), the statements attributed to Dr. Metzger would seem to seize on one of the three main categories (Christ above Culture, which comprises sythesism, dualism—labeled Christ and Culture in Paradox, and conversionism—labeled Christ Transforming Culture) to the exclusion of the other two. For a lengthy discussion of all of the above, feel free to audit “Kings and Prophets” next spring at A.W. Tozer Theological Seminary (yes, that’s a shameless plug).

My understanding of Bonhoeffer (limited though it is, I’m thinking specific of his ethics and the framework of political interaction he followed), however, suggests that there is a parallel existence between church and state (Christ and Culture), with particular responsibilities inherent in each. This has not neatly fit into any of Niebuhr’s five categories, in my thinking, and I am hoping that D.A. Carson’s Christ and Culture Revisited will shed additional light on the subject. But in the mean time, I would offer Bonhoeffer's caveat regarding our need “to confront the powers.”

To be sure, the first of Bonhoeffer’s three stages of interaction between church and state can be pursued confrontationally. But there is also a history of cooperation and interaction (not to mention pacifism) in Bonhoeffer’s ministry and writings that suggests that during most seasons, even under despotic regimes, the confrontation is to be handled with diplomacy in the nature of an ambassador, “requesting” that the state fulfill its Godly obligation to act in ways that allow us to “lead a tranquil and quiet life in all godliness and dignity.” (1Tm2:1-2) This seems to be the point of “render(ing) to Caesar,” as well as being “in subjection” (if not strict “obedience” at all times). It is at this level, I believe, that the statements above assume a political interaction from within the system, where Bonhoeffer appears to envision a church structure and responsibility that transcends that of the state, while still encompassing the obligation to remind the state of its position within God’s government.

Bonhoeffer certainly understood that civil societies' responses to these calls upon them ranged from simple apathy and ignorance to murderous manipulation. Even under the most benign or even beneficial rulers, though, the dynamic nature of economies and justice systems leave ample opportunity for ministry to “the widow, the orphan, and the alien in their distress.” Bonhoeffer’s second stage, to bandage those wounded by the wheels of state, is always an indispensable complement to our expectations that civil societies function equitably.

This draws us to the most famous and most controversial third stage of Bonhoeffer’s prescription. There are times, he believed (and acted upon those beliefs), when the damage being inflicted by the state is so entrenched and grievous that the appropriate response of the church can only be to “drive a spoke through the wheel of state.” But in the context of the statements above, the work of the church in bringing the grinding wheels of state to a grinding halt is less a matter of political action than it is the expression of the Sovereign through His servants: “This far and no farther” (Job 38:11).

The Little Red Hen Revisited

Once upon a time, The Little Red Hen sat back from her table in satisfaction. The dog and the cat and the duck and the goose and the turkey and even the fox—all of her friends had enjoyed a wonderful time of sharing bread around that very table.

Of course, even in her new-found sense of charity, The Little Red Hen remembered that she had found the seed, planted and watered and harvested the grain, and ground and mixed and kneaded and baked…and out of what others left lying in the dirt of the barnyard, and some would have eaten right away and never planted, there had been enough bread for all of them. For all the hard work she had done herself, it was still a joy for her to watch her friends enjoy the results of all her hard work. And, she was sure, now that her friends had all eaten her delicious bread, they would be more than glad to help her plant and water and harvest and grind and mix and knead and bake the bread next time.

And yet, when the next planting season came, so did the excuses—from the dog and the cat and the duck and the goose and the turkey and even the fox—they all had other plans. But even though they did not come to plant and to water and to harvest and to grind and to mix and to knead and to bake…they still came when they smelled the fresh, hot bread ready to come out of the oven.

As the third season approached, The Little Red Hen felt very sad. She liked her bread. And she liked her friends: the dog and the cat and the duck and the goose and the turkey and even the fox. But she did not feel like planting and watering and harvesting and grinding and mixing and kneading and baking quite so much bread this year. When her friends still came to wait for her to bring the bread out of the oven, she told them: she had only made enough for her. If they wanted bread next year, then they should probably find and plant and water and harvest and grind and mix and knead and bake their own bread.

Her friends went away without bread that day. But before long, they came to her again and decided they should talk about how they could all work together in the next season. The Little Red Hen said that she would be glad for the help and would let them know when she would be ready to plant her seed. But her friends said they thought there must be easier ways to get bread than by planting and watering and harvesting and grinding and mixing and kneading and baking, even if The Little Red Hen gave them her seed. They said they should all decide together how to get the next season’s bread. So, The Little Red Hen invited them into the kitchen where they had all enjoyed the bread not long before.

No, they said. We will not come into your kitchen. It is hard enough for us that you control the bread. If we meet at your table, then we will just end up doing whatever you say we need to do to get bread. So, The Little Red Hen asked where they would like to meet. As each made their suggestions, it became clear that none of them had built a table, or a house in which to put the table, in addition to never having baked any bread to put on any table in any house. The Little Red Hen said that she would be glad to show them how to build a table. But that meant, they said, that it would be the kind of table The Little Red Hen wanted it to be. They would build their own table. And put it in their own house. And there, in their house, on their table, they would eat their bread.

But they never did. And The Little Red Hen planted and watered and harvested and ground and mixed and kneaded and baked and ate her own bread…all by herself. And The Little Red Hen was very, very sad. But in the last few seasons of her life, even when she offered to share the bread she had made, her friends said they would rather pick grain in the barnyard than come to the table of the one who had to have control of the bread. And, in time, The Little Red Hen was okay with that.

the end

Another Tragedy of Trayvon and George

By way of invitation to a Portland area forum on the Trayvon Martin case (details available here)), Dr. Paul Louis Metzger asks “Why did this case receive so much attention, especially while other similar cases never got so much as a mention?” From my vantage point, isolated at the time in the mountains of Northern California, dependent upon mass media for details of what I first noticed in social media postings, I can only offer observations and conclusions bounded by those limitations. But here they are.

I first saw mention of the shooting in someone’s vehement reaction to Geraldo Rivera’s infamous claim that part of Martin’s attire, a hoodie, was responsible for his death. Mass media’s habit of covering media’s coverage almost immediately raised an impenetrable fog around any hope of finding facts about the case online. Too few quaintly preserve the ancient journalistic endeavor in our country: piecing together a story with some congruence to the events being reported. This archaic ideal, however, has little place in the competition to be the first to report any new sliver of conjecture by anyone, even when that conjecture is not being made by witnesses, law enforcement, or expert observers, but simply by another media-staff commentator weighing in on “facts” not yet in evidence.

So, one reason for the attention to this case appeared to be nothing more than our macabre glee at having fresh bodies to feed to the selachian (“of or pertaining to sharks”) demands of the news-cycle. But there were at least two other details that prompted the furtherance of the feeding frenzies.

Trayvon Martin, and to a lesser extent (as a Prussian-surnamed, self-identifying Hispanic) George Zimmerman, provided a concrete metaphor for the fears of blacks, Hispanics, and whites alike. This fear of “the other” (xenophobia, as discussed previously in this blog) comprises the potential for such deadly misunderstandings on the basis of preconceived stereotypes. The logic seems self-evident that “the stranger” should fear me at least as much as I fear them. And should some chance exchange inadvertently provoke a confrontation, then I should be prepared to do to them as they, I imagine, would do to me, should I appear ready to do it to them. Add to this the minority status of both parties, and for many white Americans the potential for discussion was opened more broadly. (This is likely the primary factor that kept this story at the top of the editorial priorities, above other, similar cases in the interim.)

According to Herschell Gordon Lewis, there are four great marketing motivators (some of us prefer the term “manipulators”). In his estimation, as I recall, greed, guilt, and exclusivity follow well behind fear as a means to influence others. And self-promoters who feed on our society’s fears in order to raise ratings, sell books, fund studies, and otherwise scavenge the carrion of tragedy were in abundance for weeks and months after the death of Trayvon Martin. Their number includes activists as well as commentators, news-readers as well as politicians, and, too frequently, religious leaders as well as regular citizens. But before we decry the growing school of sharks, we should remember that the profits they divide among them do come from somewhere. And it is those sources of their resources who bear responsibility for the actions we support. Real consequences in real lives result from our decision to watch incessantly, trying to be among the first to share, or like, or tweet, or otherwise prattle on about whatever suppositions are painted across the backdrop of the next new tragedy.

There is much more to be said, no doubt, about the reasons for such attention being raised over the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman story. I pray that the forum in Portland will be fruitful in recognizing a variety of other issues as well that may diminish the potential for similar tragedies in the future. Among the issues addressed, however, should be my personal culpability (and yours, too) for the consequences of continuing to consume “news-like products.”

Human beings are regularly distilled into fuel for fact-less fires signaling only the same, dangerously stereotypical perspectives. And when there are too few suppositions to report, we watch reports of what others have either chosen or failed to report regarding the too-few suppositions already available. Know this, though: some will base their actions tomorrow on the fears we have helped to instill in them today. Lest we sacrifice even more of our brothers and sisters to the gods of technological gossip, we are overdue to disconnect ourselves from this media machine.

Standing in the Intersection: Ambassadors in the Traffic

At the risk of oversimplification: ambassadors are defined by a two-fold responsibility. First, they must develop and maintain relationships among those to whom they are sent. Second, they must also hold unswervingly to the values and message entrusted to them by those from whom they are sent. As one called to be a Christian ambassador (II Corinthians 5:20), this is complicated by the absence of diplomatic relations between the kingdom that sends me (I Peter 2:9-10) and the overarching government under which any other allegiances are organized (“the whole world” as explained in I John 5:19-21). We often express this as the challenge of being in the world, while not becoming of the world.

This past Saturday, privileged to observe the groundbreaking of the Dharma Rain Zen Center’s new facilities in Portland, Oregon, I stood somewhere in the intersection of those two responsibilities. My vantage point was not from the curb of the corner, but amidst the traffic flowing in several directions simultaneously.

On the one hand, I was anxious over the potential for inadvertently offending my hosts, especially since I was there as a guest of a guest (Dr. Paul Louis Metzger, head of the Cultural Engagement track in Multnomah’s DMin program was one of the featured dignitaries). On the other, however, I was anxious over the potential for participating in some portion of the festivities that might inadvertently communicate an adherence or agreement to the philosophy and spirituality of Zen Buddhism. One particular episode may illustrate that sufficiently for you:

After watching the rituals and listening to the mantras, hearing a few of the explanations offered (outdoor sound system difficulties are among the experiences Christians and Buddhists share, apparently), members of Dharma Rain moved throughout the assembled crowd, distributing paper cups. Recognizing that this would be a part of the ceremony, and having no idea what it may symbolize, I declined. And then another asked, and I declined again. Having watched me say, “No, thank you” three times, the fourth in our area offered again, saying, “But it’s just birdseed.” I have some ideas about what it means to throw birdseed, or rice, or confetti (though at our church, amidst fields of wild rice and vegan cattle, it would only be organic, biodegradable confetti). But the risk of offending my hosts collided with my allegiance to a pure message of my Lord—because there wasn’t time to merge, or swerve, or diplomatically inquire as to what was intended as the significance of birdseed throwing in this context. Thankfully, she seemed only puzzled and there was no diplomacy-breaching incident. But I feel strongly the need to learn from even this brief and otherwise inconsequential experience.

I want to commend to you and myself the value of standing in the intersection, fully recognizing both elements of our responsibility in being ambassadors for Christ: authenticity in representing my Sovereign, and as much accommodation of my hosts as is possible. In doing this, I believe there may be two outcomes, eventually, of this continuing endeavor. It may be, as one outcome, that I may become acclimated to the pace of the traffic and better equipped to respond more quickly in determining what it means to honor the relationships I am to build and the relationship I am called to represent. The other outcome, however, may be naïvely ambitious. But if I learn how to stand in the intersection well enough, I may slow the traffic, or at least be better prepared to turn some portions of that world toward the King who sends me into it.

Because no matter how accommodating I am to those under that other, oppressive umbrella comprising their subsidiary allegiances, my Sovereign-assigned mission is to seek their reconciliation with Him. There won’t always be time to sort through the data, to draw upon resources for cultural literacy, or even to simply ask for clarification. And so, when they conflict, the authenticity of representing my Sovereign must take precedence over my accommodation of my hosts.

Death Is a Bad Idea

The effort to form words audibly and intelligibly was beyond her strength. Mobility had long-since been arrested by her degenerative neurological condition As a Hospice chaplain, I had served others faced with her diagnosis and prognosis. As her pastor, too, I was in a position to remind others that while she could barely speak, and might appear to have been lost to dementia, “her ears are still connected, and she’s still processing. Go and talk to her, read to her, and remember: that’s still her in there.”

Encouraging others to maintain their relationships with her was especially important to me. I had been blessed to watch the care she previously provided to her sister over a period of years. But the sister’s disease process was as nearly opposite as could be. In one case, a mind trapped in a body was slowly, but finally cut off completely from demonstrating itself to surrounding friends and family. In the other, her sister’s robust physical health meant that she survived long after the last of the fleeting moments of apparent awareness, ultimately leaving a body intact and functioning long after any control, response, or even, as near as we know, thought within it. 

Even when death is sudden and swift, it is almost universally preceded by disease, dysfunction, and/or disability. The world and the bodies in which we live are damaged physically, mentally, emotionally, socially, environmentally, and especially spiritually. In fact, it is the spiritual dimension that experiences the greatest trauma in considering any death. But when death comes far too early in life (the second-grader who fell from the tree she’d climbed so many times before, or the toddler left unattended just long enough to find his way to the creek), or at inopportune moments (coinciding with holidays or family celebrations, or on the brink of major life milestones)? Or when it befalls in such cruel irony as with the sisters above? It prompts questions that most often presume death to be a natural part of the created order. But I would question that assumption. In fact, I have questioned it. I have questioned it biblically and theologically (though these should be identical, they are not, due to the same damages described above), psychologically and sociologically, from the perspectives of biology and anthropology, and in most other ways you could name. I have struggled with why death was ever created in the first place, and have come to this conclusion. It was not. When I ask, “Why, God? How could you call paradise the world in which you included death?” And I believe the answer He gives is, “I didn’t.” I have pressed Him on this matter. I pressed to the point that I believe He clarified the so-called “creation” of death, saying, “I didn’t. You did.”

The Life-giver warned that even in paradise, the very garden of creation, that there was one, and only one, fragility. He gave humankind everything. He put it under our dominion. But we wanted to see what else there was. When you have everything, the only way to get something else is to break some of what you’ve been given. And so, we then had most of what we’d been given, plus the pieces of what we’d broken. That brokenness includes mortality.

“In the day that you eat from it, you will surely die,” He said. (Genesis 2:17)

Some have imagined that since Adam and Eve did not immediately collapse and expire at the moment of their first bite of that fruit, that there must be some other kind of death that is meant, and that physical death must have been a part of the original creation. Anyone who has lived long enough senses their own mortality, recognizes the gradual disabling of life, the dysfunction that will not be restored, and the reality of having to say, “There’s another thing I won’t ever do again.” There is little imagination required to sense, then, what the original humans must have felt in that moment when mortality gripped them.

Death has been, is, and will always be a terribly bad idea. It carries with it, even in its most romanticized settings, a stench that repulses us from contemplating it. Our denial is natural, since death is not. But while it is an infernal invention, it also continues to consume us. And whether traumatically abrupt, or interminably protracted, it remains to be reckoned as a part of life—mine, yours, and everyone we know.

But mortality, the fact of being a “human dying” as much as a “human being,” is not permanent. And so, neither is death. Most of us understand that there is something after this life. I believe that the Christian scripture gives hints about “the afterlife’s” nature, but declines concrete imagery. When Jesus’ disciples ask, “How can we know how to get there when we don’t even know where You’re going?” Jesus replies, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one come to the Father except through me.” This implies exclusivity, certainly. But in answer to the disciples’ immediate concerns, Jesus is telling them: “You don’t need a road map. When the time comes, I will be your guide.” (John 14:1-6) When the disciple who recorded that conversation writes again later, he notes that we don’t know what it is that we will be like. But he seems satisfied to understand that “we will be like Him, for we will see Him as He is.” (I John 3:1-3) What happens after this life is far more vague than I would like. But I am even less content with what is too very clear:

You, and I, and everyone we know: each one of us is going to die. (At some point I should explain how it is that I see the rapture as a form of death, so that I don’t feel neglectful for omitting “should the Lord tarry” from every iteration of this statement.) This demands that we take seriously the life we lead in this very moment. It also demands that we take seriously our need of the guide Jesus offers to be, and to live accordingly. Here’s one more reason why:

If all you ever allow yourself to experience of life is this degraded and deteriorating mess we’ve made of it, then I can’t imagine anything more tragic. The longings you and I feel to “fix it,” to bring redemption, restoration and renewal to the world around us, to the relationships we have, and to the socio-politico-economic structures and systems in which we depend upon one another…these longings are noble aspirations and should most definitely be pursued, even though we recognize that they will never be perfected. The damage to humanity and our environment is in many ways reversible, but ultimately incurable. We exchanged utopia for the fantasy of autonomy, and it is not within our autonomous ability to restore it. As much as we may move the mess around, the pile leaves a conspicuous lump under the rug where our denial sweeps it. Still, never allow the impossibility of perfection to dissuade you from the good you are called to do. Though the ultimate restoration and renewal is yet to come, it begins in the hearts of those willing to humbly admit that we need the guidance, assistance, and miraculous intervention of the author, designer, and builder who gave us the utopia in the first place.

If I may, then, given the shortness of your time and mine, and the dire realities of the hour in which many now live (and are dying), I would exhort you: Get with the program. Join the team. Share in the work. Not just because it’s good for you, but because of the good that others need to know, and see, and experience, and, themselves, join in promoting. It’s important to acknowledge the reality of death. It limits the time we have available. But the damage and degradation and deterioration we experience are only indignities if our lives have been indignities. Christ is not merely seeking to guide us to redemption once we’ve died. He wants us involved in reconciliation, restoration, and in spreading that redemption…once we decide to live.

I pray you do so today.

The Misery of Company Promised and Withheld

Let me apologize to the entire Greater Portland Metropolitan Area’s inhabitants up front: I’m an outsider. An envious outsider at that. There are aspects of Portland, Oregon that remind me of the fondest of my memories of being an adolescent (with no apologies to Mark Driscoll for using that term—maybe we could talk sometime?) in San Francisco during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Yet there has been a significant passage of time since I last dwelt in an urban area, or even a moderate-density population area (i.e., suburb). Truth be told: the other day I was thrilled with myself that I still remembered how to successfully parallel park.

With that said, I think I may have advantages in anthropological and sociological distance, but severe liabilities when it comes to my few samples of “Life in Portland” over the past few years. Still, I believe my observations have some value, if not actual merit, and they have proven instructive to me for a specific purpose in my life and ministry. Perhaps you’ll be able to plow through the potentially offensive mistaken impressions I’ve gleaned, and recognize that there is some validity to the conclusion I’ve drawn, despite the faulty lenses through which my limited data is viewed. If you find the length too daunting, though, you can skip down to the paragraph that begins: “So, in short….”

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 It shows up in a variety of places here: “Keep Portland Weird.” I’m in town studying issues related to diversity, and it’s a perfect place to do so. There appears to be little to which the adjectives common, normal, average, or (especially) ordinary would apply. There’s even concern expressed over another concept, “Portland Cool,” as though that would become a standardizing commodification (branding, packaging, and promoting a static paradigm) of some aspects of Portland Weird. In fact, even if all aspects of Portland Weird as it exists today were included in Portland Cool, it would fail to account for new and stranger developments yet to come, perhaps as early as tomorrow, or even later tonight.

Here’s how I came to be at the intersection of Portland Weird and Portland Cool today.

First, as I drove to the church in which I chose to worship today, I determined not to arrive in the full array of clergy vestments current to my tradition. And so, my shirt had long sleeves, and it was tucked into my pants. I even wore a tie, as I do every Sunday. While this successfully differentiated me from all participants on the worship team, it was also unique among the several hundred who attended that worship hour. This, coupled with my age (I’m significantly outside the 18-34 year old demographic.), may have created a kind of anthropological distance in others, turning them toward either observation or avoidance mode. (Xenophobia is discussed in a previous post.)

Second, however mistaken my perception may be (that I managed to dress outside the range of what is acceptable under “Portland Weird”), I did experience “Portland Cool.” Thankfully, there was ample room within this church’s meeting place. I admit to taking up all of the one seat in which I sit (though the weight loss continues to go well). But the buffer zone of several seats in either direction, extending as it did into the rows before and behind me, might also play a part in seeking to ensure that similar visitors never return. There simply wouldn’t be room to allow the same size boundaries to be drawn around more than a handful of visitors in any given service.

As you read this, I would agree with your reasonable conclusion that I am a nitpicking whiner. My inadequate justification (that, on those very few Sundays when I have respite from my responsibilities, I want the excellent experience offered on the websites of the churches I carefully research) is exactly that: inadequate. The grace I hope God extends me through visitors to the congregation I serve is sometimes in short supply through me when I am the visitor. When my needs to simply participate among a congregation in which I hold no leadership responsibilities—when these are condensed into only three or four Sundays a year, I can tend to expect a great deal more than is possible in any one service. And this service held a great deal of blessing, and some truly extraordinary elements of great importance to me. It should have been a simple matter to overlook the perceptible distancing and the sideways glances. And I believe it would have been, if only…

If only the first words spoken directly to me by another human being were not, “Excuse me,” as they moved past during the communion service. And if only the last words, “Good morning” as I was leaving, hadn’t been followed by an immediate turn to say the same to another. And if only there had been any other words spoken to me at all by anyone, except those spoken to the congregation of which I was, most definitely, not a part. (And, frankly, my perceptions would have been kinder if only I hadn’t been left to research and mapquest a congregation for myself. If only there had been any invitation to any church by any one of the dozens of Christians with whom I had interacted during the prior week…I might have been feeling more gracious.)

So, in short, there appears to be a limit to the range available in Portland Weird, at least within one congregation that is seeking to identify with a more indigenous (and/or younger, and/or untucked) population. And yet there seemed to be a perfectly fulfilled breadth to Portland Cool, at least where it applies to the attitudes of Christians toward…well, not the weird, of course. Maybe just toward me.

And it’s that conclusion that I believe is absolutely untenable.

I was greatly blessed by my experience at this church, despite the issues I raise above. But I say all this as a reminder to myself, for repentance beginning next Sunday, when I return to where it is that I am, still—after ten years—in many ways, weird. (We mostly tuck our shirts in. But there are only two of us who regularly wear ties.) In the other blessings of this morning’s worship service, for the tangible presence of Christ in that body, for the demonstration during the announcements of what some consider the third ordinance (church planting) in addition to the celebration of the Lord’s table, and numerous baptisms…I came away feeling like I had been touched by the very grace of Christ, spoken to by His Spirit, and reminded, and even deepened, in my experience of the Father’s love. But I also came away feeling like my brothers and sisters in Christ were at least indifferent to me, and perhaps even averse to whatever my age and attire represented to them.

But here’s what bothers me most: I know that there are those who have left services in which they have worshiped with the congregation I love like life itself…facing similar experiences, and carrying the same concerns about us.

May God help me, it won’t happen again.

Why “Death Pastor?”

It’s been awhile since I was first asked, “How did you come to decide to specialize in death?” As though it were a career-building decision. Perhaps the best way to explain would be to consider the alternatives I have faced.

As one set of alternatives, some have suggested their own, similar, epithets: “Pastor Death,” or even “Doctor Death” (and that long before I was even enrolled in a doctoral program). Given that “Dr. Death” has referred to both Josef Mengele (for whom concentration camps provided subjects of his scientific research) and Jack Kevorkian (a former physician, convicted murderer, and proponent of physician-assisted suicide), I wanted no confusion over my stance regarding death.

Likewise, others are sometimes confused regarding my overlapping roles as pastor, counselor, educator, and chaplain for several organizations, not least of which is Mayers Memorial Hospital District/Intermountain Hospice. Imagine yourself waking up one morning in the hospital, waiting patiently for the doctor to come and explain what they’ve learned from your test results. But after the nurses and the dietary staff and the others who wander in and out of your room, my face appears at your doorway…with a name tag beneath it: Hospice Chaplain. Your first thoughts might reasonably jump to some grave conclusions. I’m usually there because a family or friend has asked me to check in on a patient. And I do take off the tag if it’s not a Hospice patient I’m seeing. But a good portion of the relatively small population in our area recognize me as Hospice Chaplain, nametag or not. So, the confusion is understandable.

As for the consequence of being known as Death Pastor, the other set of alternatives is of far greater motivation to me. As with all the other pastors I know, there was no training prior to entering ministry (and there is still precious little in Bible colleges and seminaries) on what to do when you receive that first call as a pastor, “Could you come right away? The family asked us to call their pastor. They only have a short-time left.” The first time I was called to minister to a family after the death of a loved one, the only relevant resource on my shelves simply scripted the orders of service for several types of funerals with the only variable being “Insert Deceased’s Name Here.” Whether in their bereavement (having experienced a significant loss) or the process of dying, I determined early on that those I was called to serve deserved better care than I had been trained to give.

In the intervening years, through divine appointments and open doors of opportunity for serving a variety of individuals and families, I have not only sought out training, but have developed training through seminars, workshops, and now through seminary courses designed to equip pastors and other servants how, why, where, when, and what to do for the bereaved and the dying. Most congregations do fine without any specialists on their staff. The majority of American churches are served by solo pastors (or less than solo, in the case of multi-vocational and circuit-riding pastors). Some churches may be privileged to add a Youth Pastor, and/or a Children’s Pastor, and/or a Seniors Pastor, and/or an Executive Pastor, or any number of others with an ever more narrowing ministry focus. Despite the fact that, should the Lord tarry, 100% of the members of the average congregation will die¸ however, I would argue that no congregation really needs to hire a Death Pastor.

But every pastor needs to have an understanding of “Thanatology” (the study of death, dying, bereavement, grief, and mourning), and to know what to say and do when they receive those calls. All that I’ve experienced, studied, researched, and applied, I want to share with those who can provide immediate, hands-on, face-to-face, life-on-life care for the bereaved and dying (and that’s all of us, really) in their communities. So, you can call me Death Pastor.

A Treatment for Xenophobia

As I previously promised, here’s a little more on xenophobia (fear, and even hatred, of anything strange or foreign). The anxiety of possibly offending, being offended, or worse, often allow us to buttress our avoidance of “The Strange,” despite the clear benefits of pursuing greater, deeper community with a wide range of other individuals and groups. At the moment, I am embarking on a wonderful new challenge…from which I feel compelled to flee, simply because it is unfamiliar.

In my last post I mentioned that asking questions is a key component to letting others guide and tutor us into an understanding of their circumstances, thus diminishing the possibility of offense and its consequences. Sometimes that requires us to ask those questions of many individuals before we find someone who will even answer us. But there’s reason to persevere. Here’s why.

I’m familiar with the techniques of some of our missionaries serving “creative-access countries.” These are places where great risk accompanies any admission of Christian faith, much less any activities that may be considered proselytizing. In these environments, missionaries hope to find a “man of peace.” (Luke 10:6) This is one whose hospitality allows them to learn and adapt to the culture of a particular group or village. The relationship with this one person can become the basis for some excellent service to the entire community, where there might be little or no response to less patient approaches.

For you to understand how important a “man of peace” can be, even in a very mild case of xenophobia (my personal anxieties over the strange and new experience of my doctoral program), let me share some of the contrasts I’ve faced the past day or two.

The Familiar: At home, I have to drive more than twenty miles from home to stop at a stoplight. From Fall River Mills, the Glenburn Road goes to Glenburn. From there, the McArthur Road goes to McArthur. Everything else is along Highway 299. If you want to get lost, you have to go off-road to do it.

The Strange: Here in Portland, despite the fact that you could drive in almost any direction and still have pavement beneath your wheels, I’m always on the wrong side of some river, usually because I’ve missed an interchange or exit.

The Familiar: I have served ten years in a small rural congregation in Northern California where I am usually the solo, and only occasionally the senior pastor. Our most recent electronics purchase was a laser printer almost five years ago.

The Strange: Among those in the program are pastors and leaders of sophisticated structures in large, multi-staff urban and suburban churches who regularly incorporate the latest technologies in their service to Christ and others. (On two walls of the classroom are eight-foot flat screens showing our fellow students from another campus engaged in the same discussions and lectures with us.)

The Familiar: After a bachelor’s and two master’s degrees, I am well-acquainted with the expectations and intrigues of my alma mater. Though I am, at times, dismayed, the dysfunctions are at least consistent.

The Strange: Nothing in this new environment has been quite according to expectations yet, and some of the developments (Dr. John Perkins’ illness, for one) are upsetting as well as unsettling.

Now, in the midst of all this strange, the familiar here has a name: Dr. Paul Louis Metzger. We became acquainted when he served as an adjunct professor in my second master’s program. He was the first to introduce to me the possibility of pursuing this doctorate through this university. And he’s heading up the track in which I’m enrolled. In several meanings of the word, he is a man of peace. And I know that as I find more questions, he’ll patiently help to reinforce the bridge between what I so comfortably already know and do, and the next section of strange to which God is calling me.

In Defense of Xenophobia

On one of my first few days in High School, three slightly older teenagers approached and asked if wanted to “buy some grass.” I declined. “Then you must already have some,” they reasoned, “so give it to us.” I didn’t have any, but I caught on to their assumption. This wasn’t just a stairwell, but a marketplace of sorts. So I turned to leave. They objected. I probably had some cash on me, they decided, and it shouldn’t go with me. When two of them tried to take hold of me, I remembered a tutorial on bullying I had received in Junior High School.

The primary lesson had been, “You don’t have to win a fight with a bully. Just hurt them; they’ll bully someone else next time.” Among the corollaries, however, was this axiom: “If there’s more than one, hit the biggest one first. Hurt that one, and the others lose interest.” That was the corollary I applied.

Surprisingly, at the time, having applied those “rules of engagement,” taught to me earlier in Southwest Ohio, I now faced unintended negative consequences at my school in San Francisco. I was now a member of one of many minorities, rather than the white majority. And nearby were many more “persons of color” (a term I’d recently learned) than any of my fellow “Dumb White Boys,” as I was being called. (As in, “Hey! Come get hold of this Dumb White Boy!”)

To be clear, though, I was not attacked because I was White. Nor was it because I was a Boy (although females of the “wrong” ethnicity were subjected to other, more severe behavior). The direct cause of my altercation was being Dumb. And I still am. I’m capable of learning from experience, and blessed with an excellent and continuing education. But there were basic rights and wrongs of which I was entirely ignorant.

I was in the wrong place, and slow to notice. My former rules of engagement were obsolete in this new environment. The tribal contracts that apparently require defense of any fellow member of your minority were not as binding among Dumb White Boys. And, despite having effectively discouraged the primary threat (the big guy in the middle), I could not have imagined how many reinforcements would gladly “Come get hold of this Dumb White Boy.”

This episode came to remembrance this morning amidst a bout of xenophobia (fear, and even hatred, of anything strange or foreign). I’ll say more about that later, but for now here’s what I’m recognizing. I have learned to be in strange places. I have also learned that in many of those places I am “The Strange.” I believe much is to be gained by more quickly recognizing how very unfamiliar we all are to one another. But sometime in the past several decades, I’ve grown accustomed to overcoming those anxieties by asking questions.

Who knows how disarming it would have been for a Dumb White Boy to ask, “Isn’t this the way to the second floor? Or is it just for drug dealing?” The outcome (a loose tooth and a couple of bruises) may have been the same. Perhaps even worse. But more often than not, I’ve found that asking questions about the circumstances others are facing allows them to bridge the gap between the familiar and strange (both theirs and mine) by becoming my guide, my tutor—the one who informs me of their perspective, and maybe even their fears (if not their hatred).

Like I said, there’s more to say. But for now, I plan to honor my xenophobia as a reminder to ask questions, and to thus overcome my anxieties about all these people I don’t know by letting them become my guide into their lives. Maybe in doing so, they’ll give me a chance to explain my strangeness to them as well.