More about church: I just finished a book by Frank Viola (not to be confuse with the former Mets pitcher by the same name) titled Pagan Christianity. Viola has been a leader in the house-church movement the last twenty years and is considered an “expert on new trends for the church” (whatever that means – it was written on the jacket liner). His premise is that very little of what we do in church has any scriptural basis, and that most of what we do in church is based on traditions established by the ancient Greeks and Romans – hence the word pagan, as it relates to their religious ceremonies and beliefs. This includes everything from the role of pastor, to church buildings, to music, to tithing, to baptism and communion, to Sunday “attire”, to the sermon. The book is a serious, academic effort substantiated by much research and punctuated with tons of references, both current and ancient. It’s an easy read, but it ain’t no Max Lucado book. Anyway, near the end, after making his claim that the institutional church is not only unbiblical, but also harmful to spiritual life, he states:
Many people find themselves in a real dilemma today. They want to be the church, as God intended, but they are not exactly sure how.
The last year or so that I was a pastor, I began to have my own doubts about how church was done – and especially if our practice of church had any Biblical basis. I began to search through the scriptures and I simply couldn’t find a single place where God or Jesus directly said anything about starting, building, administering, facilitating or having services that in any way resembled what we, as well as any others, were doing. My search had begun, partly because, #1 - I just couldn’t see a whole lot of success in what we were trying to do as a church (in fact, it seemed we were getting worse), #2 - I had a terrible sense that what I was perpetrating was a lie, and #3 – some folks that I was close to, and trusted, were asking some hard questions about church that I had no answer for.
I thought back to an earlier time, when I was “between churches” (a nice way of saying I got fired), and a few friends would come over on Saturday night and we would eat, laugh, cry, sing, pray, encourage, eat more, and those who stayed late would watch SNL or music videos on MTV. There was no schedule, no sermon, and no one asked you for money. These informal gatherings might happen again during the week, as people felt comfortable dropping by, or we all just descended on someone else’s house. Viola would tell you that this is how church is supposed to be. Ironically, we never called this church. But after doing this for a few months, we did feel compelled to stop doing it, and decided we would start a church.
This resulted in a multi-year process of renting buildings, where we moved equipment in and out on a regular basis, to getting our own building, which we laboriously poured much time and money into, to the point where we had grown and some were talking about adding on to our building, or even the possibility that we might build a brand new building. Of course, as pastor, I was the leading protagonist, and had mastered the art of manipulation so that God’s work could be done (i.e. keep those people committed!). I think it’s safe to say that, even though I studied and actually wrote down volumes of sermons (which I have since thrown in the garbage), not one word of those sermons can actually be remembered by any of the listeners, which makes it even safer to say that none of it actually changed any lives. Think about all the man-hours lost, sitting there listening to me say, literally, nothing of any import (at least those new chairs we bought were comfortable). As is the case with most churches, there were still a lot of good times, and there was some good accomplished, and some good relationships were built. But did this effort really help us to be good Christians? Search me; I don’t even know what that means.
To say I feel guilty for having fomented this entire fiasco would be an understatement. But the years have provided healing, and having a forum like this, where I can confess, brings healing as well. It also helps to know that some of the so-called flock that I shepherded have also escaped the reigns of religion and are also seeking true ekklesia.
I’ll go ahead and go on record as saying that I think church, as we know it, sucks. I expect that will inspire more than a few responses (if anyone actually reads this blog) and I welcome them – that’s what makes this type of forum work. You can call me bitter, angry, or burned-out. All I can say to that is: we could have been at the lake all those times we were sitting in that building!
I am still a seeker of spiritual things, and want truth, whatever that is. My theology has changed a lot (that’s one reason I threw out all those sermon notes). I still long for worship, for community, and for relationship with a higher power. But, much like Viola , I ask … How?
If you have any ideas, please respond.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Friday, July 13, 2007
My experience, Part 1
“I wouldn’t have gone into writing if I hadn’t like talking to myself so much.”
--- Larry McMurtry
What would lead me to believe anyone would care what I think, or better (or worse) take the time to read this? It really doesn’t matter – putting it out there in cyber-space is all I feel led to do at this time. But it sure does my quasi-egotistical heart good to think that someone out there is interested in what I think and believe.
In addition, what gives me the right to make such bold statements in opposition to church, an institution that has stood for thousands of years, resisting governments, revolutions, and even the IRS? Well, the fact that I live in the good old USA gives me the right, but I also feel it necessary, for those of you who might stumble upon this blog, to give you some idea of my background, where I am coming from, so you’ll at least know I’ve had more than my share of experiences to accompany the ideas that I am proposing.
You need to know that I was once a card-carrying, tithe-giving, pew-sitting supporter of what I refer to as church. Like most of you, I started out at a local church – this one was the Methodist church my parents were members of. My first memories were of VBS at age six. I remember two things: My friend, Jay, and I won the thee-legged race. I also remember that he and I gathered up all the toys in the Sunday-school classroom, stacked them in the corner, and dared the other kids to try to get them. Since Jay was about the size of a 7th grader (he later went on to be an all-state defensive tackle), we held off every charge the rest of the group made. The results of our actions were: 1.) several bruised six-year-olds ran crying for help, and 2.) Jay and I were told we couldn’t return to VBS the next day unless our moms accompanied us. I didn’t go back.
Over the years, I would occasionally make a stab at attending church, usually at the urging of my parents. Even though they never went, dad would drive me, and my younger sister, to that same Methodist church and drop us off for Sunday-school. I remember those shiny, gray tile floors and the cinder-block walls of those little classrooms, and the piano that played a couple of opening songs, none of which I knew. There was always a nice man or woman that would always make sure I had a new “quarterly” to take home so I could prepare for the next week – if I actually came back. I remember lots of coloring, watered-down kool-aid, and men in dark suits, white shirts, and skinny ties, smoking cigarettes outside the side door where my sister and I would wait for my dad to pick us up after Sunday-school. We never stayed for the worship service. I had no idea what went on in that big room they called the sanctuary. I don’t really remember that much about Jesus, except that there was a huge, somewhat menacing portrait of his head hanging on the wall in our classroom. And after three or four weeks, just when I was getting the hang of things, we’d go out of town for the weekend, or just sleep in, and we wouldn’t go back to church for six months or so. Then, for some unknown reason, we would repeat the process.
When I reached junior high, going to church became cool. That was because of something called MYF, which was basically the Methodist version of what we now call “youth group”. We met in the Boy Scout cabin behind the church every Sunday night and played some fun games and drank less watered-down kool-aid. I learned about several things in my MYF experience: 1.) how to throw a curve-ball, 2.) who Jimi Hendrix was (the pastor’s son had all his albums), and most importantly, 3.) that girls were no longer yucky. In fact, I later learned in college psych classes that all those games we played on Sunday nights were specifically designed to help teach boys and girls to interact. I can tell you this – THEY WORKED! Occasionally, we had MYF parties on Friday nights at some girl’s house. I remember that the refreshments were a lot better. I also remember that we would listen to records. Though we usually just listened to top forty hits, one night my friend, Jay, brought a Steppenwolf album and, after the parents retired to a back room, we listened to the song, The Pusher, where the primary lyrics simply said, over and over “God damn, God damn the pusher man”. We all thought it racy to listen to such language, with parents only a few feet away. But I never thought of the words being demeaning to God. I hadn’t yet learned the phrase, “taking God’s name in vain”, and even later, when I did learn it, I used it incorrectly. It would take many more years in church before I realized we really knew nothing about the actual meaning of that statement, as well as many others. The best part of those parties was when we eventually mustered up the courage to dance, which led to slow-dancing, which led to kissing. That’s what I remember most about MYF – we learned how to kiss! But I don’t remember that much about Jesus. I’m sure Jesus was mentioned – probably a lot – I just wasn’t really listening (especially when kissing was on your mind).
High school led to another church experience. I went to a new high school, met new friends, and most importantly, got a driver’s license. This new-found freedom (driving) allowed me to pick out any church I wanted to attend. I settled on a Presbyterian church – for two reasons: 1.) my new buddy, Jeff, went there and 2.) lots of good-looking girls were there. Going to church was totally different at the Presbyterian church – we never went to Sunday-school, we only went to the 11:00 a.m. worship service. It was my first experience in that environment. I sat, along with the other high school students, in the back two rows. I found out quickly that all you had to do was follow the program, which included the page numbers of the hymns we would sing, the order of events, and a couple of weird statements we would all say together (I later learned these were called responsive readings). Within a week or two, I didn’t even need the program, what they called a bulletin. I even had the Apostle’s Creed and Lord’s Prayer memorized. The pastor, who was a friend of mine’s dad, would talk for about twenty minutes. He had a deep voice, used lots of big words, and I remember none of it. And one Sunday, with no real provocation, I wandered into what they called the Narthex and told the pastor I wanted to join. I was ushered into his office, joined by the elders, answered “yes” to several questions, most of which I really didn’t understand, and pronounced a member. I was really glad that membership was so easy. At the Methodist church, I never attended consistently enough to finish the confirmation classes that qualified you for membership. I surmised that becoming a Presbyterian just wasn’t as tough as becoming a Methodist, and I was glad. I would later learn that becoming a Baptist, or member of any evangelical church, was the easiest of all (more on that in a later blog).
Up to this point, if you had asked me, I would have assured you I was a Christian, even though my entire understanding of Jesus was pretty much gleaned from carols we learned for the Christmas pageant (at the public school, no less) in the sixth grade. All I really knew was that Jesus was born in a manger – whatever that is (as in, away in a manger, no crib for a bed). Though I had not learned that much about Jesus, I was beginning to learn a lot about church, and church-goers. There were students at my high school that treated church membership like membership to an exclusive club. On Wednesdays, they wore their youth-group t-shirts to school and boasted about camps, retreats, and other activities that sounded like a lot of fun. But I never was invited. Looking back, I realize they weren’t being exclusive – they were probably just afraid to ask me – I probably didn’t appear to be a good candidate to get “saved”. I went to Young Life and FCA a few times, but it was really booooring. I know that God is sovereign, and if He had wanted, I could have been dragged into one of those cool, evangelical church youth groups (all it would have taken is for one, good-looking girl to ask). Interestingly enough, the youth group at my own Presbyterian church was also a negative experience. Because I didn’t attend Sunday-school, I wasn’t allowed to take part in many of their activities. It infuriated the adult leader (they didn’t have a youth pastor) that several of us would not attend Sunday-school, which he led. I had nothing against him, I didn’t even know him, I just didn’t want to get up a whole two hours earlier on Sunday morning for some boring class. Heck, the worship service was hard enough to endure. The crowning blow took place during spring break. Three of us, all members of the church, headed for the coast. Once there, we found out the youth group was staying in a condo on the same beach we were on. The adult leader told his students to have nothing to do with us, as if we were some derelicts. The worst storm in years hit the beach one night and our tent and all our belongings were washed away – we were left without any shelter, freezing in our wet clothes. Even so, that leader wouldn’t let us wait in their condo, just long enough for the storm to subside. Later we learned he told the other students, “those boys need to learn their lesson – they should have been coming to Sunday-school, like all of you.” Who knows, if he had welcomed us in, it may have changed how we felt about him, and ultimately, Sunday-school, and maybe even God. One thing was for sure, the people I knew that were Christians had made it clear that, if I was a Christian, I must not be a very good one. This may sound like a lot of sour grapes, but I’m really thankful. God is sovereign, for he protected me from an environment that I now see was controlling and manipulative in a very negative sense. By not getting more involved in church, I would head off to college without a lot of pre-determined religious ideas and attitudes that might have restricted my capacity for learning. My college years were extremely important, and I needed the freedom to think and ask, without some fundamental religious beliefs holding me back. Besides, I would ultimately succumb to the conservative, evangelical Christian sub-culture, and all that goes with it, but that’s a story I’ll share later.
--- Larry McMurtry
What would lead me to believe anyone would care what I think, or better (or worse) take the time to read this? It really doesn’t matter – putting it out there in cyber-space is all I feel led to do at this time. But it sure does my quasi-egotistical heart good to think that someone out there is interested in what I think and believe.
In addition, what gives me the right to make such bold statements in opposition to church, an institution that has stood for thousands of years, resisting governments, revolutions, and even the IRS? Well, the fact that I live in the good old USA gives me the right, but I also feel it necessary, for those of you who might stumble upon this blog, to give you some idea of my background, where I am coming from, so you’ll at least know I’ve had more than my share of experiences to accompany the ideas that I am proposing.
You need to know that I was once a card-carrying, tithe-giving, pew-sitting supporter of what I refer to as church. Like most of you, I started out at a local church – this one was the Methodist church my parents were members of. My first memories were of VBS at age six. I remember two things: My friend, Jay, and I won the thee-legged race. I also remember that he and I gathered up all the toys in the Sunday-school classroom, stacked them in the corner, and dared the other kids to try to get them. Since Jay was about the size of a 7th grader (he later went on to be an all-state defensive tackle), we held off every charge the rest of the group made. The results of our actions were: 1.) several bruised six-year-olds ran crying for help, and 2.) Jay and I were told we couldn’t return to VBS the next day unless our moms accompanied us. I didn’t go back.
Over the years, I would occasionally make a stab at attending church, usually at the urging of my parents. Even though they never went, dad would drive me, and my younger sister, to that same Methodist church and drop us off for Sunday-school. I remember those shiny, gray tile floors and the cinder-block walls of those little classrooms, and the piano that played a couple of opening songs, none of which I knew. There was always a nice man or woman that would always make sure I had a new “quarterly” to take home so I could prepare for the next week – if I actually came back. I remember lots of coloring, watered-down kool-aid, and men in dark suits, white shirts, and skinny ties, smoking cigarettes outside the side door where my sister and I would wait for my dad to pick us up after Sunday-school. We never stayed for the worship service. I had no idea what went on in that big room they called the sanctuary. I don’t really remember that much about Jesus, except that there was a huge, somewhat menacing portrait of his head hanging on the wall in our classroom. And after three or four weeks, just when I was getting the hang of things, we’d go out of town for the weekend, or just sleep in, and we wouldn’t go back to church for six months or so. Then, for some unknown reason, we would repeat the process.
When I reached junior high, going to church became cool. That was because of something called MYF, which was basically the Methodist version of what we now call “youth group”. We met in the Boy Scout cabin behind the church every Sunday night and played some fun games and drank less watered-down kool-aid. I learned about several things in my MYF experience: 1.) how to throw a curve-ball, 2.) who Jimi Hendrix was (the pastor’s son had all his albums), and most importantly, 3.) that girls were no longer yucky. In fact, I later learned in college psych classes that all those games we played on Sunday nights were specifically designed to help teach boys and girls to interact. I can tell you this – THEY WORKED! Occasionally, we had MYF parties on Friday nights at some girl’s house. I remember that the refreshments were a lot better. I also remember that we would listen to records. Though we usually just listened to top forty hits, one night my friend, Jay, brought a Steppenwolf album and, after the parents retired to a back room, we listened to the song, The Pusher, where the primary lyrics simply said, over and over “God damn, God damn the pusher man”. We all thought it racy to listen to such language, with parents only a few feet away. But I never thought of the words being demeaning to God. I hadn’t yet learned the phrase, “taking God’s name in vain”, and even later, when I did learn it, I used it incorrectly. It would take many more years in church before I realized we really knew nothing about the actual meaning of that statement, as well as many others. The best part of those parties was when we eventually mustered up the courage to dance, which led to slow-dancing, which led to kissing. That’s what I remember most about MYF – we learned how to kiss! But I don’t remember that much about Jesus. I’m sure Jesus was mentioned – probably a lot – I just wasn’t really listening (especially when kissing was on your mind).
High school led to another church experience. I went to a new high school, met new friends, and most importantly, got a driver’s license. This new-found freedom (driving) allowed me to pick out any church I wanted to attend. I settled on a Presbyterian church – for two reasons: 1.) my new buddy, Jeff, went there and 2.) lots of good-looking girls were there. Going to church was totally different at the Presbyterian church – we never went to Sunday-school, we only went to the 11:00 a.m. worship service. It was my first experience in that environment. I sat, along with the other high school students, in the back two rows. I found out quickly that all you had to do was follow the program, which included the page numbers of the hymns we would sing, the order of events, and a couple of weird statements we would all say together (I later learned these were called responsive readings). Within a week or two, I didn’t even need the program, what they called a bulletin. I even had the Apostle’s Creed and Lord’s Prayer memorized. The pastor, who was a friend of mine’s dad, would talk for about twenty minutes. He had a deep voice, used lots of big words, and I remember none of it. And one Sunday, with no real provocation, I wandered into what they called the Narthex and told the pastor I wanted to join. I was ushered into his office, joined by the elders, answered “yes” to several questions, most of which I really didn’t understand, and pronounced a member. I was really glad that membership was so easy. At the Methodist church, I never attended consistently enough to finish the confirmation classes that qualified you for membership. I surmised that becoming a Presbyterian just wasn’t as tough as becoming a Methodist, and I was glad. I would later learn that becoming a Baptist, or member of any evangelical church, was the easiest of all (more on that in a later blog).
Up to this point, if you had asked me, I would have assured you I was a Christian, even though my entire understanding of Jesus was pretty much gleaned from carols we learned for the Christmas pageant (at the public school, no less) in the sixth grade. All I really knew was that Jesus was born in a manger – whatever that is (as in, away in a manger, no crib for a bed). Though I had not learned that much about Jesus, I was beginning to learn a lot about church, and church-goers. There were students at my high school that treated church membership like membership to an exclusive club. On Wednesdays, they wore their youth-group t-shirts to school and boasted about camps, retreats, and other activities that sounded like a lot of fun. But I never was invited. Looking back, I realize they weren’t being exclusive – they were probably just afraid to ask me – I probably didn’t appear to be a good candidate to get “saved”. I went to Young Life and FCA a few times, but it was really booooring. I know that God is sovereign, and if He had wanted, I could have been dragged into one of those cool, evangelical church youth groups (all it would have taken is for one, good-looking girl to ask). Interestingly enough, the youth group at my own Presbyterian church was also a negative experience. Because I didn’t attend Sunday-school, I wasn’t allowed to take part in many of their activities. It infuriated the adult leader (they didn’t have a youth pastor) that several of us would not attend Sunday-school, which he led. I had nothing against him, I didn’t even know him, I just didn’t want to get up a whole two hours earlier on Sunday morning for some boring class. Heck, the worship service was hard enough to endure. The crowning blow took place during spring break. Three of us, all members of the church, headed for the coast. Once there, we found out the youth group was staying in a condo on the same beach we were on. The adult leader told his students to have nothing to do with us, as if we were some derelicts. The worst storm in years hit the beach one night and our tent and all our belongings were washed away – we were left without any shelter, freezing in our wet clothes. Even so, that leader wouldn’t let us wait in their condo, just long enough for the storm to subside. Later we learned he told the other students, “those boys need to learn their lesson – they should have been coming to Sunday-school, like all of you.” Who knows, if he had welcomed us in, it may have changed how we felt about him, and ultimately, Sunday-school, and maybe even God. One thing was for sure, the people I knew that were Christians had made it clear that, if I was a Christian, I must not be a very good one. This may sound like a lot of sour grapes, but I’m really thankful. God is sovereign, for he protected me from an environment that I now see was controlling and manipulative in a very negative sense. By not getting more involved in church, I would head off to college without a lot of pre-determined religious ideas and attitudes that might have restricted my capacity for learning. My college years were extremely important, and I needed the freedom to think and ask, without some fundamental religious beliefs holding me back. Besides, I would ultimately succumb to the conservative, evangelical Christian sub-culture, and all that goes with it, but that’s a story I’ll share later.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
“Your heart is free,
Have the courage
to follow it.”
--from the movie, Braveheart
I’m well aware that it has been in vogue in Christian circles the past few years to quote from the movie, “Braveheart”, when speaking of issues of freedom. Mel Gibson’s fictionalized speech, where William Wallace challenges his Scottish comrades to fight for their freedom, has been quoted from pulpits, at youth camps, and especially at men’s meetings to rally church-people to go forth bravely and commit themselves to their faith as never before. Sadly, this message has followed the path of so many of the great tenets espoused by Christ (i.e. grace, mercy, and forgiveness for a start). For example, where Jesus proposed “setting the captives free”, church leaders have done their best to pervert His message and turn Christianity into a religion much like the Judaism controlled by the Pharisees in the first century.
Even so, this simple quote represents my reason for starting this web-log. It’s one thing to proclaim freedom, but another to actually do something about it. This meager beginning is my attempt to do something about it, to solicit ideas from others, to have my own thoughts, ideas and opinions scrutinized, and hopefully play a part in helping others gain freedom. My heart cries out for freedom. My soul longs for truth. I’m tired of clichés and catch-phrases, and even worse, perverted translations and interpretations of scripture that lock and chain us to an institution called church, rather than send us on an adventure where we can actually be THE church.
This blog is called “to be THE church”. For clarification’s sake, any references to that institution, that building, those meetings that people attend on Sunday mornings (okay, Saturdays for Adventists) will be simply church. The phrase, THE church, will refer to the people, the followers of Jesus, known in scripture as the body of Christ. To be THE church refers to understanding how Christ lives through us, naturally and organically, 24-7, without compartmentalizing our faith into 2-3 hour segments, without the constant tension within us that asks, “Is this a spiritual activity or is it a secular activity?” I know, I know … many that we know as THE church do attend church on Sunday, or Saturday, and possibly Wednesday night, as well. They sometimes give great sums of their hard-earned money to church (usually to pay for things like staff salaries, sound systems and air conditioning). Families are encouraged to attend together, and they spend countless amounts of time and energy there, but the moms and dads are usually in separate parts of the building from their kids. And the combined assets of these institutions, which pay no taxes, make it one of the wealthiest in the world (and we thought insurance companies were ripping us off). The question I want to see answered is, “Why?”
Even so, this simple quote represents my reason for starting this web-log. It’s one thing to proclaim freedom, but another to actually do something about it. This meager beginning is my attempt to do something about it, to solicit ideas from others, to have my own thoughts, ideas and opinions scrutinized, and hopefully play a part in helping others gain freedom. My heart cries out for freedom. My soul longs for truth. I’m tired of clichés and catch-phrases, and even worse, perverted translations and interpretations of scripture that lock and chain us to an institution called church, rather than send us on an adventure where we can actually be THE church.
This blog is called “to be THE church”. For clarification’s sake, any references to that institution, that building, those meetings that people attend on Sunday mornings (okay, Saturdays for Adventists) will be simply church. The phrase, THE church, will refer to the people, the followers of Jesus, known in scripture as the body of Christ. To be THE church refers to understanding how Christ lives through us, naturally and organically, 24-7, without compartmentalizing our faith into 2-3 hour segments, without the constant tension within us that asks, “Is this a spiritual activity or is it a secular activity?” I know, I know … many that we know as THE church do attend church on Sunday, or Saturday, and possibly Wednesday night, as well. They sometimes give great sums of their hard-earned money to church (usually to pay for things like staff salaries, sound systems and air conditioning). Families are encouraged to attend together, and they spend countless amounts of time and energy there, but the moms and dads are usually in separate parts of the building from their kids. And the combined assets of these institutions, which pay no taxes, make it one of the wealthiest in the world (and we thought insurance companies were ripping us off). The question I want to see answered is, “Why?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)