magnificence

My church is discussing an addition. We’re kind of tapped on space for a lot of things, and we’re evaluating the right thing to do. Other churches in town have built wonderful facilities, beautiful buildings with lovely fellowship and worship spaces. It’s hard sometimes not to be envious.

Something I read this morning seems pertinent to that conversation. Here’s what it says in Mark 13:1-2: “As Jesus was leaving the temple, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Look, Teacher! What massive stones! What magnificent buildings!’

“‘Do you see all these great buildings?’ replied Jesus. “Not one stone here will be left on another; every one will be thrown down.’"

In the context of thinking about budgets and buildings and how they can best translate into ministry, this seemed to me a reminder not to focus so much on architectural magnificence. The wonderful temple of Jesus’ day is a ruin now, but the church of Jesus is still vibrant and growing. All of the action of Acts launched the spread of the Gospel around the world, so that today there is a church in Orange City that nurtures me.

People now meet in thatch-roofed pole structures, in concrete-floored tin-roofed spaces, in house churches, in store fronts. God’s name is glorified and the good news goes forward in Communist China and Taliban-held Afghanistan and post-Christian Europe. The most beautiful churches in the world are often primarily tourist attractions, while the Spirit does mighty work in some of the shabbiest neighborhoods.

There’s nothing wrong with honoring God with our best, and that includes the building we worship in. And it’s always good to make our spaces as conducive to praise and worship as we can. So I’m still hopeful for some beauty and congeniality in our new church addition.

But it’s also good to remind myself of all the wonderful worship I had sitting on my helmet under a tree with a handful of God-fearing fellow soldiers. It’s good to remember the Azerbaijani Christians I prayed with in a small lunchroom in Baku. God’s kingdom marches on with only the slightest regard to conventional wisdom about what appropriate construction code and décor would be.

It might be good to put a little less passion into my opinions on the church building and a little more into the ministries I’m part of. Anything God does is going to be wonderful no matter where we happen to be. But unless the Lord builds, the builders labor in vain.

beating Jesus

I wonder if I’ve ever done spiritual violence to Jesus. Oh, I know, we all have a share in his torturous death on the cross, but this morning, I’m thinking of something more immediate.

I was reading through Mark 12 and I got to the parable of the tenants in the vineyard. When the owner sends messengers, the tenants beat them. When he sends his son, they kill him. It’s a power grab. It’s trying to retain control.

And then, this, in verse 12: “Then the chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders looked for a way to arrest him because they knew he had spoken the parable against them. But they were afraid of the crowd; so they left him and went away.”

Think of that. Jesus knew the religious leaders wanted to kill him, and now they knew he knew. Yet this pointed parable didn’t change their mind.

Even when Jesus pointed out, in this tale, that he was sent by the master of the church. Even when his story clearly stated the criminality of killing the son. Even then, they went ahead, because they wouldn’t give up control of the church.

I’ve been in leadership positions in my church off and on for decades. Have I ever, in that time, brushed off or even belittled someone whose proposed change may have been Jesus moving them? Worse, have I ever undermined people behind their backs to prevent change I don’t like? In those ways, may I have done the same thing that the tenants of the vineyard, and the religious leaders of Jesus day? Have I refused to hear God’s messengers? Have I turned them away? Have I ever turned Jesus away because he didn’t look in that moment like I expected him to look – like me?

I don’t know. I can’t think of a specific time, but it sounds like something I could have done. Or could do, still. It bears watching.

believing unbelief

This morning, a very well-known story and well-known moral show that even the familiar can have a lot of power.Here’s the story, from Mark 9:20-23:

“When the spirit saw Jesus, it immediately threw the boy into a convulsion. He fell to the ground and rolled around, foaming at the mouth. Jesus asked the boy’s father, ‘How long has he been like this?’

“‘From childhood,’ he answered. ‘It has often thrown him into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.’

“‘“If you can’?”’ said Jesus. ‘Everything is possible for one who believes.”’
“Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, ‘I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!’”

Who can’t relate to that? I do believe. I believe fervently that only Jesus can save. I believe fervently that I have no hope except in him. I know with all my heart that a life of service and obedience to him will bring me more joy than any other thing I can do.

But . . . . Why then do I still worry? Why do I plan so carefully for my retirement? Why do I think the things I do make me more spiritual than other people? Why do I still look for my happiness in the same places everyone else does?

Lord, I do believe. Help me in my unbelief.

commandments and traditions

I remember a congregational meeting at a church I attended as a young husband. The only woman in the building that night was the one setting the coffee and cutting the bars, and she left as soon as lunch as prepared. The business, and all discussion of the business, was done by the men. No votes for females in that church.

I remember a time on church council when we argued points of procedure all the time. The ones who understood Robert’s Rules of Order had a distinct advantage over those who didn’t; the ability to manipulate parliamentary procedure equated to power on that council. Now Dawn is facing the same thing on a non-profit board she chairs.

Sometimes churches do things that don’t seem to have much to do with the love of God.

That’s why Jesus’ response to some Pharisees in Mark 7: 6-8 struck me this morning. They challenged him because his disciples ate without going through a ceremonial cleansing ritual first.

“He replied, ‘Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you hypocrites; as it is written:
‘“These people honor me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from me.
They worship me in vain;
their teachings are merely human rules.”
You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.’”

Restricting votes in congregations, or elevating the rulebook to almost the same level as scripture, are human traditions that were never commanded by God. I wonder how many other things we do fall into the same category? I wonder how many things that I judge others for are my own traditions?

It’s a reminder that love is hard. We prefer orderliness and calm and conformance to the messy, noisy chaos of humans rubbing up against humans. Relationships can’t be managed like meetings.

But God loves me in all my moods and attitudes and inconsistencies, and I can love others the same way. In fact, that kind of love is a commandment from God, and has little to do with human tradition.

unity

I was in a contentious church council meeting one time when an elder said, “I’m sure there are a few things more important to God than unity in his church, but there probably aren’t very many. And I’m not even sure what they would be.”

I thought of that this morning when I read Psalm 133:

“How good and pleasant it is

when God’s people live together in unity!
It is like precious oil poured on the head,
running down on the beard,
running down on Aaron’s beard,
down on the collar of his robe.
It is as if the dew of Hermon
were falling on Mount Zion.
For there the Lord bestows his blessing,
even life forevermore.”

God loves it when his people get along. He loves it as much as that aromatic, reverent act of anointing a high priest. Such unity brings abundant life, just like the dew that brings moisture to high mountain plants. And, the Psalmist says, God responds the same way, by giving us eternal life.

I think maybe we don’t give God enough to be happy about. Maybe if we prioritized unity as highly as we do getting our way, or not just being right but forcing everyone else to acknowledge we’re right, then we could do better. Sometimes it seems like Americans, and American Christians, are not only ready to fight at the drop of the hat, but they carry hats with them to drop.

I’m going to try it. For the next while, I’m going focus on peace-bringing and avoiding dissension. I’m going to try forget about how things turn out, and just think about how what we’re doing is affecting our relationships. I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but I’m interested to see.

no faith

Scripture really is timeless. No matter how well I think I know a passage, it still has the power to hit me between the eyes. I think that’s because these are living words that interact with my actual life.

What prompted this train of thought this morning? The familiar story of Jesus quieting the storm in Mark 4:35-41:

“That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, ‘Let us go over to the other side.’ Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, ‘Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?’

“He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, ‘Quiet! Be still!’ Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.
“He said to his disciples, ‘Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?’
“They were terrified and asked each other, ‘Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!’”

It was Jesus’ response to his disciples that got me this morning. “Do you still have no faith?” Suddenly, I could think of half a dozen times this year that I didn’t have much faith. Times I worried instead of trusted. Times I tried to solve things myself. Times I acted as though my future depended on me. Times I judged instead of loved.

Why do I do that? Is it because, as with the disciples, I’m afraid? Do I really think God won’t take care of it? There are only a few reasons he wouldn’t. If he didn’t care, or didn’t know, or just plain couldn’t, then he wouldn’t. But that’s ridiculous; of course he can, of course he cares, and of course he knows. So what do I fear?

I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, but then a lot of emotions don’t.

So this is my reminder to live in faith. I don’t need to see the future, or understand it. I don’t need to be in control. It isn’t all up to me.

God has already won my victory. All I have to do is live that way.

dark night

One of my favorite Psalms is Psalm 130. Here are the first six verses: 

“Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord;

Lord, hear my voice.

Let your ears be attentive
to my cry for mercy.
If you, Lord, kept a record of sins,
Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness,
so that we can, with reverence, serve you.
I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits,
and in his word I put my hope.
I wait for the Lord
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning.”

One of the reasons I like it so much is that my name, Gregory, can mean either watchful, or the one who watches. Or, if you like, watchman. So this passage seems personal to me; I wait for the Lord more than I watch for morning.

There’s deeper meaning and connection, though, from my days in uniform. I took my turns on night watch. I remember trying to walk my post when it was raining; I recall stumbling along on patrol when it was too dark to see the man in front of me. Many nights I was staff duty officer or had the graveyard shift in the Tactical Operations Center. I know what it’s like to wait for morning, to long for sunrise.

All those experiences give me a sharp, almost painful simile for my sin – living in sin is like that agony of being so tired that everything hurts; it’s like being cold and hungry and wet and exhausted all at the same time in my soul. No rest, no joy, not the slightest bit of comfort. My whole miserable being, as the Psalmist says, waits for the Lord. “In his word I put my hope.”

That’s what I think of when I read, “Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord;” it’s that miserable dark night of my sick sinning that feels spiritually so much like those miserable nights on watch. That’s why I join with the Psalmist in rejoicing in my forgiveness.

And in his response: to serve God with reverence. How can I not?