Hope is a Verb

A friend of mine, Ray Waddle, a journalist and author, turned a phrase recently in regard to American culture that caught my ear. He spoke of the “merchandise of darkness” in referring to the manner in which the church inculcates itself into being bought out by American societal values. It’s not that we haven’t heard, or read about the church’s need to return to its core values as a mirror that reflects culture rather than adopting it, or that we need to return to the nature of being a “change agent” within our society. Many know this reality and are actually trying to reclaim our heritage within the Reformed tradition as prophetic voices amidst the screams of fear and the rancor of anger. There are days when I believe our nation is nothing less than a portrait of the Edvard Munch painting, “The Scream.” Viewing this painting is a terrifying microcosm of life as much of the world understands it.

Ray’s words, however, have given me pause to turn them inside out. After all, it was Jesus who was proclaimed to be “the light of the world.”  The old Latin phrase lux lucet in tenebris – the light shines in the darkness- stretches the human mind to imagine a better world. It stretches the heart to yearn for a brighter one. What if we were to begin purchasing “the merchandise of light?” It may not be for lack of trying, but unless we confront the darkness there is little way for us to invest in the promise that light always prevails.

Much of the world has “bought into darkness.” That’s a hard, cold, hopeless feeling of reality. There’s’ a God-given promise, however, from a higher power beyond our understanding. In the opening to the Book of Genesis, God separates the light from the darkness. It takes courage, conviction, and finding one’s voice to “scream” at the darkness, and to tell it to go away. To do this means believing that light can overcome the blackness of despair.

I read another interesting phrase at about the same time as Ray’s. It’s from David Orr an environmentalist in Oberlin, Ohio. He was quoted as saying that “Hope is a verb with its sleeves rolled up.” Though his focus is on earth science and specific environments where’s he leading change for the better, his words carry the weight of theology on their shoulders. Church people should be about changing the earth and everything that dwells within. That includes individual lives, and community evils. We’re not simply about confronting evil and declaring sin where it abounds, but we are about going the extra mile of overcoming it. It’s not enough to proclaim sin and label sinners because as sinful human beings we often get both “sin” and “sinners” wrong. Our tendency is to make a list of what are the sins we are against, and hence, to pronounce judgment on those who don’t abide by our list of rules. We do this, I think, to protect our comfort zones.

The All in All knows I’m on all kinds of people’s list as an outright sinner. Some pray for me “without ceasing.” That’s not a new phenomenon in my life as a pastor. There were prayer groups where I attended seminary who prayed for me and our professors on a nightly basis. I don’t mind people praying for me since we all are in need of prayer, but prayer can become possessed by an arrogance of those who believe they are right and everyone else is wrong who believes something different.  As my mother taught me early in memorizing Bible verses and wise sayings: “Judge not that ye be not judged.” Such human arrogance also can produce a conformity of boredom where we are frightened that “God is making all things new.” So, by God, let’s keep God as far away as we can, and Jesus words of comfort the only one’s we choose to hear. Let’s not comfort the comfortable, or condemn the sinner, or we’ll never move beyond our words.

“Hope is a verb with its sleeves rolled up,” is another approach to life. I know this less travelled trail more and more.

In retirement I’ve given much of my time and energy to finding a way to “do church,” not simply to “be church.” Both are important, but one without the other is like greasy water from dirty dishes. What do you do with it but let it flow down the drain to the local treatment plant. “Doing church” through my leadership role with The Healing Trust, a Nashville based, non-profit that provides therapy and resources to adults suffering from childhood sexual abuse has carried me on a journey not of my own choosing. I thoughtfully accepted the position as President of the Board of Directors because of our core values and our helping role of redeeming lives. Part of my work background as an Executive Presbyter in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) is about organization and administration. I had little idea how quickly this new role would carry me into the painful land of those walking their living hells of shame and isolation.

Hope is one of our keys words, alongside safety and trust. The sexually violated come by none of these words easily. “Hope” is a lost word in the environment of the abused. It is for too many far beyond their sense of reach. Trust and safety are also words of journey. They are learned through experiences where trust is earned and safety is felt through the unquestioning acceptance of others. Grace is also word we often use as a means of allowing people to understand unconditional love. Shame doesn’t disappear by itself. No life is rebuilt through individual resolve, but through the support and encouragement of many others. A shamed, wounded individual can learn to trust; find safety; and discover hope.

The mission of The Healing Trust is not simply about changing individual lives one at a time, but about changing an environment of abuse where one in five young women in the United States is sexually abused  by the age of 18, and 1 in 7 men. This is our nation’s out-of-sight-out-of-mind epidemic.

Believe me. I know. I spent a year with a good man who was deeply wounded named Vii. He’s now one of my best friends. We wrote his story of healing together over nearly a year of mostly weekly meetings. I knew- and so did he- that I would have to earn enough trust for him to help me write his story. We also intuitively understood that we would have to nestle ourselves in a cocoon of safety. We found our space of safety in a peaceful prayer room of a local church near where Vii lives. We learned together about a power we both refer to as All of All, or Papa Being, in our trips on “Papa Being’s Big Waters Tour Bus.” Ours is an unconventional God whom we know through unconventional language, though some of it seems very biblical to me. We don’t need the mostly used name of “God,” however, to talk about, or experience something bigger than who we are alone, or together. Our “God,” or higher power, defies capturing in the weakness of language. We experience this being through the emptying of shame, the dismantling of guilt, the courage to be, and our common bonds of love without restraints. For us hope became a “verb with its sleeves rolled up.”

If you’re reading these sentences then try to trust in one thing if you are a victim of any form of shaming abuse, or know someone who is. There is hope. It’s as real as the therapy The Healing Trust provides. Don’t feel hopeless because you have to say I have no insurance or means of paying for counseling. We’ll find a way to provide what you need. Don’t mistrust hope because you’ve been so deeply shamed that you feel there’s no way out from under its burden. There is. My friend Vii is living proof of this. He and I can speak of this with you together as mutual voices of bringing the possibility of hope into your life, or the life of someone you love. He is by virtue of his journey a “hell walker,” or one who now can walk over the coals of fear unburned. I am his humble voice who carries his words in my inner being. I am a “professional student” by nature who reads insatiably, has several degrees behind my name, and whom some call “doctor.” I’m a pastor with a fair share of humility in the company of survivors. Vii has taught me more about life- and about myself- than what I learned through classrooms and reading, or even over 45 years as an ordained minister. I stand humbly in his presence, but we have a story to tell which we can share with you together. It’s a story of hope with its sleeves rolled up.

We will come to your home, to your church, civic, or community group regardless of its size. We’ll dialogue with one another and with you about the redemption from shame, and therapy that brings wholeness. Ours is a message about helping persons thrive as whole human beings.

Let us hear from you if you, or someone you love needs help. You can contact us at 615-323-2232, The Healing Trust hotline, or by sending me an e-mail at pwleftwich@yahoo.com. We’ll return your e-mails and calls as quickly as we get them. You can be as anonymous as you choose. We know it’s often hard to make the first call for help. All e-mails and phone calls are confidential and will not be used in any manner publically, or with individuals.

You’ll also find a wide variety of resources and contact information at our website: www.asafeplace2heal.com.

Since reading is my avocation, I also recommend the purchase of Conversations with Vii Aboard Papa Being’s Big Waters Your Bus: The Spiritual Journey of Recovery of a Sexually Abused Child. It’s available through www.Amazon.com  in both print and Kindle editions.

 Phil Leftwich

Unabashed, unadulterated, advertising!

Friends-

I have 2 new books that are avilable. The first. Conversation with Vii Aboard Papa Being's Big Waters Tour Bus: The Spirituaal Journey of Recovery of a Sexually Abused Child is available through Amazon in both Kindle and print versions. The print cost is $14.95. The Kindle version is $2.99 for now, and if you're a Prime member, it's free for 90 days as a marketing tool.

The second book is Will Henry's Angels, a novel, which is $3.99 through Kindle, and again, free for the next 90 days for Prime members.

I think you'll find them both interesting reads. The first is a work of non-fiction and is co-authored with my friend, Vii Maurice. It traces his recovery from childhood sexual abuse, and is an important work in showing how hope is available for recovery from sexual, physical, emotional and spiritual abuse.

The second is a fun look at some of what haunts U.S. church life, our religious perceptions, spiritual hungers, and life journeys. It's a humorous satire on our culture and what happens when a black velvet painting of Jesus begins crying tears of real blood. It turns the life of the owner, Will Henry, and his little town of Harmong Falls into a state of "disharmony" in their search for answers to life's big questions.

I hope you enjoy the second book, and learn a lot from the first.

Law or Justice

The Trayvon Martin “murder” case has once again raised the age old question of what is “legal” and what is “just?” For some of us who have lived through a lifetime of “unjust” laws we probably have already found an answer to this question for this young man’s killing has helped resurrect the laws of segregation with which many of us grew up in the Jim Crow south. The law was the law back then, but that did not make it just. Thankfully through the actions of President Eisenhower and those who followed him in office of President, the laws were finally changed and segregation was legally abolished.

Many us have continued to question, however, if we have made that much progress on eradicating racism from our society. Racism cannot be changed through laws, though race crimes can be prosecuted. Racism is a crime of the heart. Whether the Trayvon Martin case will even get prosecuted is still in question since it is hard to prosecute a case where an existing law in Florida (and a number of others states) provides broad ambiguity with the “stand your ground” laws that allow for a person who feels they have been threatened to use the power of weapons, such as handguns, to defend themselves.

On the surface such laws seem justifiable, but then there is the principle of letting the police exercise the authority of using violent force if it is necessary. Bad judgment was certainly a factor in this killing. The defendant might have called in this young man’s presence and allowed the police to do their job. Even carrying a weapon as someone serving as a neighborhood watch volunteer begs the question of where our society has moved- and continues to move- around the issue of gun permit rights. The Tennessee legislation will debate, and likely pass, a law that permits one to carry handguns just about anywhere in a vehicle, including where one works and worships. It is easy to joke that we need the Earp brothers making those attending church surrender their firearms before passing into a sanctuary.

This might be funny, and sound ludicrous, but I have personally observed a handgun in a brief case many years ago at a Presbyterian Church Session meeting when carry permits were far more stringent. The person carrying the pistol was an attorney who was in clear violation of state and federal laws! When I expressed my concern he looked at me as though I were crazy and said, “Anyone who would stay in Atlanta after dark should have their head examined!” That statement applied to me because I was always involved in a lot of night meetings at the church, including youth lock-ins. I know there are people who still feel this way. I had to question, even back then, however, who needed his head examined. I understand what drives such fear. Our culture is filled with it. But, did I feel fearful? I did not. Was there a basis for this man’s fear in meeting on church grounds after dark? For him there most certainly was. For me? I never felt threatened, or fearful. I had little reason to.

The killing of Trayvon Martin is rooted in such fear. It has to do with our fear and free-floating anxiety as a culture of those who are deeply different than us in their skin colors, religious beliefs, social and political opinions. Some of these fears are contained within deeply held values that super-cede either law or justice issues. They are inculcated fears that often come out of the violence of abuse and the insidious nature of the abused who become abusers. This abuse can be physical, emotional, sexual, spiritual, or some combination of all of these. It is far more rampant than most people know, or want to admit. For example, statistically 1 in every 4 young women has been sexually violated in some fashion before they turn 18, whereas, 1 in 6 boys has been sexually abused. Look around you in any setting and one of people nearby you in the same pew, or at the next school desk, or office cubicle has mathematically suffered from abuse according to these figures.

This presents itself as a national tragedy. Is George Zimmerman such a victim of abuse? We probably will never know because the shame of such victims is so deeply buried, or so intense as to rarely be revealed by those who have been so wounded. That’s not because there are no resources for healing. Those are very available and well known resources within the therapeutic community The problem is in not seeking help, and in not knowing it is available.

The website you have entered is about such healing resources. You will find many answers to your questions both personal, or professionally as a therapist within the pages of www.asafe2heal.org . We welcome your additions and comments at our blog site and through your e-mails. We are here to serve the needs of the wounded, but most especially those who suffer from sexual abuse, and/or sexual addiction. We are here as a safe place to talk and to find support and wholeness as a human being.

I believe, though I cannot prove it, that speaking of one’s woundedness is more difficult for men than for women. The culture of “manliness” and being macho doesn’t let a male to talk as feely about his abuse with other men. Such men may become closer to talking about their abuse with a female counselor, female friends, a companion, or spouse, though I cannot prove this suspicion either. What I know is that women will talk with other women more readily about their abuses. I’ve witnessed this repeatedly through a lifetime of pastoral ministry. My evidence is broad, deep, and anecdotal because women have sent women to me seeking help as a trained pastoral counselor. I have rarely had an abused male seek help either through his own volition, or through referral. I’ve heard plenty of stories of men dying from AIDS, however, who were referred to me by an AIDS hospice. These stories I know intimately from the tears these mostly gay men shed with me in my counseling office, or that I shed at their funerals. They are proof enough for me that when push comes to shove there are few true atheists left with impending death.

So, the Trayvon Martin case takes on many aspects which call us to probe our own consciences, and our consciousness of the society in which we live. One has to feel some grief for his family unless fear and anger are so consuming as to simply make this a sad indictment on our culture as it’s “all his fault.” And, someone has to feel some sympathy for George Zimmerman even if his was a tragic mistake. What we can realistically say is that a young man is dead from an act of violence. That’s a tragic event that in ways indicts all of us for our silence about cultural violence.

Yes, I’ve read and heard the redundancy of comments of why aren’t we talking about young men who get killed in gang shootings, or people who are innocent victims of drive-by shootings every day. Some of us do have a say about this, but probably not enough of us to make a difference. Sometimes we are afraid to talk about it at because of our cultural denial that we live in a dangerous society that we have allowed to become more and more violent year after year. Some fear that without carrying a handgun that we will be in grave danger. In some parts of most any city, or town, that fear is probably legitimate. But it is we who allow such conditions to become that dangerous from remaining silent. It is we who don’t demand change from our publically elected officials that they make our culture safer. Some of these officials- if not a majority of them- will argue that this is exactly what they are doing by advancing laws that allow far greater freedom to allow anyone who is not a criminal to carry firearms. That has automatically become the by-line of those who say they are protecting my Second Amendment rights.

I am doubtful of this claim as I read that amendment, though this is not my point. My point is about the violence that is being done every hour of every day in our society. The old cliché that “people kill people, not guns,” rings hollow against the abuses within our society. It has always been a poor argument at best. The connecting dots of the abused who have become abusers, of the sexually abused who have become addicted to sex is well documented by vast amounts of research; brain science and therapeutic tracking. This is not a new phenomenon. Are we not to rightfully expect a violent culture when we perpetuate it in such radical fashion? When we continue to allow violence as a weapon of abuse?

Trayvon Martin is the unfortunate victim of a gun tragedy. George Zimmnerman is a victim, also. He probably would not have responded with violence if he had not felt fearful. I live in a neighborhood where we have a neighborhood watch. It is not the first such neighborhood that I have lived in. I feel safe, though we have had a share of robberies, some domestic violence, and even a violent crime or two. It is not wrong to be watchful. Nor is it wrong to use the prompt response time of the police and to take down factual information of a crime being committed. The response time in Florida was rapid. Trayvon Martin would have surely been found inside a gated community. Whether his death was an act of vigilantism, or self-defense will be for courts to decide. More is the pity that it all came to this with a needless death. Two lives are ruined one way or the other. One is lost forever.

Will we remain silently watching and grow more fearful and eventually feel we need a gun? Will we sit back and let more laws be passed that cause more violence in a violent culture? It is in our ancestry as a nation to do so. It seems part of our gene pool as Americans. But must it remain this way? Will we sit still and allow sexual, physical, emotional, and spiritual violence to be acted upon others? Abuse of all of these forms is all around us.

The jury is out on these questions. It is out on us.

Phil Leftwich

Seeking the sublime?

Sitting in the stands behind the goal posts has its advantages. You can see the action on the field from a different angle; call most field goals attempts “good” or “bad” with accuracy; and feel the wind in your face, or at your back. The “cheap seats” of watching and reading of the ongoing debate between Presbyterians of whether to stay in the PCUSA joyfully, linger awhile longer in confusion and dismay, or leave angry for a wistfully greener field in some other stadium, gives pause to wonder if we are missing a vital point.

History is a good teacher where schisms are concerned. Tucked away on bookshelves here and there are dusty copies of a small book that serves to remind us of what we face when we seek to divide ourselves with righteous indignation. In Eric Hoffer’s The True Believer he writes: “Passionate hatred can give meaning and purpose to an empty life. This people haunted by the purposelessness of their lives try to find a new content, not only by dedicating themselves to a holy cause but also by nursing a fanatical grievance. A mass movement offers them the unlimited opportunities for both.”

Some will argue that those seeking to leave the PCUSA are not lacking in purpose. This is probably true by their definition, but the purposes being espoused leave many of us saddened as we seek different solutions to our divisions than “felllowships” that maintain their purity with vitriolic anger for those labeled “progressives.” We are named “non-believers.” Believing that one holds a monopoly on “the truth” can be a dangerous choice. As Pontius Pilot might ask, “What is truth?”

“There is a deep reassurance for the frustrated in witnessing the downfall of the fortunate and disgrace of the righteous,” Hoffer writes.

“They see general downfall an approach to the brotherhood of all. Chaos, like the grave, is a haven of equality. Their burning conviction that there must be new life and a new order is fueled by the realization that the old will have to be razed to the ground before a new can be built.”

The irony of the “righteous” who wish to diminish the PCUSA by their withdrawal is that little if anything “new” is being offered on which to pour the footings of new structures and theological doctrines. They selectively choose to honor the protection of the known language and traditions of the past. It is self-delusion and lessons unheeded that leads to the assumption that doctrines and guidelines for governance would change anything for the age in which we find ourselves. They would choose to live in a “rock of ages cleft for me” dream of what they believe was a more “normal” time of conformity and obedience to the higher power of the church.

Hoffer offers that “a sublime religion inevitably generates a strong feeling of guilt. There is an unavoidable contrast between loftiness of profession and imperfection of practice. And as one would expect the feeling of guilt promotes hate and brazenness. Thus it seems that the more sublime the faith the more virulent the hatred it breeds.”

Those who ponder the future of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) might well be advised to flee the seductress of the sublime and rightness that subverts righteousness in order to be saved. Such temptations have not saved us in the past, nor will they save us in years to come.

Phil Leftwich

Honorably Retired Pastor

January 5, 2012

Seeking the Sublime?

Sitting in the stands behind the goal posts has its advantages. You can see the action on the field from a different angle; call most field goals attempts “good” or “bad” with accuracy; and feel the wind in your face, or at your back. The cheap seats of watching and reading of the great ongoing debate between Presbyterians of whether to stay in the PCUSA joyfully, linger awhile longer in confusion and dismay, or leave angry for a wistfully greener field in some other stadium, gives pause to wonder if we are missing a vital point.

History is a good teacher where schisms are concerned. Tucked away on bookshelves here and there are dusty copies of a small book that serves to remind us of what we face when we seek to divide ourselves with righteous indignation. In Eric Hoffer’s The True Believer he writes: “Passionate hatred can give meaning and purpose to an empty life. This people haunted by the purposelessness of their lives try to find a new content, not only by dedicating themselves to a holy cause but also by nursing a fanatical grievance. A mass movement offers them the unlimited opportunities for both.”

Some will argue that those seeking to leave the PCUSA are not lacking in purpose. This is probably true by their definition, but the purposes being espoused leave many of us seeking different solutions to our divisions than “felllowships” that maintain their purity with vitriolic anger for those labeled “progressives.” We are named “non-believers.” Believing that one holds a monopoly on “the truth” can be a dangerous choice. As Pontius Pilot might ask, “What is truth?”

“There is a deep reassurance for the frustrated in witnessing the downfall of the fortunate and disgrace of the righteous,” Hoffer writes.

“They see general downfall an approach to the brotherhood of all. Chaos, like the grave, is a haven of equality. Their burning conviction that there must be new life and a new order is fueled by the realization that the old will have to be razed to the ground before a new can be built.”

The irony of the “righteous” who wish to diminish the PCUSA by their withdrawal is that little if anything “new” is being offered on which to pour the footings of new structures and theological doctrines. They selectively choose to honor the protection of the known language and traditions of the past. It is self-delusion and lessons unheeded that leads to the assumption that doctrines and guidelines for governance would change anything for the age in which we find ourselves. They would choose to live in a “rock of ages cleft for me” dream of what they believe was a more “normal” time of conformity and obedience to the higher power of the church.

Hoffer offers that “a sublime religion inevitably generates a strong feeling of guilt. There is an unavoidable contrast between loftiness of profession and imperfection of practice. And as one would expect the feeling of guilt promotes hate and brazenness. Thus it seems that the more sublime the faith the more virulent the hatred it breeds.”

Those who ponder the future of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) might well be advised to flee the seductress of the sublime and rightness that subverts righteousness in order to be saved. Such temptations have not saved us in the past, nor will they save us in years to come.

Batteries Included

Once upon a Christmas dreary

while I pondered, weak and weary,

what bolt to fasten to what nut

or gizmo with a gadget put-

instructions scattered everywhere

my troubled fingers filled with care

for Santa Claus must come that night

his inept “elf” was filled with fright

that nothing that he did was right.

Then all at once I heard a tapping

as of someone gently rapping,

rapping at my kitchen door.

It’s but a trance I surely felt

like sun on snowflakes, it would melt,

but continued sounding without pause

begging me to cease my cause

and from my labors go and seek

the tapping noise and grab a peek

at whom was knocking on my door

at such an hour when many snore,

or wait with senses that do hum

expecting Christmas soon to come.

Could it be Santa at my door

with toy pieces on my floor?

Alas, it was not the jolly elf

but my neighbor all by himself.

An older and a wiser friend

he offered me a twinkling grin. . .

a paper sack he handed me

which was fraught with mystery:

“Been there done that,” he smiling said

“Batteries not included. . .

finish up and go to bed.”

“Merry Christmas, Ho! Ho! Ho!”

into the blowing snow he did go.

On memories such do I now dwell

like stars they gently cast their spell

of loving gestures given with care

by those who loved and did not spare

gifts transcending words of grace

with acts of kindness held fast in place.

These Christmas feelings still enthrall

and bind me back with memory’s call,

so even now my heart oer’flows

as tinsel in the firelight glows.

Santa comes despite ourselves

and fills our life worn, barren shelves

with batteries new which tend the soul-

Christmas comes to make us whole.

Phil Leftwich

Christmas 2011

Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

            “It’s time to get up,” my mother would say in a gentle voice nudging me awake.     I would roll over and bury my face in the pillow because it knew it was Sunday morning.

            “Hurry or we’ll be late,” she would speak in a louder and sterner tone.

            “I don’t want to go,” I’d complain with my face still buried.

            “Now, Phil,” she would reply. “You know we have to go to church. You’ll feel bad all week if we don’t.”

            Going to church, which the majority of people did right after World War II, was a requirement. The consequence of not going was feeling guilty.

            Well. . . at least it was for my mother and probably a number of others. For a child of four or five it was like taking a weekly whipping, or a tonic that would fix what ailed you. Church was supposed to be good for you.

            I confess I don’t have many memories of what happened when we got there. My father, who was a Deacon for a while, didn’t want to be there any more than I did. He could find excuses like needing a last drag on a Lucky Strike right before we went in, or finding that the car mysteriously wouldn’t start. The second resulted from pulling off the black cable on the battery which worked fine as an excuse if it was raining. Unfortunately, it didn’t work on sunny days because we were only three short blocks from the Columbia Theological Seminary chapel which was home to a Presbyterian new church development that would build its first unit during my childhood right across the street from the campus.

            Oh, I remember a few scattered funny things about worship like the Sunday morning an Irish Setter wandered into worship right in the middle of the minister’s pastoral prayer and sniffed his rear. Since our pastor’s prayers were spontaneous and unscripted he would lean forward on the pulpit with the fingers of his right hand pinching the bridge of his nose as if to keep his eyes shut. It also meant his hand was in the way of his mouth and you could hardly hear what he was mumbling to God. The Irish Settler got a whooping, “Oh my Lord! Amen.” That made for a quick end of what was normally about a ten minute prayer.

            I also remember a Pentecost Sunday that was unusually hot where the windows were opened and right a cue as the preacher was talking about the Holy Spirit being like a “heavenly dove” a flock of pigeons flew in and perched on the rafters. It bordered on some of the best staging I’ve seen before or since as if the pastor and the pigeons had rehearsed the whole thing. There was a good bit of ducking and dodging going on, or using the fans from the local funeral home to shield one’s head. Pigeons tend to be messy birds.

            Other than that I don’t remember much except that I liked the minister because he was a warm, friendly, and caring man who knew everybody by name, rank, and serial  number. He was a wonderful pastor who could preach an intelligent sermon, though I can’t say I remember sermons even now very well which leads to the comment that though most of us don’t remember a sermon, or even the text ten minutes after we’ve left the church building, preaching does have a cumulative, teaching effect on shaping moral values and theological reasoning.

            What I do remember all too well was going to Sunday School where during my early years I was in a combined class with kindergarten aged kids through about the third grade. It must have been a prescribed practice in those days for the teacher to leave an empty child sized chair next to hers. I’ve heard others my age talk about the experience of being told that this chair was for Jesus and that he “did not like” loud, rowdy children. Some of the third graders might raise a hand to ask a question, but the rest of us sat like we were carved of stone. Even wiggling in our chairs was frowned upon. I was half sacred that Jesus would actually show up and we’d have the second coming right then because someone had been bad.

            Like going to worship, I don’t recall much of anything the teacher said who was an imposing force in her own right. I can’t say that I even remember being baptized at the age of twelve because my father had been a Baptist at some point in his life and believed in “believer’s baptism.” It would have been easier to have had me baptized as a baby since I was rebellious by the age of twelve and didn’t really care whether I joined the church, or not.

I went through a “Communicant’s Class” my eleventh year of enduring church, but what I recall wasn’t the sacrament itself, but the pastor’s constant kindness and special interest in me. He became a mentor as I worked on my Eagle Scout and God and Country awards. I spent a lot of time with him personally and knew him as an honest, truthful, loving, gentleman. I respected clergy men in general since there were no clergy women back then.

            I’ve had plenty of time since childhood to examine my feelings about the motivations of why I was compelled to go to church. It had a lot to do with social conventions in a small southern town from the 1940’s through the early 1970’s. Mostly it had to do with instilling moral values about how to live a faithful, obedient life as a follower of Christ. Church worship and Sunday School were intended to teach us basic human values like The Golden Rule, the wisdom of the Beatitudes, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments. All of these words of faith were memorized and nearly everyone in church could recite them by heart. We didn’t use creedal statements like The Apostle’s Creed in those days, at least not in “my” church.

            The pity of it all is that many of us, child and adult alike, went home on Sundays not feeling the “peace that passeth all understanding,” but a sense of impending doom. When we heard Calvin’s claim that we were “totally depraved” and victims of “original sin,” we felt pretty lacking in spiritual worth.

            The truth of my mother’s statement that I “would feel pretty bad all week if I didn’t go church” was way off the mark. What I felt was the fear of God. I felt even worse when I got home. Guilt would have beat the trump card of the “wrath of God” any day. Of course, we set out immediately in our Sunday finest most Sabbath days and drove down a long, winding, red dirt road to my maternal grandparent’s farm house where we had more hymn singing, praying and preaching.

            So Sunday’s in general were a bummer.

            I also had what was a precocious ability to see the raw truth about the community of faith that wasn’t always that faithful. There were married men cheating on their wives, and wives cheating on their husbands which everybody knew in a small town. There was a man my father swore pocketed a few dollars every Sunday while counting the offering. My mom, who was an accountant and did some of the taxes for church members, could figure out pretty easily who was shorting Uncle Sam. There were also the church wars over such things as changing from The King James Version of the Bible to the Revised Standard. God you would have thought that God himself would come down and strike the pastor dead for even recommending such a radical departure from what “was right.” Even though we sat nestled in the basement of our new education building while waiting on money to build a sanctuary, I heard a lot of angry chatter about the “pinko, communist, liberals” on the faculty of the seminary next door. It seemed to me that most of those horrible “liberals” went to our church! One of the professors had a reputation as a hyper-conservative, and another as being a strict Calvinist. I gratefully had neither of them to contend with as professors by the time I got to seminary, though their ghosts lingered everywhere.

            We also fought about a “new” hymnbook that was mostly a little thicker with a different colored cover, but included the same hymns we had always sung. The poor pastor labored through all of the discontentment and somehow managed to stay sane.

            And, the cheaters kept on cheating, Mr. Brown kept hitting Mrs. Brown and giving her black eyes, and the real “sinners” waged war on the more progressive thinkers. My parents, especially my father who eventually quit going to church all together, complained mightily at our dinner table about what these examples taught the children since we sort of knew what was going on. Conflicts, contradictions, and ironies abounded. No wonder I buried my face in the pillow and complained, “I don’t want to go to church!”

            The horrible truth is that we don’t seem to have moved that far in over sixty years. Only the arguments change. We moved from fighting about integration in the deep South to ordaining women to the War in Vietnam to gay and lesbian ordination. And so the story goes for those who remember their own history. And we do this in the name of Jesus?

            It’s not hard at all to figure out why so many people don’t want to go to church, or worse yet, never even give church a thought. To outsiders we look like a bunch of idiots who fight among ourselves constantly, even if that’s not usually the case. We also don’t seem to offer a compelling reason to eat up half of our Sunday “day of rest” to be bored by things we don’t remember. We mostly re-cycle bulletins these days so at least we are helping replace some of the pine trees we help slaughter. But the bulletin is at least a reminder of what went on if we are forgetful and want to hold on to it for a few days..

Yet for whatever reasons some of us keep going to church and pledging our dollars to support something that seems terribly deformed in the hope that we can somehow make “the body of Christ” healed and whole.

            I hear the comment often that people go to church to experience community. I believe this to be true, but there a hundred different choices on a given Sunday morning to experience community with friends and people who think as we do. Drive by any Starbucks, or any similar high caffeine watering hole, or go golfing to see the foursomes enjoying God’s green earth chasing little white balls with chilled beer in the back of the golf cart. Cold beer and Vienna sausages make for good communion elements.

            Did I just write that? It must be some of the DNA from Grandpa Oscar leaking out. I used to privately condemn in my heart all those slackers who played golf on Sundays. Since I’m not a golfer and have spent years of my life working on Sundays I think I was really breaking the commandment about envy.  But then along came YMCA swim  meets and school soccer practices; malls and movies that opened at ten o’clock; and two worker families who needed some family time in their SUV with the Cocker Spaniel in the back with the kids. Early church didn’t fix their preference to skip church and after a while since “guilting” got unpopular as the principal method of getting people through the church door, they just quit coming. Re-branding and wrapping the Gospel in a brighter, more colorful wrapper also didn’t have much staying power. Even the Crystal Cathedral went bankrupt and is up for sale.

            So what in the name of heaven is church good for?

            The only answer I have is so apparent that it sounds ludicrous to put it onto paper. Church is about people who have been already chosen by God, even if they don’t know it yet, who will give themselves away to others with wildly, unfettered, unconditional love. Church is not about buildings at all. We don’t need buildings to gather ourselves and prepare to be disciples of Jesus, and to scatter into the world of needing, hurting people for that purpose and that purpose alone. Church is about experiencing God’s grace through someone else who cares about us enough to support us with their love even when we’re committing those sins of “commission and omission.” Once we learn that we can’t earn grace because it’s always been right in front of us we know how to give it away to others. We understand how to pay it forward even when the world seems to be falling apart, and our friends seem bound on living in hell on earth.

Sartre wrote that “hell is other people.” His play No Exit is proof positive of this supposition. I contend that “heaven can be other people.” We experience the love of God in tangible, real, emotionally charged ways through someone who cares enough to give a damn about our lives. It is then that the community of the church really becomes the church.

None of our doctrinal battles are really worth the effort to protect the purity of the church for admittedly any church where there are pews, or moveable chairs, are filled with sinners. We mostly understand that all of us sin “and fall short of the glory of God.” Those who believe they can work their way out of their guilt, or the shame we’ll talk about later, miss the point entirely. It is impossible to be saved even by the best of deeds. I believe it is equally impossible to mutter some magic words like “I give myself to Jesus” and immediately be on the path to heaven. The only way to salvation that I know and understand is the pure miracle of taking what’s already there for free and then shouting this news to someone else with a quiet talk, a handshake, a hug, or a kiss of peace. Salvation comes to the unsaved not like my Grandfather Gordon’s ravings, or his lifelong quest to be good enough to get saved, but through the healing touch of the church in the world that gives itself away completely.

            I had lunch with a friend and fellow pastor recently and our take on this is that maybe we need to sell all of our assets, quit worrying about buildings that suck the spirit right out of a church budget, and annually spend exactly every cent we take in. The heck with endowments, investments, memorial funds, and sinking funds for a leaking roof.

            Naïve thinking on our part?  Maybe, but maybe not. Stop reading right now and ponder this. You can come back and read the last paragraph when you have answered the question. What does it mean to go to church?

• • • •

The church is a pretty messy place. It’s often far from pretty. It’s rather imperfect. It is sometimes incoherent even to insiders. It fights a lot and contradicts itself. It is living proof that sin is real. What if, though, it’s the world’s last best hope of taking care of the earth and everybody who rides with us on this whirling orb that is like a big, blue marble? What if?