Tuesday, January 29, 2008

A Prisoner of Hope (quote)

"I am a prisoner of hope." — Desmond Tutu

Monday, January 28, 2008

With Unveiled Faces

"And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit." — 2 Corinthians 3:18

A Seismic Conversion

Today, in a class I'm taking about Christian icons, Kavin Rowe, assistant professor of New Testament at Duke Divinity School, came in as a guest speaker to talk about the earliest uses of images in a Christian context. Plenty of what he said about the question of images and idolatry was intriguing, but it was a comment made in passing that stuck with me in a very real way.

When discussing a Gentile's conversion to Christianity, Rowe described the move as "tectonic." Especially in the nascent Christian Church of the New Testament, conversion to Christianity meant not only assenting to a set of beliefs but also radically and fundamentally changing one's way of life and way of thinking. For Jews who followed Christ and even more so for Gentiles coming from pagan backgrounds, to subscribe to a faith that bowed before a triune God, a savior who was incarnate as fully human and fully divine, was to completely overthrow previous modes of thought surrounding material culture and the relationship of humankind to God.

Today, we live in what is often referred to as Christendom, a term that can be used as a reference to the western world and generally understood. Rarely do conversion in this hemisphere require such a seismic conversion. Lesslie Newbigin, a theologian and Presbyterian pastor who spent years as a missionary in India, notes that for Indians and other peoples in non-Western cultures, converting to Christianity means drastically changing basic elements of daily life. Only in places where Christianity is not so domesticated as in the industrialized West can the kind of conversion that the earliest Christians went through be seen today.

I spent this past weekend on a retreat with my campus ministry group discussing evangelism. Since I've read Newbigin, I couldn't help but suggest that it is not only non-Christians who oftentimes need to hear the Gospel, to be brought to Christ. Newbigin believes that the West needs to be re-converted. Living in a nation where the American flag is often as common as the cross (if not more so) in sanctuaries, I think he might be right.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Christian (Dis)Unity

January 18-25, 2008 marked the 100th anniversary year of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. Christians all around the world gathered throughout the week to pray for the unity of the Church. For my part, some of the religious life groups here at Duke organized five consecutive nights of vespers services, each hosted by a different campus ministry. Though the fact that the idea for the services came a little too last-minute to expect large crowds, those of us who did attend were able to meet representatives of other flavors of Christianity at Duke, experience nuances in how each group worships and talk about our own experiences of Christian unity.

The Wesley Fellowship, my campus ministry group, hosted the final service of the week. In lieu of a homily, we chose to split everyone up into small groups with people from different Christian groups for discussion. The questions put to us were simple: first, we were to talk about a time when we experienced disunity in the church; and second, we were to share an example of unity in the church.

Oddly enough, I found that my response to both questions lay in one place: at Eucharist. It was funny too, because in my small group was another Methodist from Wesley and a good friend of mine who is Catholic. So I got to have this conversation with someone with whom I share in the bread and wine on an almost weekly basis, and with another person with whom I most likely will never be able to be in communion.

I'm a Methodist with a very high understanding of the Eucharist (most Methodist call it communion...), so that particular sacrament is extremely important to me. Because of my field of study and my personal interests, I've read an awful lot about the theology of the Eucharist, so I understand the theological underpinnings of the arguments that have resulted in the varying restrictions on who can partake when and where. I'm intrigued by all of this on an intellectual level, but equally so on a personal and liturgical level.

Basically, here's where I see disunity: when, on a Catholic retreat, I sit through Mass and hear most of the very same words uttered in the consecration of the elements, but then must go forward with my arms crossed over my chest, asking for a blessing instead of the physical Host. The closed table has for me a sort of morbid fascination, an abiding sense of sadness but also a deep respect that would lead me never, ever to take a resentful or slighted attitude towards the differences in doctrine that make it so that I cannot receive the Eucharist in a Catholic church. You will never find me whining about why can't we all just get along. The differences are there and they are real. We may say the same words, invoke the same God, but something different happens at that moment of consecration, something that makes my communion and their communion two different things.

But let's not forget that I also named the Eucharist as the point at which I experience Christian unity. It's easy to see how I see it when I'm sharing in communion at my own church, when myself and other Protestants can share in the elements. But I'm not just talking about that—I actually am referring to those times when maybe I can't receive communion. Somehow, even when I've gone up only for a blessing when at Catholic Mass, tied up in the twinge of sadness and separation I feel is a deep sense of connectedness, even with those with whom I cannot sit at the Lord's table. Though the theological specifics may vary, Eucharist is a sharing in the body of Christ, and we, broken and confused, we are the body of Christ.

I know little about the ecumenical movement but I feel more and more called to seek out avenues of reconciliation and unification within the Christian Church. I hope to be able to have more conversations, especially with Catholics, about what keeps us apart at communion, and about what that particular instance implies for the broader body of Christ. I experience sadness when considering the division between Catholics at Protestants at the Eucharist, but it's not personal—it's not about me. In unity and disunity alike, I am not the focal point, but perhaps I can learn to dream of Christ's body made whole, in some form or fashion—if not here and now, then in God's due time.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Surpassed in our Desires (quote)

"We always wanted to measure your fulfillments by the standard of our desires. More than what our hollow space contains, so we thought, we cannot obtain from you. But when your Spirit began to blow in us, we experienced so much greater space that our own standard became meaningless to us. We noticed the first installment and pledge of a wholly other freedom. ...And thus is fulfilled the promise which is the blowing Spirit itself in person: Because he blows the fulfillment toward us. He does it infallibly, if we are ready to allow ourselves to be surpassed in our desires. The religion and desire of all peoples means ultimately this: to get beyond one's own desires."
— Hans Urs von Balthasar

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Speaking in Tongues

"Those who speak in a tongue build up themselves, but those who prophesy build up the church." — 1 Corinthians 14:4

"I would rather speak five words with my mind, in order to instruct others, than ten thousand words in a tongue." — 1 Corinthians 14:19

"If anyone speaks in a tongue...let one interpret. But if there is no one to interpret, let them be silent in church and speak to themselves and to God." — 1 Corinthians 14:27-28


To preface this post, let me say that I grew up mostly in big Methodist churches whose congregations consisted largely of middle-class white folk. Needless to say, I did not hear anyone speaking in tongues in these churches. Since coming to college, however, I have heard this happen, and I've been able to have conversations with people about the place of speaking in tongues in Christian worship. The purpose of this post is mostly for my own musing over a spiritual gift that I obviously do not have and that I rarely encounter.

The first (and only) time I saw someone speaking in tongues was at my church here in Durham. A predominantly African-American church, Asbury Temple UMC is Methodist with a heavy dose of gospel. Although calls of "Amen," "Preach" and "Thank you, Jesus" are common during sermons, prayers, songs...whenever...it's not a pentecostal church, and in almost 2 years attending there, I've only seen someone speak in tongues once. The experience was weird for me simply because it was so foreign—at my old church at home, you risk a dirty look if you whisper a joke to your sibling sitting next to you in worship, never mind standing up and producing a 15-minute monologue in what doesn't seem to resemble any known language.

The question that came to me was whether speaking in tongues is something that gratifies him or her who does it or whether it is beneficial to all present. Surely this depends in some degree on the setting. I spoke to a friend here at Duke who attends a church where speaking in tongues is pretty common. In a place where such a thing is expected as a manifestation of the Spirit at work in the congregation, I could see how that could be something the whole church would be engaged in, even if only one person were speaking. It's not as if speaking in tongues is completely out of the box—Paul writes, "Now I would like all of you to speak in tongues" (1 Cor. 14:5). It might not be an experience with which mainline denominations like my own are familiar, but it's been around since the days of the early church.

My current line of questioning has emerged because I listened to 1 Corinthians 14 (clearly) last night before going to bed, and besides the verses I've already quoted, there was one passage that struck me as interesting. "There are doubtless many different kinds of sounds in the world, and nothing is without sound. If then I do not know the meaning of a sound, I will be a foreigner to the speaker and the speaker a foreigner to me. So with yourselves; since you are eager for spiritual gifts, strive to excel in them for building up the church" (1 Cor. 14:10-12). That got me thinking, not just about speaking in tongues, but about various elements of worship. When I witnessed the man speaking in tongues, he was very much a foreigner to me; I knew him, I knew his name, but in that moment a strangeness arose between me and him. Certainly a lot of that has to do with my white, middle-class background, and I was probably one of the least comfortable people in the room at the time, but it just makes me wonder. What, then, of other parts of worship that may make people feel like foreigners? Does the liturgy of a Catholic or Anglican service make a low-church visitor feel like a stranger? Does raucous gospel music or a praise band put a cradle Catholic visiting a contemporary worship service?

Obviously there are problems with this, because we certainly don't want to create a sterile, nonthreatening worship environment out of fear of making someone feel like a foreigner. I've been to churches that say they've stopped sharing the Eucharist because it makes some people uncomfortable. A church should never trade liturgical integrity for the benefit of being a "seeker-friendly" church. I wonder if somehow the recognizability of Jesus in all these forms of worship is what keeps Christians, even those from very different backgrounds, from feeling like strangers—maybe if I had been a little more willing to see Christ and the work of the Spirit in the man speaking in tongues, I would not have felt like a foreigner. I would say that churches who say that if you don't speak in tongues, you do not have the Spirit, err and take too narrow a view of the nature of spiritual gifts. But maybe middle-class, white churches like the ones I grew up in could do with a does of an unfamiliar spiritual gifts like speaking in tongues. It's just an interesting question to me.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Deuteronomy 23:1

I'm sure you've all heard stories—maybe some of you have experienced this phenomenon—of people who, when in a difficult situation, open the Bible randomly and stumble upon a verse that speaks directly to them. The Holy Spirit, they say, led them to that particular verse, and they gained the strength they needed to press on.

Wondering what it might be like to receive this sort of individualized affirmation from Scripture myself, I tried this once. I opened to Deuteronomy 23:1—"No one whose testicles are crushed or whose penis is cut off shall be admitted to the assembly of the Lord." Wow. Thanks, Holy Spirit. I'm not sure what you were trying to say to me there, but at least I know I'll never have that particular problem.

Maybe I'm just unlucky with Spirit-led Bible browsing, but if people sometimes find the faith and motivation they need to press on from such random acts of Scripture reading, who am I to deny its validity to that particular person? The thing is, the popularity of this odd method of reading the Bible evinces a trend in how Christians today sometimes approach the Word in error.

I'm not saying that the Holy Spirit can't lead people to certain Bible passages; God's Word may whisper a lot of the time, but every now and then it can be a loudspeaker right in your face. But the concept of asking for an answer to a question or problem and then finding the answer by opening the Bible at random assumes a flippant treatment of Scripture. For one, it makes it seem as if the Bible were written specifically for me; for another, it allows for select verses to be taken completely out of context, something that is also popular in the realm of naming favorite Bible verses.

Any Christian who reads the Bible alone in their room, seeking the guidance of the Holy Spirit alone, misses a crucial component of the Christian life: the Church. The Bible cannot be read outside the Church. Certainly Scripture is often treated from an academic perspective, but it is my conviction that although a historical approach can be beneficial, it is only, to paraphrase Barth, a preparation of knowledge. True knowledge of the content, context and active power of the Bible is found only within the Christian community. We read the Bible together in order to build each other up in our understanding, to keep each other from error in interpretation or application and to encourage each other to live the commands presented in the Bible.

I've heard people say that they think the Bible should be read by individuals, its morals followed as part of a personal decision; that the Church has corrupted its message and that institutionalized religion gets away from the purity of the Word itself. The problem here is that the Bible would not exist without the Church. The canon was established by the community of faith in order to shape the common belief and the common life. You can try to read the Bible in a vacuum, but you simply can't do it. The story in the Bible is not a story about how you can live your best life now—it's a story of a whole nation called to do God's will, together.

It's fine to open the Bible at random and see what you find. Maybe you'll come across such gems as 2 Kings 4:40 ("O man of God, there is death in the pot!"), Jeremiah 20:9b ("I am weary of holding it in / and I cannot") or Leviticus 3:16b ("All fat is the Lord's"). Heck, maybe that is the Spirit at work—maybe God's trying to make you laugh. Or maybe you'll get lucky and run across something that speaks to the heart of what you're going through. The Bible wasn't written to help you through your life's troubles, but that doesn't mean that it's not applicable. Then again, which would you prefer: a random Bible verse that lifts your spirits momentarily, or a steadfast community of faith, living in the Word, that can continually build you up over time? I'll take that over the comforting words of Deuteronomy 23:1 any day.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Politics in the Pulpit

Lately I've heard questions about whether a preacher should endorse a presidential candidate from the pulpit. The general consensus seems to be that this is bad taste. Some people hold this opinion because they feel that sermons shouldn't deal with politics, but I disagree—Jesus himself was a highly political figure. However, I think there is a point embedded in here about how the church should think about the upcoming election.

An issue that seems to me to go along with this question is that of having an American flag on display in the sanctuary. This could probably take up a whole post on its own, but I am in the camp that just doesn't want stars and bars as a backdrop when I'm in worship. The rationale behind that conviction is lengthier than this, but one of the major things is that the church, the body of Christ, is so much bigger than anything the American flag represents. I love the song "King and a Kingdom" by Derek Webb. Here's part of the chorus: "My first allegiance is not to a flag, a country or a man; / ... / It's to a King and a Kingdom." The truth that lies in those words is that the Christian church is intensely political, but that our first allegiance is not to Old Glory but to the cross.

The second verse of that Derek Webb song goes like this: "There are two great lies that I've heard: / The day you eat of the fruit of that tree, you will not surely die / and that Jesus Christ was a white, middle-class Republican / and if you wanna be saved you have to learn to be like Him." These lines may evince a certain political bent, but the point is much broader than that: Jesus was not a Democrat or a Republican. He wasn't even American. Sometimes I feel like we domesticate Jesus so much that we forget that basic fact. Jesus was particular in that he was an individual Israelite, but he was and is universal in that he died for the sins of all. That alone should strike Christians as a command to recognize a power beyond temporal authority, a power that should shape the way in which we conceive of that authority, a power that in a perfect world would be mirrored, though dimly, in human leaders.

The politics of Christ are not about political parties or individual presidential candidates. This does not mean that Christians should not talk about whether they are registered Republicans or Democrats, or whom they favor in the primaries. Too often the American vote is jealously guarded as a personal decision when really there are endless issues surrounding elections that should be talked about in communities whose concern is not for the supposed sanctity or autonomy of each individual's vote but for the greater good. These days it has become very difficult to talk politics with people whose views differ from your own. However, the church should be a place not of fear or dissent but of honesty, respect and love. We are challenged by our communal life in Christ to live out our faith in front of one another, willing to change and improve our understanding and actions if necessary. Perhaps it is inappropriate to endorse a candidate from the pulpit, but that does not mean that all talk of politics should be left at the door when going to church. The moment the church becomes a place where politics are taboo, we forget where we came from and where we are going—we forget Christ.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Room for Doubt

"Without somehow destroying me in the process, how could God reveal himself in a way that would leave no room for doubt? If there were no room for doubt, there would be no room for me." — Frederick Buechner

Doubt is something that is underappreciated in today's society. Doubt is not welcome on Wall Street, in classrooms (on either side of the evolution debate) and even in the pulpit. In a world where security is supposedly constantly threatened, few want leaders, political or religious, to express doubt.

Buechner does not believe, and I do not believe, that this fear of doubt is in the nature of Christianity. In fact, this room for doubt is one of the most appealing aspects of the faith for some. Saying that doubt is OK allows believers to be human. Space for fear and uncertainty is created by the examples of the first followers of Christ, not only his disciples but also others he met in his ministry. The man who cried, "I believe; help my unbelief!" (Mark 9:24) illustrates the give-and-take of belief and doubt with which many Christians are intimately familiar.

Of course, there is a flipside to the question of doubt. A friend of mine attended a secular summer program in high school, and their motto became "Question Everything." Sponsored by but separate from the public school system, this program was supposed to encourage the state's brightest thinkers to take a step outside the box and to challenge presuppositions; and in this, it succeeded. However, I wonder if "Question Everything" is really applicable in the church. Certainly members should never be discouraged from asking questions, but what I have come to learn over the years both as a believer and as a student of religion is that theology and faith involve a different method of formulating questions than other fields. I wonder if part of this is because the implication of "Question Everything" is that these questions expect answers, but Christians must learn that questions often lead only to more questions, that the wondering and the wandering must be lived into and is not always brought to a neat conclusion. There seems to be a creative tension throughout Scripture and Christian experience between doubt and belief.

Peter doubted and was given the keys to the kingdom of heaven; but it is clear that when he nearly drowned walking to Jesus on the water, it was because he doubted. When Thomas puts his hands into the risen Christ's wounds, Jesus said, "Do not doubt, but believe" (John 20:27). Jesus would prefer for us not to doubt, to believe wholeheartedly, genuinely and without question, but it is also important to note that Jesus rescues Peter from the waves and from his doubt; Jesus does not chide Thomas but willingly gives him the tangible evidence he needs. Christ has the power to help our unbelief, to reveal himself to us, if not always as obviously as to Thomas.

However, throughout Scripture we see that even revelation does not preclude doubt. Many saw Jesus and the prophets before him and heard them speak, but did not believe. Perhaps this is what Buechner meant: doubt is intrinsic to the disconnected state of humanity, and for God to devise a revelation that would leave no room for doubt would be to destroy what it means to be human. As long as we understand ourselves as God's imperfect but well-loved creation, there will always be room for doubt.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Children's Sermons

I have always been wary of children's sermons. At my old church, we had problems with a children's minister who managed to show an abhorrent level of insensitivity towards a pair of girls whose mother died young. Since that string of incidents, no church I've been a part of has had children's sermons. However, I had an interesting experience a few months ago that made me think.

While visiting a friend, I attended her church, a relatively small Methodist congregation. They have a children's sermon every Sunday and apparently everyone in the church absolutely loves delivering the children's sermon—there's a long waiting list just to be able to do it. The particular Sunday I was present, I listened to a late-middle-aged woman deliver a completely incoherent children's sermon that focused solely on the Canada goose.

Jesus was never mentioned. God played no part in her story. Even the environmental tack I think she was trying to take was weakly developed and unclear. Those kids probably walked away having no idea what was said.

But you know what? Any church in America should get down on its knees and thank God for a congregation like that, where the adults are literally lining up to be engaged with the children and youth of the church. The same can be said of a pastor who wants to be a tangible presence in the life of the children there and not just a "pontificating" figure in the pulpit.

Today I see many large, well-established churches suffer for want of youth volunteers and children's Sunday School teachers. If a children's sermon can discourage the sort of age-class silos that are shored up around the children and youth in our churches today, then I will happily listen to a children's sermon on geese if it shows that the adults are taking a genuine interest in the younger generation of believers.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

A Prisoner of Hope (quote)

"I am a prisoner of hope." — Desmond Tutu

Monday, January 28, 2008

With Unveiled Faces

"And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit." — 2 Corinthians 3:18

A Seismic Conversion

Today, in a class I'm taking about Christian icons, Kavin Rowe, assistant professor of New Testament at Duke Divinity School, came in as a guest speaker to talk about the earliest uses of images in a Christian context. Plenty of what he said about the question of images and idolatry was intriguing, but it was a comment made in passing that stuck with me in a very real way.

When discussing a Gentile's conversion to Christianity, Rowe described the move as "tectonic." Especially in the nascent Christian Church of the New Testament, conversion to Christianity meant not only assenting to a set of beliefs but also radically and fundamentally changing one's way of life and way of thinking. For Jews who followed Christ and even more so for Gentiles coming from pagan backgrounds, to subscribe to a faith that bowed before a triune God, a savior who was incarnate as fully human and fully divine, was to completely overthrow previous modes of thought surrounding material culture and the relationship of humankind to God.

Today, we live in what is often referred to as Christendom, a term that can be used as a reference to the western world and generally understood. Rarely do conversion in this hemisphere require such a seismic conversion. Lesslie Newbigin, a theologian and Presbyterian pastor who spent years as a missionary in India, notes that for Indians and other peoples in non-Western cultures, converting to Christianity means drastically changing basic elements of daily life. Only in places where Christianity is not so domesticated as in the industrialized West can the kind of conversion that the earliest Christians went through be seen today.

I spent this past weekend on a retreat with my campus ministry group discussing evangelism. Since I've read Newbigin, I couldn't help but suggest that it is not only non-Christians who oftentimes need to hear the Gospel, to be brought to Christ. Newbigin believes that the West needs to be re-converted. Living in a nation where the American flag is often as common as the cross (if not more so) in sanctuaries, I think he might be right.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Christian (Dis)Unity

January 18-25, 2008 marked the 100th anniversary year of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. Christians all around the world gathered throughout the week to pray for the unity of the Church. For my part, some of the religious life groups here at Duke organized five consecutive nights of vespers services, each hosted by a different campus ministry. Though the fact that the idea for the services came a little too last-minute to expect large crowds, those of us who did attend were able to meet representatives of other flavors of Christianity at Duke, experience nuances in how each group worships and talk about our own experiences of Christian unity.

The Wesley Fellowship, my campus ministry group, hosted the final service of the week. In lieu of a homily, we chose to split everyone up into small groups with people from different Christian groups for discussion. The questions put to us were simple: first, we were to talk about a time when we experienced disunity in the church; and second, we were to share an example of unity in the church.

Oddly enough, I found that my response to both questions lay in one place: at Eucharist. It was funny too, because in my small group was another Methodist from Wesley and a good friend of mine who is Catholic. So I got to have this conversation with someone with whom I share in the bread and wine on an almost weekly basis, and with another person with whom I most likely will never be able to be in communion.

I'm a Methodist with a very high understanding of the Eucharist (most Methodist call it communion...), so that particular sacrament is extremely important to me. Because of my field of study and my personal interests, I've read an awful lot about the theology of the Eucharist, so I understand the theological underpinnings of the arguments that have resulted in the varying restrictions on who can partake when and where. I'm intrigued by all of this on an intellectual level, but equally so on a personal and liturgical level.

Basically, here's where I see disunity: when, on a Catholic retreat, I sit through Mass and hear most of the very same words uttered in the consecration of the elements, but then must go forward with my arms crossed over my chest, asking for a blessing instead of the physical Host. The closed table has for me a sort of morbid fascination, an abiding sense of sadness but also a deep respect that would lead me never, ever to take a resentful or slighted attitude towards the differences in doctrine that make it so that I cannot receive the Eucharist in a Catholic church. You will never find me whining about why can't we all just get along. The differences are there and they are real. We may say the same words, invoke the same God, but something different happens at that moment of consecration, something that makes my communion and their communion two different things.

But let's not forget that I also named the Eucharist as the point at which I experience Christian unity. It's easy to see how I see it when I'm sharing in communion at my own church, when myself and other Protestants can share in the elements. But I'm not just talking about that—I actually am referring to those times when maybe I can't receive communion. Somehow, even when I've gone up only for a blessing when at Catholic Mass, tied up in the twinge of sadness and separation I feel is a deep sense of connectedness, even with those with whom I cannot sit at the Lord's table. Though the theological specifics may vary, Eucharist is a sharing in the body of Christ, and we, broken and confused, we are the body of Christ.

I know little about the ecumenical movement but I feel more and more called to seek out avenues of reconciliation and unification within the Christian Church. I hope to be able to have more conversations, especially with Catholics, about what keeps us apart at communion, and about what that particular instance implies for the broader body of Christ. I experience sadness when considering the division between Catholics at Protestants at the Eucharist, but it's not personal—it's not about me. In unity and disunity alike, I am not the focal point, but perhaps I can learn to dream of Christ's body made whole, in some form or fashion—if not here and now, then in God's due time.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Surpassed in our Desires (quote)

"We always wanted to measure your fulfillments by the standard of our desires. More than what our hollow space contains, so we thought, we cannot obtain from you. But when your Spirit began to blow in us, we experienced so much greater space that our own standard became meaningless to us. We noticed the first installment and pledge of a wholly other freedom. ...And thus is fulfilled the promise which is the blowing Spirit itself in person: Because he blows the fulfillment toward us. He does it infallibly, if we are ready to allow ourselves to be surpassed in our desires. The religion and desire of all peoples means ultimately this: to get beyond one's own desires."
— Hans Urs von Balthasar

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Speaking in Tongues

"Those who speak in a tongue build up themselves, but those who prophesy build up the church." — 1 Corinthians 14:4

"I would rather speak five words with my mind, in order to instruct others, than ten thousand words in a tongue." — 1 Corinthians 14:19

"If anyone speaks in a tongue...let one interpret. But if there is no one to interpret, let them be silent in church and speak to themselves and to God." — 1 Corinthians 14:27-28


To preface this post, let me say that I grew up mostly in big Methodist churches whose congregations consisted largely of middle-class white folk. Needless to say, I did not hear anyone speaking in tongues in these churches. Since coming to college, however, I have heard this happen, and I've been able to have conversations with people about the place of speaking in tongues in Christian worship. The purpose of this post is mostly for my own musing over a spiritual gift that I obviously do not have and that I rarely encounter.

The first (and only) time I saw someone speaking in tongues was at my church here in Durham. A predominantly African-American church, Asbury Temple UMC is Methodist with a heavy dose of gospel. Although calls of "Amen," "Preach" and "Thank you, Jesus" are common during sermons, prayers, songs...whenever...it's not a pentecostal church, and in almost 2 years attending there, I've only seen someone speak in tongues once. The experience was weird for me simply because it was so foreign—at my old church at home, you risk a dirty look if you whisper a joke to your sibling sitting next to you in worship, never mind standing up and producing a 15-minute monologue in what doesn't seem to resemble any known language.

The question that came to me was whether speaking in tongues is something that gratifies him or her who does it or whether it is beneficial to all present. Surely this depends in some degree on the setting. I spoke to a friend here at Duke who attends a church where speaking in tongues is pretty common. In a place where such a thing is expected as a manifestation of the Spirit at work in the congregation, I could see how that could be something the whole church would be engaged in, even if only one person were speaking. It's not as if speaking in tongues is completely out of the box—Paul writes, "Now I would like all of you to speak in tongues" (1 Cor. 14:5). It might not be an experience with which mainline denominations like my own are familiar, but it's been around since the days of the early church.

My current line of questioning has emerged because I listened to 1 Corinthians 14 (clearly) last night before going to bed, and besides the verses I've already quoted, there was one passage that struck me as interesting. "There are doubtless many different kinds of sounds in the world, and nothing is without sound. If then I do not know the meaning of a sound, I will be a foreigner to the speaker and the speaker a foreigner to me. So with yourselves; since you are eager for spiritual gifts, strive to excel in them for building up the church" (1 Cor. 14:10-12). That got me thinking, not just about speaking in tongues, but about various elements of worship. When I witnessed the man speaking in tongues, he was very much a foreigner to me; I knew him, I knew his name, but in that moment a strangeness arose between me and him. Certainly a lot of that has to do with my white, middle-class background, and I was probably one of the least comfortable people in the room at the time, but it just makes me wonder. What, then, of other parts of worship that may make people feel like foreigners? Does the liturgy of a Catholic or Anglican service make a low-church visitor feel like a stranger? Does raucous gospel music or a praise band put a cradle Catholic visiting a contemporary worship service?

Obviously there are problems with this, because we certainly don't want to create a sterile, nonthreatening worship environment out of fear of making someone feel like a foreigner. I've been to churches that say they've stopped sharing the Eucharist because it makes some people uncomfortable. A church should never trade liturgical integrity for the benefit of being a "seeker-friendly" church. I wonder if somehow the recognizability of Jesus in all these forms of worship is what keeps Christians, even those from very different backgrounds, from feeling like strangers—maybe if I had been a little more willing to see Christ and the work of the Spirit in the man speaking in tongues, I would not have felt like a foreigner. I would say that churches who say that if you don't speak in tongues, you do not have the Spirit, err and take too narrow a view of the nature of spiritual gifts. But maybe middle-class, white churches like the ones I grew up in could do with a does of an unfamiliar spiritual gifts like speaking in tongues. It's just an interesting question to me.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Deuteronomy 23:1

I'm sure you've all heard stories—maybe some of you have experienced this phenomenon—of people who, when in a difficult situation, open the Bible randomly and stumble upon a verse that speaks directly to them. The Holy Spirit, they say, led them to that particular verse, and they gained the strength they needed to press on.

Wondering what it might be like to receive this sort of individualized affirmation from Scripture myself, I tried this once. I opened to Deuteronomy 23:1—"No one whose testicles are crushed or whose penis is cut off shall be admitted to the assembly of the Lord." Wow. Thanks, Holy Spirit. I'm not sure what you were trying to say to me there, but at least I know I'll never have that particular problem.

Maybe I'm just unlucky with Spirit-led Bible browsing, but if people sometimes find the faith and motivation they need to press on from such random acts of Scripture reading, who am I to deny its validity to that particular person? The thing is, the popularity of this odd method of reading the Bible evinces a trend in how Christians today sometimes approach the Word in error.

I'm not saying that the Holy Spirit can't lead people to certain Bible passages; God's Word may whisper a lot of the time, but every now and then it can be a loudspeaker right in your face. But the concept of asking for an answer to a question or problem and then finding the answer by opening the Bible at random assumes a flippant treatment of Scripture. For one, it makes it seem as if the Bible were written specifically for me; for another, it allows for select verses to be taken completely out of context, something that is also popular in the realm of naming favorite Bible verses.

Any Christian who reads the Bible alone in their room, seeking the guidance of the Holy Spirit alone, misses a crucial component of the Christian life: the Church. The Bible cannot be read outside the Church. Certainly Scripture is often treated from an academic perspective, but it is my conviction that although a historical approach can be beneficial, it is only, to paraphrase Barth, a preparation of knowledge. True knowledge of the content, context and active power of the Bible is found only within the Christian community. We read the Bible together in order to build each other up in our understanding, to keep each other from error in interpretation or application and to encourage each other to live the commands presented in the Bible.

I've heard people say that they think the Bible should be read by individuals, its morals followed as part of a personal decision; that the Church has corrupted its message and that institutionalized religion gets away from the purity of the Word itself. The problem here is that the Bible would not exist without the Church. The canon was established by the community of faith in order to shape the common belief and the common life. You can try to read the Bible in a vacuum, but you simply can't do it. The story in the Bible is not a story about how you can live your best life now—it's a story of a whole nation called to do God's will, together.

It's fine to open the Bible at random and see what you find. Maybe you'll come across such gems as 2 Kings 4:40 ("O man of God, there is death in the pot!"), Jeremiah 20:9b ("I am weary of holding it in / and I cannot") or Leviticus 3:16b ("All fat is the Lord's"). Heck, maybe that is the Spirit at work—maybe God's trying to make you laugh. Or maybe you'll get lucky and run across something that speaks to the heart of what you're going through. The Bible wasn't written to help you through your life's troubles, but that doesn't mean that it's not applicable. Then again, which would you prefer: a random Bible verse that lifts your spirits momentarily, or a steadfast community of faith, living in the Word, that can continually build you up over time? I'll take that over the comforting words of Deuteronomy 23:1 any day.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Politics in the Pulpit

Lately I've heard questions about whether a preacher should endorse a presidential candidate from the pulpit. The general consensus seems to be that this is bad taste. Some people hold this opinion because they feel that sermons shouldn't deal with politics, but I disagree—Jesus himself was a highly political figure. However, I think there is a point embedded in here about how the church should think about the upcoming election.

An issue that seems to me to go along with this question is that of having an American flag on display in the sanctuary. This could probably take up a whole post on its own, but I am in the camp that just doesn't want stars and bars as a backdrop when I'm in worship. The rationale behind that conviction is lengthier than this, but one of the major things is that the church, the body of Christ, is so much bigger than anything the American flag represents. I love the song "King and a Kingdom" by Derek Webb. Here's part of the chorus: "My first allegiance is not to a flag, a country or a man; / ... / It's to a King and a Kingdom." The truth that lies in those words is that the Christian church is intensely political, but that our first allegiance is not to Old Glory but to the cross.

The second verse of that Derek Webb song goes like this: "There are two great lies that I've heard: / The day you eat of the fruit of that tree, you will not surely die / and that Jesus Christ was a white, middle-class Republican / and if you wanna be saved you have to learn to be like Him." These lines may evince a certain political bent, but the point is much broader than that: Jesus was not a Democrat or a Republican. He wasn't even American. Sometimes I feel like we domesticate Jesus so much that we forget that basic fact. Jesus was particular in that he was an individual Israelite, but he was and is universal in that he died for the sins of all. That alone should strike Christians as a command to recognize a power beyond temporal authority, a power that should shape the way in which we conceive of that authority, a power that in a perfect world would be mirrored, though dimly, in human leaders.

The politics of Christ are not about political parties or individual presidential candidates. This does not mean that Christians should not talk about whether they are registered Republicans or Democrats, or whom they favor in the primaries. Too often the American vote is jealously guarded as a personal decision when really there are endless issues surrounding elections that should be talked about in communities whose concern is not for the supposed sanctity or autonomy of each individual's vote but for the greater good. These days it has become very difficult to talk politics with people whose views differ from your own. However, the church should be a place not of fear or dissent but of honesty, respect and love. We are challenged by our communal life in Christ to live out our faith in front of one another, willing to change and improve our understanding and actions if necessary. Perhaps it is inappropriate to endorse a candidate from the pulpit, but that does not mean that all talk of politics should be left at the door when going to church. The moment the church becomes a place where politics are taboo, we forget where we came from and where we are going—we forget Christ.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Room for Doubt

"Without somehow destroying me in the process, how could God reveal himself in a way that would leave no room for doubt? If there were no room for doubt, there would be no room for me." — Frederick Buechner

Doubt is something that is underappreciated in today's society. Doubt is not welcome on Wall Street, in classrooms (on either side of the evolution debate) and even in the pulpit. In a world where security is supposedly constantly threatened, few want leaders, political or religious, to express doubt.

Buechner does not believe, and I do not believe, that this fear of doubt is in the nature of Christianity. In fact, this room for doubt is one of the most appealing aspects of the faith for some. Saying that doubt is OK allows believers to be human. Space for fear and uncertainty is created by the examples of the first followers of Christ, not only his disciples but also others he met in his ministry. The man who cried, "I believe; help my unbelief!" (Mark 9:24) illustrates the give-and-take of belief and doubt with which many Christians are intimately familiar.

Of course, there is a flipside to the question of doubt. A friend of mine attended a secular summer program in high school, and their motto became "Question Everything." Sponsored by but separate from the public school system, this program was supposed to encourage the state's brightest thinkers to take a step outside the box and to challenge presuppositions; and in this, it succeeded. However, I wonder if "Question Everything" is really applicable in the church. Certainly members should never be discouraged from asking questions, but what I have come to learn over the years both as a believer and as a student of religion is that theology and faith involve a different method of formulating questions than other fields. I wonder if part of this is because the implication of "Question Everything" is that these questions expect answers, but Christians must learn that questions often lead only to more questions, that the wondering and the wandering must be lived into and is not always brought to a neat conclusion. There seems to be a creative tension throughout Scripture and Christian experience between doubt and belief.

Peter doubted and was given the keys to the kingdom of heaven; but it is clear that when he nearly drowned walking to Jesus on the water, it was because he doubted. When Thomas puts his hands into the risen Christ's wounds, Jesus said, "Do not doubt, but believe" (John 20:27). Jesus would prefer for us not to doubt, to believe wholeheartedly, genuinely and without question, but it is also important to note that Jesus rescues Peter from the waves and from his doubt; Jesus does not chide Thomas but willingly gives him the tangible evidence he needs. Christ has the power to help our unbelief, to reveal himself to us, if not always as obviously as to Thomas.

However, throughout Scripture we see that even revelation does not preclude doubt. Many saw Jesus and the prophets before him and heard them speak, but did not believe. Perhaps this is what Buechner meant: doubt is intrinsic to the disconnected state of humanity, and for God to devise a revelation that would leave no room for doubt would be to destroy what it means to be human. As long as we understand ourselves as God's imperfect but well-loved creation, there will always be room for doubt.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Children's Sermons

I have always been wary of children's sermons. At my old church, we had problems with a children's minister who managed to show an abhorrent level of insensitivity towards a pair of girls whose mother died young. Since that string of incidents, no church I've been a part of has had children's sermons. However, I had an interesting experience a few months ago that made me think.

While visiting a friend, I attended her church, a relatively small Methodist congregation. They have a children's sermon every Sunday and apparently everyone in the church absolutely loves delivering the children's sermon—there's a long waiting list just to be able to do it. The particular Sunday I was present, I listened to a late-middle-aged woman deliver a completely incoherent children's sermon that focused solely on the Canada goose.

Jesus was never mentioned. God played no part in her story. Even the environmental tack I think she was trying to take was weakly developed and unclear. Those kids probably walked away having no idea what was said.

But you know what? Any church in America should get down on its knees and thank God for a congregation like that, where the adults are literally lining up to be engaged with the children and youth of the church. The same can be said of a pastor who wants to be a tangible presence in the life of the children there and not just a "pontificating" figure in the pulpit.

Today I see many large, well-established churches suffer for want of youth volunteers and children's Sunday School teachers. If a children's sermon can discourage the sort of age-class silos that are shored up around the children and youth in our churches today, then I will happily listen to a children's sermon on geese if it shows that the adults are taking a genuine interest in the younger generation of believers.

 

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