The End of the World

so many of the
spiritual answers sounded to me like empty promises

We were sitting on the beach at Rockaway, circled around a fire, faces glowing, backs to the dark. One of the elders from my church was there. I’d been avoiding him all night. I knew he wanted to talk. Suspected he’d been assigned to the task.

He walked over. “How are you doing, Eric?” he asked. I told him about the new job, my freelance writing, how I felt about our chances in the next day’s competition. “I meant spiritually,” he said.

Suddenly, everything felt eerily familiar. I’d been there before: cornered in a Meridian parking lot, told by my sister that her pastor was asking questions, contacted by an old friend, confronted by my grandmother. At first, I thought it was a conspiracy. I wish it were. That would have been much simpler.

I’d worked for almost 5 years on the staff of a local church. But I felt like a foreigner. I didn’t fit in. So I resigned my position. And then I stopped attending.

That’s when the questions started: was I in conflict with the pastor, was I depressed, did I have some hideous unconfessed sin . . .

Now — looking back — I can see why people asked those questions. They wanted it to be my problem, not theirs. I wish I could have articulated what was happening. But at the time, I only knew that I wasn’t satisfied. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know how to fix it.

I wish that I could have told them how frustrated I was with church. I wish that I could have told them that so many of the spiritual answers sounded to me like empty promises, patronizing platitudes. I wish that I could have pointed out that many of the practices of church speak to a culture that no longer exists. I wish that I could have told them that church as we know it and practice it is already dead.

But I couldn’t say any of those things because I didn’t know why I was unhappy.

I was desperate for Truth. I wanted to understand reality and learn to live spiritually. I wanted to know God. I wanted to be fully myself rather than just playing a series of parts. I wanted to integrate faith and vocation with community rather than continuing a kind of compartmentalized existence. And I couldn’t find a way to fit all this stuff into church. The box was far too small.

So I left.

But not completely.

I’m still hanging around, watching and waiting for others to exhibit some of the same symptoms — not just people who hate church but those who desperately want something bigger, something that transcends our limited notion of what it means to have faith.

Why do I care? Because if church really is dead, then there’s got to be something better. And I’m not smart enough to figure it out on my own.

We talk God to death every Sunday,
but when
is there
time to
experience
his presence with us in corporate worship?

I got sick, this morning, thinking about going to church. I suddenly felt dizzy and tired. Incredibly tired. I sat down on the couch (with a plate of brownies for sustenance).

What’s going on? Church has been my life. I volunteer for hours every week, attend services at several different denominations, read just about anything I can find, regarding what it means to live a God-centered life, what it means to know God. But I had to face the fact that I don’t like church. It feels like a waste of my time. I resent having to go.

Is there anything wrong with church? Anything I can put my finger on? I believe in an active, living, present God, and we spend a lot of time talking about God. Maybe that’s the problem. We talk God to death every Sunday. But when is there time to experience his presence with us in corporate worship?

What about all the good that churches do? We sent money, supplies and volunteers to help with Hurricane Katrina. We provide food baskets and Christmas gifts for impoverished children in town. We hold an annual appreciation dinner for local public school teachers. We offer free counseling to couples in crisis. But do we know our neighbors? Do we love them? Is our giving truly generous or a burden that we carry (because that’s what good people care about)?

I asked my students, last week, where church originated? Where do we get the idea of church? Nobody seemed to know for sure. It’s just always been, some claimed, while others thought that God had founded the institution.

But that can’t be true. Jesus didn’t go to church.

He invited people to enter a new way of life. It seems, however, that we’ve watered down his message, replaced the Kingdom of God with a social institution.

What’s that mean for me? What’s next? What can I do? Should I do anything?

I don’t know.

Looks like I’m going to need another batch of brownies.

Why I Left Church

Is there really anything
wrong with the church, or is the problem with me?

As a kid, I loved going to church because it was fun: playing hide and seek in the basement, climbing trees in the front yard, debating with my Sunday school friends over the most effective torture methods, the dessert table at potlucks, singing, hanging out for hours in the library, arguing with my teachers over the interpretation or application of a new idea.

People at church made me feel special. People at church made me feel important. People at church made me think.

But something happened while I was away at college. And when I came back, church just wasn’t fun any more.

People no longer seemed to care about me. They were more interested in the children that filled our vacation Bible school and Sunday school programs.

People no longer praised my work. Instead, they made me feel guilty when the service I offered as a gift didn’t meet their standards or expectations.

People no longer wanted me to think. They were threatened by my questions and sometimes wondered aloud if I were even a Christian.

Of course, these are sweeping generalizations. I did have positive experiences as an adult in the church. But not enough to convince me it was worth my while to stay.

Sometimes, looking back, I wonder, “Is there really anything wrong with the church, or is the problem with me?” I want to believe it’s just me. But I can’t. That would be too easy.

“No one has ever become poor by giving.”

-Anne
Frank

The problem with pleasure is that it’s mostly about taking. We use people and things to find happiness, no matter how short-lived. And the problem with religious people is that they don’t offer anything better. They’ve defined themselves not by what they’re for but by what they’re against. So religious “pleasure” is supposed to come from taking away the taking. We don’t smoke. We don’t drink. We don’t have sex outside of marriage. We don’t get abortions or believe in evolution. We don’t buy stuff on Sundays. And we criticize people who do, trying to take away what little pleasure they have.

It’s a vicious circle that leaves the religious even emptier than the “worldly.”

Of course, my argument is simplistic. Everybody experiences true pleasure at least once in life — huddled around a warm campfire on a cold night, a first kiss, the thrill of accomplishment, a word of praise. But it is rare to find someone who knows the source of true pleasure. It doesn’t come from breaking the rules, and it doesn’t come from following the rules, either. True pleasure comes from discovering what you were created to be and being just that — nothing more, nothing less. True pleasure comes from finding a place of satisfaction, a place of belonging, a place of clear identity, a place that is true. When you find that place where you can just be yourself, then you are finally free to give (instead of just taking). And it is in the act of giving that we find everything we need.

Give away money, and you escape from financial need. Give of your time, and you escape from the rat-race mentality that rules American society. Give up control, and you escape from burdensome responsibilities. Give up on trying to maintain your reputation, and you find freedom to be yourself. Give away love, and the world responds.

The Emperor’s New Clothes

But in the end, these religious games
are no better than the emperor’s new clothes. Even children can see right through them.

Have you ever been to a school pep assembly or a company sales rally centered on getting people hyped up for the big game or the big sale? Getting everyone on board?

Then you’ve been to church. We are guilty of playing on people’s emotions, of playing God in order to get everyone up on the bandwagon (where they belong). It’s for their own good.

Have you ever met a girl, emotionally dependent on boys, boy bands and imagined friendships — so dependent that she can break into tears when something happens to her idols, even if those people or groups have never been active in her life?

Then you’ve met your share of believers — people who claim a loving, intimate relationship with Jesus and live as if they’ve never met him.

Have you witnessed a hypnotist, helping someone to think and act like a chicken?

Then you’ve seen the way we use scripture and the promises of prayer, pretending that our “spiritual work” relieves us of the need to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, visit those who are sick or in prison. “Don’t you fret,” we say to those in need. “God will take care of you.”

Have you played a sport, been told that winning comes to those that really want it?

Then you’ve heard the Christian message. You know that you just need faith, just have to really believe, just haven’t been praying hard enough.

Is faith a mind game? Is it all in your head? Have we created religion to give us a sense of direction, a purpose in life, a source of forgiveness?

No. God is real. We live in a world that is filled with evidence of his creative power and awesome presence. So let’s stop playing make-believe. Games may be safe and comfortable. But in the end, these religious games are no better than the emperor’s new clothes. Even children can see right through them.

Thanks to Trent Cutler for providing the idea (and much of the material) for this post.

Apparently, my faith is so
small that it needs
defending. Get your war on.

I noticed a stack of brochures on the entry table at church, yesterday morning. They were for a seminar coming up, titled Answers in Genesis. The first page has a bunch of intriguing questions: “Dinosaurs and evolution? Gay ‘marriage?’ (sic) Evolution in schools? Abortion and evolution? Racism and evolution?” The questions are followed by this statement: “Get answers from the Bible that connect to the real world.”

Why should I believe that all the important answers come from a single book in the Bible? If I can discover everything I need to know in Genesis, then I don’t need the rest of scripture, and God is irrelevant.

Bigger issue — who said these are the important questions? Is my faith really based on the truth or falsehood of evolution? And how did gay marriage and abortion get tied into this talk? I know the creation vs. evolution debates have gotten a bit worn since the Scopes “Monkey Trial,” but is this what we have to do to sell tickets?

“How to Defend the Christian Faith in Today’s World”

Apparently, my faith is so small that it needs defending. Get your war on.

Words Have Real Power

If it is true that words have
meanings, why don’t we throw out the words and keep the meanings?

What are words? Nothing more than symbols, metaphors, pointers.

Words aren’t real. But they restrict your experience of reality. Words can’t see. But they limit your vision. Words have no more power than that which you give them, which is just enough power to bind you. You are trapped by your words, hemmed in — even in your ability to perceive and think — by the words you have at your disposal.

Take, for instance, the common claim that Jesus died on a cross. What does it mean to die? I asked a few of my students, and they offered the following possibilities: 1) a ceasing of existence, 2) the end of life, 3) total absence of a previously existent living thing.

So what do you mean when you say that Jesus died? Fully God and fully man, did he cease to exist? Can God, omnipresent God, stop being present?

It’s just an issue of semantics, you may argue. But that’s not true. If words are what you know, then it can’t be “just” semantics (as if such issues of vocabulary are beneath you). Your entire theology — a collection of words — is at stake.

How do you escape this tyranny of words? Words were meant to serve, not rule. Throw out the dusty slogans, the tired metaphors, the lazy platitudes, the claims of convenience. Think about what you really mean, about what you believe. Try on some new words. But don’t be too quick to purchase what others are wearing, don’t settle for a single outfit and don’t be afraid to go without for awhile.

If we could read the secret history
of our enemies, we would find sorrow and
suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

George Bush visited our town this week. He spoke to more than 9,000 people, crowded into the local rodeo grounds. They waved flags and sang patriotic songs, shouted slogans and laughed in all the right places. They gave the President more than 14 standing ovations.

Please don’t misunderstand. These are not naïve people. They’re just hopeful.

Many have seen their sons and daughters and husbands and wives leave home for extended tours of duty in a far-away and dangerous place. They need to know that their loved ones will come home safe. They want to believe that this war in Iraq is serving a purpose. They’re invested.

Just like our president.

It’s too late to go back and start over. People are dying every single day, trying to clean up a disaster that’s of our own doing. Not just “our people” either. Plenty of innocents have been lost, and most of them probably weren’t Americans.

I only hope our nation is learning the truth that “violence as a way of achieving justice is both impractical and immoral. It is impractical because it is a descending spiral ending in destruction for all. The old law of an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind.

“It is immoral because it seeks to humiliate the opponent rather than win his understanding; it seeks to annihilate rather than to convert. Violence is immoral because it thrives on hatred rather than love. It destroys community and makes brotherhood impossible. It leaves society in monologue rather than dialogue.

“Violence ends by defeating itself. It creates bitterness in the survivors and brutality in the destroyers.”

- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Sundays Are Too Full

Words that do not carry
the light of Christ only increase the darkness.

Sunday morning services serve as space-less places. We fill them up with songs and sermons and passings of the offering plate (with background music, of course). What we really need is silence — space to listen. Why are we afraid?

Maybe it is because the openness of unprogrammed worship — in paring away the outside noise — leaves us no choice but to face the noise within: hypocrisy, phoniness, the false self we project (a fragile image).

Maybe it is because such silence seems a waste of time. We cannot exploit the silence: use it to turn a profit, make a product or persuade.

Maybe it is because we are a shallow people. It is harder to be in silence than to not be in noise. Frantic streams of words cover our spiritual nakedness. Music soothes, puts to sleep the beasts of doubt and discouragement.

“It is necessary that we find God, and he cannot be found in noise and unpeace. The more we receive through quiet prayer, the more we can give in the activity of our daily lives. In essence, it is not what we say, but what God says to us and through us. All our words are useless if they do not come from within. Words that do not carry the light of Christ only increase the darkness.”

- Mother Teresa of Calcutta

Still out of town. Back on August 13.