Posted on December 21, 2009
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I forget sometimes that I don’t have a monopoly on being socially clueless. Saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible moment.
For months I have been tagging along with a Sunday school at a Baptist church. I don’t really know why. That is, I know several reasons why, but none of them alone and even all of them together do not compel me to keep at it. I suppose more than anything else I can quantify, there are people there I am curious about; I want to see where they are coming from and going to, spiritually. But again, that doesn’t adequately account for it.
Anyway, I lost my patience with it two weeks ago. I asked why, if we were all familiar with Ephesians, we were using such a lame study guide that was so out of touch with the part of Ephesians we were supposedly studying. I said all we were doing was nailing preconcieved notions onto whatever part of Ephesisans we happened to be at.
What frustrates me most, really, is my inability to adequately describe what is wrong. A great lot of Baptist doctrine is not necessarily wrong–the old “broken clock” metaphor. A lot of what is said could be right, depending on how exactly you meant it; or sufficiently right, in some context. But it is just repeated and belabored and repeated and, did I mention, repeated, until it lacks all possiblity of being an awkward reference to the truth and becomes defined by what is done with it–how they who say it live.
And again, if you took a quick look you still might not see it, as it has a semblance of rightness–or then again, if you were ever really acquainted with living truth, you would know it instantly even if you couldn’t define it. Legalism is dead. It resembles faith like a dead man resembles his living self. No flattering mortuary can hide death, and no talking of grace can hide the dullness of people doing righteousness.
Perhaps I’ve overdone my metaphor, since one could take me to consigning the whole lot of them to spiritual deadness. Forgive my excesses and my love of words and follow me this far: I know without a doubt that something is wrong, but I cannot find a way to express it on the fly, talking to the ones who are wrong.
But I have no wish to make it seem a personal grudge, and I am afraid it may have sounded that way. If you were trying to teach a class and one of the students said the material was juvenile and misleading, if slightly less directly, you might have a hard time not taking it personally.
So I have been wondering if I should leave it least said, soonest mended, or if I should find some more gracious words to at least try to relieve any personal anatagonism I might have inadvertantly portrayed. There was a substitute this week and I went along to at least not snub the substitute (it is an extremely small class and my absence could be as much as 25%).
We were all given gifts. I got two books, dedicated to me by our regular teacher. Item first: “Fear Not! Meditations to overcome fear, worry, and discouragement,” by Rand Hummel. It’s a devotional book, a genre I have never deliberately bought of. This bald-faced liar says “If you give God, say, one-half hour every morning before you get pulled into your fast and furious daily routine, you will actually wake up in the morning looking forward to spending time with God.” And then he goes on to say, “(By the way, if you think you are too busy, consider that this kind of meditation in God’s Word will simply replace the wasted time it takes to sin.)”
This is a fire set by hell itself. I have so violent a reaction against this type of thing that I am sure many will say I have a demon. But if you will listen to that one insinuating aside, you will drive yourself straight to hell. Never, never, never in your life will you escape that you could have been doing something more righteous, every living minute of your life, and so you will damn yourself for your guilt; and if not, if you think somehow you have found a righteous use for your time, you will be happily damning yourself twice as worse as otherwise.
It is not that we do not waste time when we sin. But to correct it with that kind of precept is to dig out a splinter with a poisoned needle. And that is exactly the kind of splinters they go needling after all the time.
I about threw the book away right when I read that, but remembered I was sorry for my rudeness and I had gotten it as a gift and skimmed on a bit more, so I immediately hit this: “You’ll also be pleasing God and not self.” Oh yes, I can just see me sitting there in my parlor-chapel gleefully pleasing God and not self as I wallow in piety.
And the other book! Item two: “Grace For the Moment: Inspiration for each day of the year,” by Max Lucado. In a perverse way, totally different and yet utterly the same as the first book.
Yes, I am out of my mind. I want to have a book-burning, and maybe a hanging and a stoning, too, for good measure, even thought I don’t believe in any of those things. But it is not really the books that have put me over the edge. You see, although I have been going to this Sunday school, I have not been going to the real Sunday “service.” And my Sunday school teacher has tried to invite me back, ask me why I don’t come. And I told him that the church was fundamentally flawed, as seen in the way that people did not really know each other. And he assured me I was wrong.
It’s been over a year now that I’ve been in that church regularly. A year and a half I think it has been. And for months I have been going to this man’s house also on Monday in a “informal” setting so that he can show us an insipid indoctrination video and ask us what we think about that, too. And I have gamely spoken up and tried to point out the more obvious fallacies, contraditions, and shortsighted inadequacies–but only those that I thought I could describe sensibly and calmly, and without provoking an entirely emotional reaction that precludes thought (on their part or mine).
In other words, I spoke my mind enough that if you were there, too, and you were at all curious what I thought, you would have had ample opportunity to find out enough of what I think to know at least there was a very good chance I would not appreciate those books. You might not have guessed the depths of my disgust, but you might have known enough to have a sense of trepidation about giving me any books, since I have so tirelessly protested every book you have ever discussed with me.
I am, as you can see, utterly at a loss for words.
Posted on December 15, 2009
Filed Under Journeyman Chronicles, Theological | 1 Comment
“You have been weighed in the balances, and found wanting,” Daniel informed Belshazzar. The significance of this depends on who was doing the weighing. I have felt myself considered short in many different ways, but only once do I remember feeling I had been found fundamentally lacking righteousness. I will use that word, anyway; theologians might tell me there is some other term for the lack of which you will be rejected.
It may have all been in my head, in any case, but I remember part of my reaction to this perceived judgement was feeling that it was rather absurd. I felt that there was no point in weighing my righteousness at all, so surely would I always come up wanting, and at the same time so sure that the righteousness of Christ more than abounded on my behalf; a grain from that storehouse would swing the scale and never be missed.
In this I mean true righteousness, not good morals or good manners. The reason this has come to mind is that I am often found chasing a false sense of piety. I remember when a genial older fellow was telling me, before a church service, how back in the day they would disregard instructions to run only the quantity needed of some odd part, and instead run a full production lot, hiding the balance until someday it was needed urgently (in less time than the part could be built). I was scandalized–partly because a fair number of my problems involve accuracy of inventory, but partly just because he had confessed to such disregard for the rules while inside a church.
This is of course execrable reverence of a building; it’s a sentiment of pure hypocrisy. But this is not the only time I have found myself finely guaging whether someone has kept an appropriate appearance of righteouness while in a church environment, or with other believers who might know how one is supposed to behave. It seems I may be the most poisonous viper in the whole brood!
I made a very sarcastic mental note when I heard the person who had prayed “Lord, send us people to love” recounting how the selfsame person had dealt with a drunk person on their property, a disorderly and ill-mannered drunk but not violent. The drunk was dealt with indignantly, and the police had nearly been summoned just to make sure the offender was properly chastened. Well, perhaps this is love, since love is not all about treating people sweetly. But I logged it as a dire hypocrisy.
When I think of my faults I cringe to remember how meticulously I have catalogued others’. I have half a mind to unsay some of the things I have earlier said about the Christians I am meeting with. But I knew I would when I wrote them. Those things were not said dishonestly, but I knew I would want to sweep them away and cover them up if I got friendly with the people. That’s part of the reason I wrote what I thought at the time, so later when I wanted to play partisan and whitewash false piety over everything my own words would be there to rebuke me.
“Therefore you are inexcusable, O man, whoever you are who judge, for in whatever you judge another you condemn yourself; fo you who judge practice the same thing.” But this does not make an end to all right and wrong. Paul judged many things in his various epistles. Ending all judgment means silencing all truth. To the Christian judgement is not a right to be exercised at one’s own preorgative; it is a responsiblity, a work to be performed for the purposes of another. God himself will judge, and he will make known to his servants when they should declare his judgement.
Posted on August 23, 2009
Filed Under Church Signs, Journeyman Chronicles | Comments Off
“You will really like this. This is very scriptural, it has the Word of God woven all through it.”
I heard this again today. Yet again.
So many books, so little time
There are, it may be, so many Biblical books in the world, and none of them is without significance. Whenever I try to tell someone, as kindly and plainly as I can, that I am not interested in a biblical book, they always assure me that this one is good, really good. It’s really convicting, it will challenge me, perhaps even change my life.
There’ll come a time the prophet would say
At best they tell me that so-and-so does expository preaching, I would like him. They offer me one man who will take the bread and bless it and distribute it among us all–which is exactly what I am looking for. Except they never mean Immanuel. It’s always some other man who will give us this bread.
When the joy of mankind will be withered away
It’s possible to get almost anything you want out of the Bible with a verse here and there; and it’s not that much harder to get it to say whatever you want even when you are going through it verse by verse, if you can spend as much or as little time as you like on any verse, and pull in comparisons and illustrations from whatever suits you.
A want not for water, but a hunger for more
But when you are sitting around on an equal level with other believers, discussing among yourselves what Jesus meant by what he said, it’s not so easy to just turn a phrase till it suits you, or sail on past; someone is going to say, “I ask you, of whom does the prophet say this?”
A famine for hearing the words of the Lord
And when you open your mouth to answer, you will be fed.
Quotes from Michael Card’s “So Many Books“
Posted on March 29, 2009
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I went to a Baptist church for months and then stopped. I was not, to any meaningful degree, bored, offended, unfulfilled, or opposed to their stated doctrines. I stopped joining their primary worship service because it was a worship service. The people at large (the laity, the attendees) were having something provided to us by the elect few (the pastor and the various functionaries). A fellowship ought to be a gathering where everyone is in principle equal–that is, there is nothing at the outset limiting what participation you may have. Going to a traditional or institutional church service is like going to an Amish barn raising and watching. If all you did was watched you missed the point–you missed the fellowship. I am no expert on Amish barn raising so I am going out on a limb here, but I suspect that your role in raising the barn has more to do with your skill than your status. If you are not handy with a saw you are probably not asked to saw. If you have not been involved in many barn raisings you are probably not asked to coordinate the whole thing. But whoever you are, if you show up willing to work there is something you can do to help: bring this, hold that, at minimum. Everyone free to do what they may, and everyone freely listening to the people who know what they are doing.
This is what conventional churches have lost. I stopped going because I was tired of watching the barn raising. And I don’t mean I was too impatient to work my way into a Position in the church; I probably could have. I make a good impression in religious gatherings and I’m reasonably bright and hardworking. But I am not interested in moving from the Hapless Masses to the Expert Few. The distinction is the problem; switching sides isn’t the solution.
In this house church that I’ve been going to for several months now, there isn’t the same distinction between the expert and the common among the people there. There are two men who have been there the longest, Paul and Brandon, and generally take the lead: starting and closing the prayer, getting the whole thing started, deciding when to stop singing and move on. But anything I or someone else might suggest is regarded as if it might be valid–like if I am working with family some construction. Chances are the people I am working with have a lot more experience than I do and have a better sense of what will work, but if I make a suggestion it will be considered and regarded for the merits of the suggestion, not my rank or certification. And the same goes for the people who come to the house church.
But then, when it comes to actually opening up the Bible and dealing with the writing in there, everyon present shuts up and somebody far away speaks via a recording, without any interaction from anyone present. And maybe he’s building a perfectly fine “barn,” off there wherever he’s preaching; but we are here. God has called us as his disciples and brought us to where we are physically. He own the sheep on a thousand hills; we’re all fed by the same shepherd, but we graze in different pastures; we should build our own “barns.”
The irony is that after we’ve all come and done our eating and chatting and singing and listening, followed by more chatting and eating, then we can actually talk as fellow Christians about the things of God. Once we’re all done with that last round of eating and chatting it’s late Sunday afternoon and if I go back to my apartment I’ll usually just putz around on the internet accomplishing nothing; all I’ve got in front of me is a relatively isolated week of work. So I’ll hang around a little longer, cadge a few more pastries, finish a few thoughts, and pretty soon a couple more hours have gone by.
Sometimes I worry a little that I am exploiting the hospitality of my hosts, but I try to keep a sharp eye and ear for any hints that I should go and have not found them. Their insistence that I am welcome to stay as long as I want is borne out in their actions. Today, when I did leave about the same time as everyone else, Vickie caught me on the way out the door and struck up conversation, and seemed to wonder why I was leaving so early. I wound up standing in the misty rain exchanging parting remarks until the phone rang.
I know what this means: we both enjoy the conversation. I work so hard to prove the point because I am socially very insecure. But the bottom line is that these Sunday gatherings offer good food, good conversation, and a pleasant day all around.
But it doesn’t involve sharing the word of God — sharing the Bible. We hear a sermon about the Bible, sure. Today’s was from John MacArthur; it was a detailed look at the social-political background of Herod and Pilate. What that taught us about God and his purposes I have no clue. Most of what was detailed I already knew from previous Bible studies with my Dad that I would generally call “sharing the word of God.” So if historical matters were covered in both, what was the difference?
I’m not sure I can do a proper job explaining the difference, but I’ll offer it as a difference in method, not material. On the one hand you have John MacArthur preparing for that specific sermon for I don’t know how long in advance, and carefully delivering his prepared lesson. On the other you have my dad, delivering ad lib whatever comes to his mind as he examines the passage in front of him, developing his thought on the fly and reacting to our comments and questions. And the biggest weakness of my dad’s teaching was not his lack of formal certification (he’s much less certified than John MacArthur, although he has nevertheless read a scholar’s diet of biblical commentary). The greatest lack in my dad’s teaching was the availability of any other perspective.
It’s not that my dad never explained other viewpoints. He does that all the time. But all of us in our family agree with Dad by and large. Sometimes theres a bit of disagreement that blossoms into long and passionate discussion, but sometimes there’s quite a lot of silence and not much said; we all think the same thing and pretty much agree about it, so what is there to say?
I’ve been in another group where there was more diversity of opinion, where also we were reading from the Bible through a particular book, and there we never some comment that got the proverbial ball rolling. Nobody in those discussions was as deeply read as John MacArthur or my dad, but the guy leading the group had a good broad understanding of the Bible and others there were perceptive enough to raise points that entailed good healthy discussion. Some people just sat back and listened. It was a great college Bible study, and while I learned more and better doctrine from my dad, I would say that as I <em>process</em> the college Bible study was a better example of Christians sharing the Bible with one another. My dad has never wanted to call our family fellowship a house church for largely the same reason; there isn’t a wide enough diversity to make a compelling example of sharing.
Because there is nothing like this in the house church I’m currently going to, some in my family think that I’m only getting social rejuvenation from this meeting, and if I stick to my principles about Christian fellowship I will wind up wandering away from this church as well. They’re a pretty sharp bunch, my family; dismiss their insights at your own risk. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I am convinced that they are right, if you are talking only about the church per se. It just feels too hollow to listen to some pastor add ten pages of extra words into three verses of scripture without shedding any extra insight into their meaning and call that Christian fellowship. Songs are nice and are an important part of Christian fellowship but it’s kind of like dessert without dinner. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a Dessert Control Officer–I’ll eat dessert before the meal, after the meal, or even for the meal once in a while. I don’t mind generous portions (and seconds). But somewhere along the line you have to eat food, too. I want to share the Bible; that’s the highest-nutrition spiritual food there is, and it’s a lot better with good company.
The catch is the after-hours fellowship. Everyone else who came for church is gone; only the people who live in the house and relatives of those people are still around. Those conversations always get into something that’s discussed with Biblical reference; a doctrine, a concept, or a paraphrase of some verses. It might be the importance of accepting literal creation as a part of God-honoring theology, or the way some conventional church practices substantiate a righteousness by works even if the church has a written statement proclaiming grace alone.
It’s a little frustrating becasue these discussions, while interesting, are still pretty light fare compared to discussing the Bible directly. But a couple of weeks ago the conversation took a turn that was encouraging; one of them, I don’t remember whether it was Vicky or Paul, brought up my earlier remarks I had shared to the general effect of what I have said here. I wasn’t trying to go there with the conversation because I thought I had talked that one out to the point where it wasn’t going anywhere helpful last time, so it was a pleasant surprise to see that the idea hadn’t been cast off and forgotten. I can’t say whether we made any progress toward agreeing with one another but it felt like a good discussion.
And there we come to the real point. Even if this house church group never agrees with me on the local believers personally sharing the Bible with one another, I’ve left some kind of imprint on their lives and thoughts as Christians, and they on mine. That’s not the ultimate goal; it doesn’t justify, by itself, anything done to attain it. But it is something different than the “worship service” of a conventional church, whereat I cannot touch the spiritual lives of anyone else though anything other than my hairdo, because the most anyone will be doing with me is looking at the back of my head. The same is not true of even a conventional Sunday school, which is why I am still attending one of those.
Ironically, the people at the house church don’t understand why I am still going to the conventional Sunday school, since like a lot of Baptist churches their doctrine looks okay on paper but is practiced in a lot of behavioural, procedural ways, which is to say a righteousness of works. As long as we are both talking, and we share some subtanatial fundamental concepts about the supremacy of God in accomplishing our salvation through the atonement of Christ Jesus, we might be helping each other along.
I don’t pretend to know for sure whether we are; I don’t use a definite knowledge that I am helping someone and being helped as a litmus test. But the reason I go to the house church, and the Sunday school, is partly out of the same reason that I think we ought to be “building our own barns,” to borrow from my previous metaphor. Here I am; let me be of some help to the Christians who are here.
I ought also to be of some help–or at least, some witness–to everyone else around me who is not Christian. But that is a subject for another day.
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