"Living on a Question" (Tenth Sunday after Pentecost)

Exodus 16:2-15

2 The whole congregation of the Israelites complained against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness. 3 The Israelites said to them, "If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger." 4 Then the Lord said to Moses, "I am going to rain bread from heaven for you, and each day the people shall go out and gather enough for that day. In that way I will test them, whether they will follow my instruction or not. 5 On the sixth day, when they prepare what they bring in, it will be twice as much as they gather on other days." 6 So Moses and Aaron said to all the Israelites, "In the evening you shall know that it was the Lord who brought you out of the land of Egypt, 7 and in the morning you shall see the glory of the Lord, because he has heard your complaining against the Lord. For what are we, that you complain against us?" 8 And Moses said, "When the Lord gives you meat to eat in the evening and your fill of bread in the morning, because the Lord has heard the complaining that you utter against him—what are we? Your complaining is not against us but against the Lord." 9 Then Moses said to Aaron, "Say to the whole congregation of the Israelites, "Draw near to the Lord, for he has heard your complaining.' " 10 And as Aaron spoke to the whole congregation of the Israelites, they looked toward the wilderness, and the glory of the Lord appeared in the cloud. 11 The Lord spoke to Moses and said, 12 "I have heard the complaining of the Israelites; say to them, "At twilight you shall eat meat, and in the morning you shall have your fill of bread; then you shall know that I am the Lord your God.' " 13 In the evening quails came up and covered the camp; and in the morning there was a layer of dew around the camp. 14 When the layer of dew lifted, there on the surface of the wilderness was a fine flaky substance, as fine as frost on the ground. 15 When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, "What is it?" For they did not know what it was. Moses said to them, "It is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat.”

             When life is going well, when things are running smoothly, we seldom pause to ask why. When things go our way, when we seem to get everything we need and want, we seldom (if ever) stop to ask how. But when life hits a bump, when things aren’t going so smoothly, when things aren’t going our way, when it seems we’re not getting anything we want…well, we’ll ask all sorts of questions. Won’t we? “Why me?” “Why now?” “What did I do to deserve this?” “When will this end?” “Where is all of this coming from?” Often when we ask these questions, we project our voices towards the heavens, as if our demanding an answer from the Almighty will produce a response. When those difficulties come, when our mind races with questions, we are too often left without answers—and we don’t like not having answers when we have questions.

            Perhaps that is a product of our constantly-connected culture; we live in a time when the answer to every question can seemingly be found in our pockets. Can’t remember the capital of Venezuela? Ask Siri. What was the name of that guy who as in that movie with that other guy? The answer is on your IMDB app. Where’s the cheapest place to buy gas in Jacksonville? What will the weather be like tomorrow? Where are the Braves playing this week? How tall is Mt. Everest? You can find the answer to these questions and a million others if you just “Google” them. Gone are the days when we’d have to guess at an answer, look it up in an actual encyclopedia or dictionary, ask someone else who might actually be educated in the subject, or (heaven forbid) we might have to simply be ok with not knowing, letting our imaginations wonder. Answers are easy to get; they’re cheap, so to have a question without an answer, without certainty, creates within us such anxiety that we’ll become defensive to the point of regression in order to find that level of certainty again. But this isn’t a new phenomenon born in the age of smartphones and 4G data connectivity—it’s a condition as old as humankind, a condition shared by those liberated Israelites in the Sinai desert nearly 3,500 years ago.

            Can’t you hear their questions? “Are we there yet? When are we going to stop for a break? How much farther? Where are we going anyway? I forgot something; can we turn around and go get it? What are we going to do for food out in this desert? Who’s in charge of this mess we’re calling an exodus anyhow?” It’s been about two months since they’ve left Egypt: they’re tired; their bread has grown moldy or run out altogether; they’re sunburned; the kids are complaining to their mothers, who are complaining to their husbands, who are complaining to each other, and all the people are complaining to and about Moses and Aaron. When they can’t get answers to their questions, they complain. (What is it about the people of God and complaining, especially to and about their leaders?) The complaining of the Israelites is so constant that it becomes a sort of theme throughout the entire narrative of their desert wandering. Why are they complaining? They’re complaining because they’ve seemingly hit a snag in their travel plans, and things aren’t going the way they think they should.

            We can see such a snag in verse 3 when they say, "If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger." Remember, they’re two months out of Egypt. Most of them probably weren’t thinking it’d take this long. They likely had visions of what things were going to be like in this Promised Land: they’d be settled in their own house, on their own land, with their own gardens, growing their own food. They’d have to taskmasters to answer to, no schedule to keep, no monument to build except the ones they chose to build. After two months though, when the food they brought with them was running out, when the kids were crying, when the ribs on the animals they brought with them were showing, those lovely visions of life in the Promised Land were starting to fade. The certainty of life back in Egypt, back in bondage was starting to sound more and more appealing.

            That’s how it goes, isn’t it? When our present predicament creates questions without any answers, when our visions and plans seem to be unraveling before us, we convince ourselves that the old way was better, that we should retreat to a time when it seems we had all the answers, when things (at least in hindsight) seemed easier and all the problems of the present were non-existent. We convince ourselves that the “good ol’ days” were better than today, that the “way things were” is better than the way things are. That’s what the Israelites are saying: “It’s so bad out here in this desert that we’d rather be back in bondage, under the whip of the taskmaster. At least back there we had full bellies and we knew what to expect!” Their reaction to the seeming shortage of food reveals just how deep their faith is—that’s our critique anyway, but we know the rest of the story.

            We know that God is going to provide them bread from heaven; we know that they’ll make it across the Jordan and into the Promised Land; we know and they’ve witnessed the way in which God brought them across the Red Sea and out of the sights of Pharaoh’s army. With all we know, it’s easy to say things like, “well, if they had just had faith, if they had just held on a little longer, they would have seen how God was going to provide for them.” To tell the truth, though, I don’t think we can’t be too hard on the Israelites. After all, we’re not too different, are we? God can show up in powerful and amazing ways in your life one day, and the next—when things aren’t going the way you want—you’ll wonder if God is even real. We can have a lifetime of stories detailing the ways God provides, the way God shows up, yet when a difficult season comes, when the ground is hard and dry, when the work isn’t there, when it’s harder to get out of bed, we’ll long for the days when we didn’t have to worry about things like our faith, when things were easier and answers were handed to us.

            I think that’s how we’re all alike, how we’re like the Israelites, how they’re like us, how all us people are just like each other. We have short-term faith memory; we’re quick to forget the ways God has brought us to where we are once we encounter trouble. We long for certainty, for answers. We want a plan, not some aimless, thrown-together wandering. We want a faith that runs on a rail, not a faith that wanders in the wilderness. The Israelites wanted certainty: “how are we going to eat out here in the desert? when will we eat? what will we eat?” We want certainty: “where is God? how did we get here? where did we come from? where are we going?” None of us want to live with questions—we want answers! We want to know what’s next. We want certainty. We want to have the answer in our back pocket, ready to dispense it to whomever may ask us a question. We want things black-and-white, cut and dry, lines clearly defined. We want to know who’s in and who’s out, what’s right and what’s wrong. We want a schedule, a checklist, a program, an agenda. We want certainty—answers, NOT questions. We want certainty because we believe it is only when we have all the right answers that we have the right faith, but I’m learning something the longer I travel on this journey with Jesus, with God: faith flies in the face of certainty. Faith isn’t found in the answers: it’s found in the struggling, the wrestling with the questions.

            You see, the Israelites (who, by the way, are named for the patriarch Israel, whose name literally means “to wrestle with God”) wanted the certainty of the fleshpots of Egypt, the certainty of knowing where their next meal would come from. They wanted to retreat to the time and place—before God’s deliverance—when it seemed they had all the answers to all of their questions. And when the Lord had heard their complaining, when God had heard the Israelites and the way they complained against Moses, the way they complained against God, the way they wanted answers, what did the Lord give them? God gave them manna, in Hebrew, man hu, the literal translation “What is it?” What did God give the Israelites when they complained? Yes, God gave them sustenance, food, but what was it God gave them when they wanted certainty, when they wanted answers? Why, God gave them a question, “What is it?”

            Isn’t that something? For forty years, God sustained the Israelites with a question—not an answer or a list of answers, but a question. To me, that’s what faith is. Faith is living with the questions; it is the search for the answers, not the answers themselves. Church isn’t a place to come get all the answers, but it ought to be a community of people in which it is safe to wrestle with the questions. I’m learning as I get older, as I grow closer to Christ, that I’m not supposed to have all the answers, and I know that frustrates some of us, to think we’re not supposed to have all the answers. I know we want answers, and we want certainty. We want to be able to say things like “the Bible clearly says…God can do this, or God can’t do that…” We want clearly defined boundaries and lists of rules and regulations. We want the answers so we can be sure we’re in. But having all the answers, all the rules figured out, all the criteria written down, being completely certain…that’s not faith. Faith is not having all the answers. Faith is wrestling with the uncertainties and questions of existence. Faith is trusting that even if you never have the answers God is still God (and you are not!).

            So to those of you who are wrestling with the questions, those of you who feel as if you’re always asking, “Why?,” those of you who feel like the way things were is better than the way things are, those of you who feel like you’ve got to have all the answers—to all of us who wrestle with the questions of life, faith, and existence, I say this: hold on, keep the faith! For the Lord led a nation out of bondage, through the wilderness, and into the Promised Land, and God sustained them on that journey with a question. May the Lord sustain you on your journey with the questions of faith that call us into closer relationship with Christ. May this church be a community where questions are welcome and answers aren’t required. May we have the kind of faith that calls us ever on, relying on God when we don’t have the answers. Amen. 

"Don't We Pay You to do That?" (Part 4 of "Am I a Church Member?")

1 Timothy 3:1-7

1 The saying is sure: whoever aspires to the office of bishop desires a noble task. 2 Now a bishop must be above reproach, married only once, temperate, sensible, respectable, hospitable, an apt teacher, 3 not a drunkard, not violent but gentle, not quarrelsome, and not a lover of money. 4 He must manage his own household well, keeping his children submissive and respectful in every way— 5 for if someone does not know how to manage his own household, how can he take care of God's church? 6 He must not be a recent convert, or he may be puffed up with conceit and fall into the condemnation of the devil. 7 Moreover, he must be well thought of by outsiders, so that he may not fall into disgrace and the snare of the devil.

            Just about a month ago, on Sunday, May 31^st, I read a news story that I’m afraid is becoming too common. Phil Lineberger, a well-known, well-respected pastor in Sugarland, Texas—a pastor who had served his congregation for nearly twenty years, a pastor who had been a leader among Texas Baptists, serving as vice-president and president of the Baptist General Convention of Texas (BGCT) from 1988-1991, a pastor who from all appearances was a well-rounded, active, and beloved pastor—took his own life. He had been on medical leave from the congregation since mid-March. His son-in-law said, “[he] lost a battle with depression and took his own life.”[1]

            That same day, I saw Facebook posts, tweets, and Instagram pictures of the Sunday morning worship at the First Baptist Church of Decatur, a suburb of Atlanta. Julie Pennington-Russel, who had served as First Baptist’s pastor since 2007—the first woman to serve as pastor in the church’s history, and the first woman to serve in such a prominent church—gave the benediction at the conclusion of the service for the final time. She had announced her resignation on April 29^th, and May 31^st was her last Sunday. In her letter to the congregation she said, “After months of prayer and contemplation, [my husband] Tim and I have discerned that for the sake of my own mental, physical and spiritual health, I must step away from First Baptist, Decatur.” She didn’t resign because she was called to another church. She didn’t resign because she was called to a denominational position or to serve on a seminary faculty. She resigned because she felt she had (in her words) “done my best to listen for God and to lead this congregation according to Holy Spirit’s guidance. However, I’m afraid that today our church has become ‘stuck’. The sticking point for more than a few appears to be me, and my leadership.” [2] She resigned without “something to fall back on,” without a “plan B.” She resigned due to the pressures and stress that inevitably come with leading a congregation forward, to make bold moves for the kingdom of God.

            The next day, Monday, June 1^st, I was sitting in our living room with Sallie, watching television, when I heard my phone vibrate. I had a message from a friend of mine who serves a rather large (one might say “successful”) congregation in another state. His message asked, “Are you doing ok?”

It reminded me of my time as an intern at Shades Crest Baptist in Birmingham, when the pastor there, one day, was catching me up on all the things going on at church: the progress we were making on our capital campaign, the upcoming plans for a choir tour, the great things happening with our mission partners. After he had run down the list, I simply said to him, “Ok, but how are you doing?” A few weeks later, at my end-of-the-semester review, he said to me, “One of the most important things you did was ask how I was doing. When you enter the ministry, few (if any) will ask you that. They will bring you their troubles; they will dump their complaints in your lap; they will hold insanely high expectations of you and your family, but they will rarely ask how you’re doing, how you’re really doing.”

As my pastor friend and I messaged each other that night, it became clear that even though his church seemed to be doing so well, that even though he was such a highly respected pastor and leader, the stress gets to him at times too. He said, “I’m always thinking of a ‘plan B’…I just about quit three times in the last two weeks.” I had this conversation with him with the news of Phil’s suicide and Julie’s resignation still fresh on my heart and mind, and if I’m completely honest with you, it’s just one of many such conversations I’ve had with friends and colleagues in ministry.

Can I tell you all something without sounding too much like I’m complaining? You see, one of the hardest things for us clergy folks to do is advocate for ourselves. It’s hard for us to admit when we don’t know what to do; it’s hard for us to ask for something for ourselves; it’s hard to speak up when we feel we’re being stretched too far, spread too thin, or held to ridiculous standards of availability and self-sacrifice. So, can I just talk to you all for a few minutes? I know some of you won’t hear what I’m saying, and some of you will just write it off as the whining of some young pastor, but I think you all need to hear what I have to say, what too many of us in ministry—most of us in ministry—have to say, but we’re afraid we can’t. I want you to listen, to listen to these statistics reported by numerous surveys of thousands of pastors across North America.

Every month, 1,500 pastors leave the ministry FOR GOOD due to burnout or contention in their congregations. They don’t take a leave of absence; they don’t leave for another church or another ministry position—they leave vocational ministry FOR GOOD: 1,500 every month!

Fifty percent of pastors’ marriages end in divorce. While that sounds like a familiar statistic among the “non-ordained,” keep in mind these are ministers, and many of them site the reason for their marriages ending is the stress and demands of ministry. I know that’s true because 80% of pastors and 84% of their spouses are discouraged in their ministry, and 80% of pastors report that congregational ministry and its demands have adversely affected their families—80%! That’s a number too big to ignore.

At least 40% of pastors seriously considered leaving the ministry in the past three months. With schedules that are more often bent than flexible, pastors find the fixed boundaries of a “normal job” tempting: the thought of clocking out and leaving it all in the office until tomorrow is something many pastors dream about. This seems to be especially true when one considers this sad statistic, one I found particularly telling when it comes to the expectations of those of us in pastoral ministry: pastors who work fewer than 50 hours per week are 35% more likely to be asked to resign or fired. That means if a pastor makes time for him/herself, time for rest, time for their families, that pastor is more likely to lose his/her job than a pastor who snubs Sabbath rest, ignores their families, disregards their health, and doesn’t care about their overall physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being.

Only one out of every 20 pastors who enters the ministry will retire from ministry. Half (50%) of pastors feel so discouraged in being unable to meet the unrealistic demands of their congregations that they would leave ministry for another job if they could, but they have no other way of making a living (seeing as how they have devoted their lives, education, and training to ministry). One in four pastors has been forced out or fired from a ministry position at least once. Ninety percent—90%!—of pastors say they feel inadequately trained to cope with the stress and demands of their jobs (many of them have undergraduate and extensive graduate degrees in religion, theology, ministry, etc., and still feel this way!). I suspect it’s not the training itself, but rather the insurmountable expectations placed upon clergy.

Forty-five percent of pastors say they’ve experienced depression or burnout to the point of needing to take a leave of absence (I doubt most of them do, or that most of their congregations would let them). Seventy percent of pastors say they do not even have one close friend. Another 70% say they have lower self-esteem than when they entered the ministry. According to denominational health insurance agencies, medical costs for clergy are higher than for any other professional group, as pastors deal with stress-related health issues such as high blood pressure, obesity, insomnia, and depression. And one of the most telling statistics for me comes from the Schaeffer Institute: of the 1,050 pastors interviewed, every single one of them had a close friend from seminary who has quit ministry because of burnout, conflict in their church, or a moral failure. [3] Personally, I can think of at least five, and one of them left the faith altogether.

Now, I know what some of you will say: “Chris, my job is hard too. My job comes with a lot of stress too.” I don’t doubt that; I don’t doubt that for one minute. But here’s where I think things are different: too many pastors are forced to resign, are fired, or take their own lives, because their vocation is completely intertwined with their faith, their spiritual lives, their very identity as a child of God, and when they do their job, when they seek to lead others in the way of Christ, when they strive for justice, when they make bold steps towards revealing the in-breaking kingdom of God, and are then faced with constant criticism, the downright hateful actions of those who wish to see them removed, the ignorance of those who wish to carry on with their ways of life as if the call to come and follow Christ is only a nice suggestion, is it any wonder so many want out? When pastors pray, study, and wrestle with a text for hours, only to be told that they are wrong by someone who’s reflections are only minutes old, when a pastor gives every waking hour to the ministry and work of the church only to be told she forgot to visit someone’s great aunt in the hospital in another county, when a pastor weeps and prays over the pains and trials of a member who is going through hell only to be chastised for not smiling at some other church member at the grocery store last Tuesday, when a so-called church member—a supposed follower of Christ—stands in a pastor’s office and threatens him to stop preaching about this or that or else he’ll make his life miserable, when a pastor rejoices in the news of another giving her life to Christ only to be deflated by complaints about length of the service, the order worship, or the temperature in the sanctuary, when we’ve poured ourselves out spiritually only to be told that the toilet upstairs is clogged, there’s a committee meeting waiting on our arrival, and that same person who always has something say is waiting for us in the hallway to tell us the dozen things we’ve done wrong this week…is it really any wonder so many of us give up? Is it really any wonder so many of us think about walking away several times a month? a week? a day?

When we are called by God to lead, when we give of ourselves to others, folks who might otherwise be total strangers, when we pour our hearts and souls out and preach what the Lord has given us, and yet our leadership is ignored, our words dismissed as the irrational opinions of someone who doesn’t know any better, and when our ministry is seen as an “easy living,” is it really any wonder so few of us make to retirement?

I really hope you don’t hear this as complaining, but I want you to know what those of us in ministry go through. I want you to know that ministry isn’t just some cushy job that only requires working one or two days a week. I want you to know that, as your pastor, I can’t do it all. You can’t pay me enough to add more hours to the day or cause me to spontaneously self-replicate. I want you to know that ministry isn’t just my job, my vocation. As a church member, it’s yours too! We are all in this together! That doesn’t mean your part is to pay for stuff, to pay salaries, to make requests, to sit back and hope things go your way. That means we are all in the dirty, hands-on business of kingdom work together. That means we all have to work together—even when we don’t agree, even when we think it’s someone else’s job, even when the work is hard. That’s what it means to be a church member. That’s the difference between a member of the body of Christ and a mere spectator. That’s the difference between following Christ and giving lip service to religion. That’s what it means to be a church member, to join in the work of love, to follow the ever-forward call of Christ, to trust in the God who has called some out as shepherds, to listen for the voice of the Spirit in your own heart, as God may be calling even you out of the fold to the work of ministry.

May you all listen for the voice of Christ. May we all join in the uniting work of God’s kingdom. May we all know and live what it means to be part of the body of Christ, what it means to be church members. All of us, not just those of us who are called “clergy” and hired to do it. Amen.

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[1] The article from Baptist News Global can be found here: https://baptistnews.com/ministry/people/item/30138-denominational-leader-pastor-phil-lineberger-dead-at-69

[2] You can read Julie’s resignation letter in its entirety on her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/julie.penningtonrussell/posts/10102080126262183

[3] J.R. Briggs, Fail: Finding Hope and Grace in the Midst of Ministry Failure. IVP Books: Downers Grove, IL (2014). pp. 46-7. 

"What's in it for Me?" (Part 3 of "Am I a Church Member?")

Matthew 20:1-16

1 "For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard. 2 After agreeing with the laborers for the usual daily wage, he sent them into his vineyard. 3 When he went out about nine o'clock, he saw others standing idle in the marketplace; 4 and he said to them, "You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.' So they went. 5 When he went out again about noon and about three o'clock, he did the same. 6 And about five o'clock he went out and found others standing around; and he said to them, "Why are you standing here idle all day?' 7 They said to him, "Because no one has hired us.' He said to them, "You also go into the vineyard.' 8 When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, "Call the laborers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first.' 9 When those hired about five o'clock came, each of them received the usual daily wage. 10 Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. 11 And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, 12 saying, "These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.' 13 But he replied to one of them, "Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? 14 Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. 15 Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?' 16 So the last will be first, and the first will be last."

            The kingdom of God is for everyone. That’s simple enough, right? The kingdom of God isn’t closed to anyone; no one is outside the reach of God’s love, and no one is kept from inclusion in God’s kingdom. We’ve heard that all before, and we rejoice in it. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me…” We’re glad God’s kingdom is for everyone, that it is for “whosever,” for as that old gospel hymn says, “whosoever surely meaneth me.” The wonders and riches of God’s grace are to be praised and glorified as it goes so far as to save even a sinner like me! We celebrate the love of Christ, the grace of God, the calling of the Holy Spirit when it penetrates our hearts, when it calls us out of the bondage of sin, and into the liberation of salvation. It’s a wonderful thought, to think of how, despite my sin, Jesus still loves me; God still calls me into that divine fellowship and eternal communion. Oh, what a joy to know that God loves me.

            But… when that same grace, that same love seems to reach just a little lower…when that same joy is given to someone I’m pretty sure I’m better than…when that same salvation is freely given to someone else who isn’t nearly as pious as me, who lives a more “sinful lifestyle” than me, who doesn’t read their Bible, go to church, or pray as much as me…when the same God who loves me, loves those beneath me, those who came late to the party, those who don’t work as much as me, those who don’t give as much as me…well…I’m not so anxious to sing “Amazing Grace” anymore. In fact, I want to look up the root of the word “whosoever” and see if there actually might be an exception or two. 

You see, it’s been my experience that we too often seem to be conveniently ignorant of our own privileges and the grace which has been extended to us. We tend to want every advantage, every grace, every possible break, any leg up we can get, but we hardly ever want that for someone else, especially someone we have judged to be “below” us. I’ve found this to be true whether it’s something like financial assistance for college or something as trivial as a pick-up game of basketball: we want every advantage, and we certainly don’t want anyone else to have even so much as a head start.

Of course, it’s not just about advantages and grace; more often than not, this reality plays out in the way we insist on controlling even those things which are not ours to control, in the ways we try to write our own rules for things which were gifts given to us in the first place. When someone who hasn’t invested as much as we have, someone who hasn’t worked as hard, someone who hasn’t given as much, someone who hasn’t “paid their dues,” someone we don’t like gets the same privileges, the same payment, the same grace that we have received, we cry out, “That’s not fair!” But grace isn’t fair. Love isn’t fair.

I think we’ve forgotten that. I think we’ve allowed ourselves to be coaxed into thinking that all that really matters is “what’s in it for me,” and I’m afraid the Church has to confess that it’s played a pretty big role in creating such an attitude, especially among its members.

I think about the young family that shows up at the big church in town, baby in one arm and a toddler pulling on the other. They want to join the church, but first they want to know what’s in it for them. The pastor says, “Well we’ve got a nice, new children’s wing—state-of-the-art. Just pull your car up to the door under the covered driveway and a staff member will retrieve your child and give you a pager, so you can join your friends at the coffee shop across town. You don’t even have to get out of the car!” Or the young man who expresses his desire to me a part of a local congregation, and someone says to him, “You’ll love our church. We’ve got the best singles’ ministry in the county. We have a higher success rate in matching couples than eHarmony, match.com, AND farmersonly.com!” Or how about this: “What’s that you say? You’re into fitness and exercise? Well, we’ve got the latest work out equipment in our church gymnasium: elliptical machines, stair climbers, treadmills, free-weights, a walking track—and all of that is free to members of our church!” Or, “If you like good music, we’ve got the best praise band in the country; our worship leader is known around the world (you can buy his CDs in the church coffee shop)…if you like to hear words that will ‘bless your heart’ then you’ll love our pastor. He always preaches sermons that make you feel better about yourself, and he always has the best smile, the sharpest suits, and the best haircut!”

You think I’m kidding? The truth is churches have created an environment of congregational entitlement. For many, this is simply understood as the ministries provided by the church, the “perks” of church membership, but for others, this sort of constant appeasement has created a sense of power and control, as the church has continually said, “Whatever you want, you can have.” This is most dangerous to the life of a congregation when someone sees themselves and their preferences as more important than others because of their self-made “rank” in the church. They’ve forgotten the teaching of Jesus—the hard teaching from the parable before us this morning: it’s not about what’s in it for you, about what you can get, about an exchange of influence for money or time. It’s not about what’s fair, because grace isn’t fair.

This is one of what I refer to as Jesus’ “frustrating parables.” There are those familiar parables that we like because they at least make some sense. There’s the parable of the Good Samaritan: the story of a man who is helped by the last person you’d expect, by the racial outcast, and we are told in that story what it means to be a good neighbor. That’s an easy parable to hear, an easy one to preach most of the time. Then there’s the parable of the Prodigal Son, a story about a son, a brother, who takes his father’s inheritance and blows it all with fast, sinful living, yet the father welcomes him back with joy and a party. That’s a good parable; that seems to be a better parable for a day like today when we celebrate our fathers. Of course there are also those short, simple parables about lost sheep and lost coins and how there is much rejoicing when they’re found, just as there is much rejoicing when one sinner is found and restored to salvation. But this parable…this parable is frustrating because, well, because it just isn’t fair.

A man needs to hire some workers, so he goes out in the morning and hires some day laborers. He agrees to pay them the fair wage, so they hop in the truck and off to work they go. Well, at lunchtime, the boss realizes he needs more help, so he goes back and hires some more workers. When it’s time for the afternoon coffee and smoke break, the boss looks around and realizes he’s not going to get everything done before dark, so he goes back two more times and hires some more workers. When the whistle blows and payday comes, all the workers are paid the same thing, whether they clocked in at nine in the morning or at five in the afternoon. Of course, those who were hired first complained that it wasn’t fair that those who had only worked a few hours got paid the same as those who labored all day in the field—and they’re right. It’s not fair. But grace isn’t fair. Love isn’t fair

You see, that’s a comforting thought when love’s imbalance tips the scales in our favor, when we’re let off the hook for our ignorance and sin, but when love’s inequity favors others who don’t deserve it…well…that’s not right! It’s the last line of this parable that peels back the veneer of our piety, that exposes the truth of our selfishness and our claims of superiority: “So the last will be first, and the first will be last." That’s what the kingdom of God is like. Just when you think you’ve earned the top spot, right when you think you’ve worked hard enough to hold the most influence, just when you think you’ve given enough money to pay for a spot on the board, Jesus says, “the last will be first, and the first will be last." That’s not fair!

When you approach church membership with the attitude of “What’s in it for me?,” the implication is that there ought to be some transaction, some exchange of your membership, your presence, your giving, for benefits, whether those benefits are programs that suit you, your control of committees, or even your preferences for worship.  But the truth is, being a church member means you don’t ask “What’s in it for me?” Rather, it means asking “What can I do to serve?” Being a church member means being last even though you may “deserve” to be first. Being a church member means laboring for the Lord and when payday comes, understanding that it won’t be fair. Being a church member is about working for the Kingdom of God, striving for justice, longing for peace, praying for reconciliation, loving everyone, inviting all to the banquet table, and doing it all without the selfish thought of getting something in return. That’s hard. That’s not fair. But grace isn’t fair. Love isn’t fair. I thank God that it isn’t, because the truth is I can work harder than anybody, give more than everybody, show up when there’s no one else around, and still not earn the grace and love of Christ. Thank God grace isn’t fair. Thank God love isn’t fair. Thank God “the last will be first, and the first will be last,” because that means we’ll still get to be in line. Amen.

"Why Can't We All Just Get Along?" (Part 2 of "Am I a Church Member?")

Ephesians 4:1-6

1 I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, 2 with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, 3 making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. 4 There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, 5 one Lord, one faith, one baptism, 6 one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all.

There’s a story preachers like to tell of the little Baptist church in Mayfield County, Kentucky in the 1890s. The story goes something like this: the little Baptist church was only big enough for a part-time preacher and two deacons. One week, one of the deacons decided to put a simple, wooden peg on the wall in the entryway of the church for the pastor to hang his hat or his coat (depending on who’s telling the story). Well, before Sunday service, the other deacon noticed the peg on the wall and had what some folks might call a conniption. “How dare somebody put a peg up on the wall without first consulting me!” This second deacon then went about the business of pulling, twisting, and removing the peg from the wall. Well you can imagine what happened next: the first deacon arrived that morning, expecting to see the pastor’s hat and/or coat hanging on the peg he put up earlier that week, only to find the peg gone and a smug expression of triumph on the face of the other deacon.

It didn’t take long for an imaginary line to be drawn down the middle of the sanctuary. On one side were the first deacon and all of those folks who were “pro-peg.” Their arguments in favor of the peg revolved around the necessity of the pastor having a place to hang his hat so as not to have to deal with it, or a place to hang his coat so it wouldn’t wind up on a bench or bunched up on the floor. Some talked about how the church on the other side of town had an awful nice peg for their pastor to hang his hat or coat, so why shouldn’t they? The other side (those who sided with the deacon who was opposed to the peg) formed their arguments around things like tradition: “We’ve never had a peg before, why start now?” They also argued that such a peg would be a distraction for others in the congregation since they didn’t have a peg, and if the pastor got a peg, they all ought to get a peg, but seeing as how there wasn’t room in the little church for everybody to have a peg, no one should have a peg.

The poor pastor and the ministry of that little congregation were caught in the middle of a fight between two deacons, their allies, and their personal preferences and victories. The church eventually split in two. As the story goes, to this day, the good folks in Mayfield County, Kentucky still refer to the Baptists in that little community as the “peg Baptists” and “anti-peg Baptists.”[1]

It goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway) that this isn’t what church unity looks like, yet too many times conflicts in congregations begin with silly little things like coat pegs. If this is a bad example, then what is a good example of unity in a congregation? What does Christian unity really look like among church members? Well, some might say it’s when all (or most) of the members agree on everything (or most everything), when most of the members of a congregation are on the same page about particular issues. I suppose the theory goes that if all the members of the church agree all the time then everything is ok: nothing could go wrong so long as everyone gets along and feels the same way about things. If I’m honest, I’m not too sure that’s what Christian unity among church members looks like…

At a church not too far from here, on a Sunday not too long ago (just a few decades), church members were joined hand-in-hand, some even arm-in-arm, on the steps leading to the front door of the sanctuary. They were singing together, praying together, shouting “Amen!” any time one of them said something to those who were looking on the rather unusual scene. Maybe they were causing a scene because few folks had witnessed such a unified congregation. Maybe the folks were watching because they had never seen such a site as so many Baptists coming together in unity to make a statement against what they saw as a social sin. You see, these members were unified, linked hand-in-hand and arm-in-arm in front of their sanctuary that Sunday morning because they all agreed—they were all in one accord—they decided nearly unanimously that they didn’t want any black families worshipping with them in their sanctuary—I’m not so sure that’s what Christian unity among church members is supposed to look like. So what does it look like when church members come together in Christian unity? Well…it’s simply complicated.

You see, it didn’t take too long for the Apostle Paul to figure out that Christian unity takes more than a common creed, worship services, and a shared zip code. Last week we heard just a few of the issues going on at the church in Corinth, and this week we’ve heard a plea from the apostle (or someone writing in his name) for Christian unity among the Christians at Ephesus and the other congregations that would receive and hear this letter. His plea is pretty simple and straightforward: “I…beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all.” That’s easier said than done!

You see, I think it would have been easier for Paul—for all of us—if Jesus hadn’t come along preaching all that “good news.” What Jesus did, what the gospel does, is it flings open the doors, and it flings them open wide! Jesus came preaching a gospel that says God is love, and that love is for all. Now, here it might take a little exegetical explanation as to the declension of the Greek word (or words) often translated as “all.” You see, what these words actually mean is ALL! There’s no wiggle room; Jesus didn’t use a word that meant “all but the troublemakers,” or “all except the ones who don’t get it,” or “all but those who are the worst kind of sinner.” Jesus preached a gospel for everyone, for all, and when you fling the doors open wide, when you send the servants out to bring folks into the wedding banquet from the highways and hedges, when you welcome the reprobates, the lepers, the prostitutes, the scribes, the religious, the unreligious, the sinners, and the saints, well…they’re not all going to see eye-to-eye on every single issue. Maybe that’s the problem; maybe Jesus shouldn’t have held the doors open so wide; maybe Jesus shouldn’t have spread his arms so far on that cross…I don’t know…

            I don’t know: maybe if there had just been a list from the beginning, Christian unity would be easier. If there had just been an application form issued with the Sermon on the Mount, Paul could have avoided the sticky situations that call for such words as we’ve heard this morning. Maybe many a business meeting about carpet colors could have been settled within a matter of seconds rather than months as sides were drawn between “fuchsia” and “goldenrod.” Maybe all those tense deacons’ meetings could have been avoided, or all those pastors who’ve been run off could have stayed if there had just been a membership code describing who could and couldn’t be a part of the body of Christ. If Jesus had just said, “For God so loved those who fit the criteria…” then maybe church members could all get along. But Jesus didn’t say that—he said “all,” and “all” includes me and you and the person next to you and all the people we’d like to be here AND all the people we would like to keep away from here. Jesus flings the doors open wide, stretches his arms out far enough to include everybody, and if we’re all honest with each, it’s hard to get along with everybody.

            Maybe that’s why churches split sometime. Maybe that’s why there are Catholics, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Baptists, Quakers, Methodists, and Pentecostals. Maybe there are so many churches because when everyone is welcome to the wedding feasts, when everyone shows up to the family reunion, some of the cousins need to sit far away from one another. Maybe that’s it, but I have another thought, and I think it might hit a little closer to home.

            See, I’m nearly convinced that the reason Christian unity is so hard to keep among church members is because so many of us are determined to be right, determined to prove we’ve got it all figured out and everyone else ought to get on board with our way of thinking or else they’re going to wind up on Jesus’ bad side. We’re so sure that we’ve got it all figured out that if anyone disagrees with us, if they understand things a little differently, or if they see our way of life as less than perfect, well—they must be wrong about everything and therefore unfit to be a part of our fellowship. This plays out in the ways we fight over small, trivial things that have no real, eternal value, whether it’s coat pegs, carpet color, the height of the steeple, the style of worship, the dress code, the number of weekly services and their times, who can and can’t use the church van, or the removal of trees in the parking lot. When our opinions are countered, when others disagree with us, when something we’re so sure is right is questioned and our pride is wounded, well then it’s hard to get along.

            But what if we let all of that go? What if we stopped worrying about the small, insignificant things? What if we dared to admit we don’t have it all figured out, that we’re not so sure about some things, and there are probably a lot of things we’re getting wrong? What if we decided that since Jesus welcomed all we ought to do the same thing? What if we decided that in flinging the doors open wide we let in those who aren’t like us, those who don’t like us, and those we don’t like? What if we stopped worrying about being right and just started loving others the way Christ calls us to? You see, I’m growing more and more convinced that when that day comes, when I stand with Christ and no longer see (as Paul says) “as through a glass darkly,” Jesus is going to say to me, “Son, you were wrong about so much, and that’s alright, because my grace is sufficient, my love has won.”

            Why can’t we all just get along if we understand that we don’t have it all figured out? Why can’t we all get along if we know we’re probably wrong about a lot of things? Why can’t we all just get along if we live the way Jesus taught and showed us to live by stretching our arms open wide, by welcoming all the sinners and saints to the banquet table? You know something, I bet if we’d all be willing to lay aside the need to be right, to have it all figured out and prove it to others, if we’d lay that heavy burden down and take up Christ’s yoke of love—well, Christian unity might just break out among all of us. If we can put ourselves last—our preferences, our certainties, our egos, our pride, all of who we are, last—we just might be able to get along. We’d see what real Christian unity looks like as brothers and sisters serve together in the kingdom of God, as Republicans serve alongside Democrats, as whites serve alongside blacks, as ex-cons serve alongside widows, as kindergarteners serve alongside college professors, as addicts serve alongside deacons, as English speakers serve alongside those who habla Español, as Catholics work with Protestants, as Baby Boomers work alongside Millennials,  as sinners serve right alongside saints (and they all discover they’re really not that different). Why can’t we all just get along if we put ourselves and our self-made labels last and put each other first? Why can’t we all just get along if we’d just listen to Jesus and follow his example? What’s keeping us from doing that? What’s keeping you from doing that? Amen.

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[1] You can find this story in countless sermon illustration sources, though there is no real, historical source for it. 

"What Part Do I Play?" (Part 1 of "Am I a Church Member?")

1 Corinthians 12:12-31

12 For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. 13 For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit. 14 Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. 15 If the foot would say, "Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body," that would not make it any less a part of the body. 16 And if the ear would say, "Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body," that would not make it any less a part of the body. 17 If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be? 18 But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. 19 If all were a single member, where would the body be? 20 As it is, there are many members, yet one body. 21 The eye cannot say to the hand, "I have no need of you," nor again the head to the feet, "I have no need of you." 22 On the contrary, the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, 23 and those members of the body that we think less honorable we clothe with greater honor, and our less respectable members are treated with greater respect; 24 whereas our more respectable members do not need this. But God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior member, 25 that there may be no dissension within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another. 26 If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it. 27 Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it. 28 And God has appointed in the church first apostles, second prophets, third teachers; then deeds of power, then gifts of healing, forms of assistance, forms of leadership, various kinds of tongues. 29 Are all apostles? Are all prophets? Are all teachers? Do all work miracles? 30 Do all possess gifts of healing? Do all speak in tongues? Do all interpret? 31 But strive for the greater gifts. And I will show you a still more excellent way.

What does it mean to be a church member? I suppose for some of you that’s an easy question to answer: being a church member means at some point in your life you made a decision to “join the church.” You either made a confession of faith and were baptized in a certain congregation, you “moved your letter” (a phrase leftover from a time when churches were required to keep a record of its members since taxes were paid to or through the church), or you “joined by statement,” which means you were once part of another church that has since closed, moved, or didn’t keep good records. For some, being a church member means you come to church services with at least some regularity: you’re here for Sunday morning worship enough to at least notice familiar patterns like when to stand and when to bow your head to pray. Still, for others, being a church member is something like being a member of a social club, a fraternity, or a gym: they pay their dues (we call it a tithe or offering, but they see it as membership fees) and in return, they get to use the church facilities for birthday parties, basketball practice, weddings, and reunions. Then there are those who see membership as a form of sacred shareholding, as if their presence and money translates into power and influence. Those who see membership this way are the one who worry themselves with counting nickels and noses, the ones who seem to know how often everyone else is at church and how much they give to the church. They see “levels” of church membership (and of course they’re on the top level!). Then there are those who see church membership as a sort of “family business.” Their family helped start the church (whether 2 years or 2 centuries ago); their family makes up a plurality of the weekly attendance; therefore, their family (and usually one or two particular individuals in that family) ought to be on every committee, board, and council in the church, and every decision needs to be passed by them before it’s voted on by the church.

I want to tell you something this morning that some of you may not want to hear: none of these things are what it means to be a church member. Membership isn’t only about where your “letter” is, how often you attend service and which services you attend, nor is it about “paying your dues,” “belonging to the club,” having enough money, or being a member of the right family. Membership isn’t about getting benefits or having influence or power; it’s not about what you can get out of the church.

Now, lest we get too discouraged, these sorts of misunderstandings about church membership aren’t really anything new. In fact, it seems that the Church has been struggling with these things from the beginning. We know that because of Paul’s correspondence with the church at Corinth. The Corinthian church was riddled with problems: arguably, many of them stemmed from a poor understanding of what it means to be a member of the body of Christ, the Church. There were divisions in the church at Corinth: some of those divisions had to do with what some of us in pastoral ministry call “preacher worship.” Some of the members claimed they were disciples of Paul, while others liked the style of Apollos, still others claimed to follow Peter (since he was the “rock” after all ), then there were those sorts who like to trump everybody in those sorts of spitting contests—you know the type, the ones who will say something that everybody else already know, but they say it like they just discovered gravity or something, the ones who would say, “Well, you might follow Paul, Apollos, or Peter, but I follow Christ!”

Can’t you almost hear the arguments that happened at Corinth, the divisions Paul is writing to correct? “Well, I think the church needs to meet earlier in the day. We’re eating the Lord’s Supper too late and it’s keeping me up at night.” Another says, “Well I think we ought to keep it right where it is: that’s the way we’ve always done it.” Then another would chime in, “Well when Pastor Paul was here we always did it this way, but I know Brother Apollos likes to change things…”

Of course, the divisions at Corinth ran deeper than just playing favorites with pastors. One of the biggest issues at Corinth was the presence of those in the congregation who believed their social status and wealth afforded them privileges over the other members of the congregation. They believed they were exempt from the struggle for righteousness, immune to the effects of even the pagan social mores of the time. Paul speaks against one man who is sleeping with his step-mother, a man who likely held power in the congregation and was therefore allowed to continue in his immorality. That happens you know? Some people come to church, write a big check, make a show of their presence, then once their outside the doors of the church (some don’t even wait that long) they speak and behave in ways that reflect anything but the Spirit of God within them. These folks, however, are rarely called out because they’re seen as critical members of a congregation, and if they are upset they’ll take their attendance and money and go somewhere else. Can I tell you something? Congregations have become paralyzed in recent years over the fear that if they seek to correct the immoral, sinful behavior of some of their own people they’ll lose them, because we’ve been fooled into thinking that the only thing that matters when it comes to church is how many people are there. Many congregations are more at ease with division than they are discipline; such was the case at Corinth.

There were others who saw their wealth and power as a source of privilege in the congregation at Corinth. Paul writes about the way the church would come together for worship, for the Agape meal (the early Church’s take on communion, a big meal shared by the entire congregation—I think I like their way a little better). You see, the rich folks would come together early and start partying; they’d pass around the plates, the wine, just having a big ole time. Then, after 5:00, when all the working folks would get off and show up for worship, there was hardly anything left, just radishes in the salad bowl, the rolls someone left in the oven too long, and pots and pans scraped clean. Even the good wine was gone. All those who got their early (the rich, the powerful) had eaten and drunk all the good stuff, and they were all sitting on the couches in the living room, while the latecomers (the poor, the working folks) had to stand outside on the porch. When the church gathered for worship around the Lord’s Table, they gathered for the wrong reasons, and people were left out, ignored, or purposefully put outside because they weren’t a part of the wealthy elite, because they weren’t the “right kind of people.”

Then there were those who believed that their role in the church was what made them more important than others. In the verses we’ve heard throughout worship today, in chapter twelve of 1 Corinthians, Paul speaks to the congregation about the importance of spiritual gifts, and he stresses the diversity of those gifts. See, there were some at Corinth who believed their gifts were more important, more valuable, than the gifts of others, particularly those gifts which involved being seen and noticed by others, the gift of speaking in various tongues. There were those in the congregation who believed that, while God may gift everyone, there are some who God really gifts, and those are the exceptional people, the best church members, because their gifts are evident and can be seen by a lot of people. So, these people began to belittle others whose gifts weren’t so publicly evident; they began thinking that they were irreplaceable, that while the church could go along without some of the others, it would surely die without them.

To this way of thinking, Paul points to the familiar metaphor of the human body. He explains that the body is made up of many members, many parts, and each part is especially made to perform its function within the body: each part is both unique and a part of the whole. Every person’s role is important; no one is above anyone else. To a pinky toe, this is good news, but to a mouth…well it means it has the same value as a little toe. To someone who’s been told they have nothing to offer, to someone who’s been told they’re not that important, to someone who has quietly prayed for God to use them in whatever way God can in the life of a church, this is good news. It means that they are valued—you are valued—even if you think your gifts can’t be used, even if you think you don’t really do anything for the kingdom of God, you are valued by God! You are just as important as those who love to tell others how important they are; you are just as valuable as those who write the big checks, pray in eloquent language, sing with beautiful voices, and teach the Bible. We are all equally part of the same body.

To someone who views church membership as a means to an end, who often asks, “What can I get out of the church?” the apostle’s words grate on their nerves. They want to be seen as indispensable, as if their gifts, their time, their money matters more than others. That’s what I’m learning more and more about God and Scripture in my life with Christ: whenever we think it’s about us, whenever our focus is on ourselves or anything other than God, the words we read and hear make us extremely uncomfortable.

Paul’s words to the church at Corinth and the church at Williams are words that remind us that we are all indeed equally part of the wonderful work of the kingdom of God, and we all have a part to play. After all, faith is not a spectator’s sport. It isn’t about showing ups, finding a good seat, hoping to be entertained. It isn’t about having everything your way. It isn’t about trying to be the head; it’s about resting in the joy and love of God that you are called to be a part of the body! So, I suppose the question before us now is this: “If we are all equally part of the body of Christ, called to use our gifts together for the kingdom, what part do I play? What can I do to be a better church member, a better follower of Christ?”

Our reading this morning ends with verse 31 of chapter 12, “strive for the greater gifts. And I will show you a still more excellent way.” Paul encourages the Corinthians to strive for those gifts that lift up the whole congregation—not just oneself, yet still he speaks of a more excellent way. What way? A way to be a better church member? A way to be a closer follower of Christ? A way to live more and more in the Spirit of God? Yes.

Hear what Paul’s very next words are:

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

I want to add something to what Paul says here, something about what it means to be a church member. “If I attend every church service and meeting, but do not have love, I am simply a seat-filler waiting to be seen. And if I give a lot of money to the church budget and designated offerings to the ministries of my choosing, but do not have love, I am simply a source of revenue which can be replaced by the One who owns the cattle on a thousand hills. And if I use my talents, my resources, my time for the church so that I might have my name spoken and my back patted, but I do not have love, I am not a church member.”

Friends, I am convinced that we all play a part in the kingdom of God. I am convinced that all of us are equally important. However, I am convinced that if we are only in it for ourselves, only worried about our own preferences, desires, and tastes, we are not doing the will of God. So ask yourself, “Am I a Church member? Do I strive to always be last, to put others ahead of me, to serve others and not my own need for power and recognition? Do I seek first to love God and my neighbor? Am I a church member?” Amen.