I'm a Consumer Christian

The danger is not lest the soul should doubt whether there is bread, but lest, by a lie, it should persuade itself it is not hungry. {Simone Weil}

Give us this day our daily bread. {Jesus}


Much ink has been spilt (with good cause) resisting the soul-numbing prevalence of hyper-individualism, where we view God - and then in turn people and neighborhoods and natural resources - merely as raw material for the pursuit of our isolated whims. The gospel tells me that my comfort and the satisfaction of my every impulse is not the goal of the universe. Bummer.

In the church, we have created a cottage industry around denouncing consumerism, and I understand the revulsion to this spirit of our age. I too am frustrated to no end when we belittle the mystery and beauty of Christian community by our penchant for using churchy experiences with all their gizmos and "energy" the same way we down a can of Red Bull: guzzle, toss, grab another when wanted. Yum. I recently read that at some churches, you can now get your pastor delivered via hologram. Truly, I am at a loss for words.

I'm concerned, however, that the way we talk about all this sends the message that there is something wrong with our cravings and the hope to fill our unmet longings, something unseemly about our hunger. I've seen shame attached to the notion of someone coming to the church community without arriving ready to give. Jesus invited the weary people to come, to come and eat, come and drink, come and rest. To hear some of us, we only want the people who are ready to come and work, come and plug right in "doing mission."

I once heard a young pastor on the speaking circuit say, with a swagger: "We aren't here to meet your Christian needs. If you're a Christian, we aren't really here for you - we're here to be on mission for those who don't know God." It came across brash. He sounded revolutionary, a bad-ass pastor. He prompted a lot of laughter. I wanted to cry.

A while back, during our Denver years, Miska and I were exhausted. Serving God had worn us out. A church up in the hills welcomed us in. We attended on Saturday nights. It was a peaceful space. We heard the Scriptures and prayed some prayers (or didn't). We sang along with a few songs and soaked in the gospel. We didn't sign up for any ministries or serve on any teams. We dropped checks in the offering plate, and we (usually) showed up on time for church. Other than that, not much. Oh, we did attend a small group. Twice.

We were consumers, and it saved my soul.

Jesus' first miracle was wine at a wedding in Cana, an extravagant act intended for no good reason other than the peoples' consumption and joy. The Psalmist describes our want for God in visceral terms: hunger, thirst, cravings. Jesus gave us a table with wine and bread as the retelling of the Great Story. At Jesus' Table, all we do is come and receive; we gorge on grace. We do not come to Jesus to work. We come to rest. We come to allow grace to work on us. The Christian's work is what happens when resting people find the free life of the Spirit flowing among them. Work is what we do when the Kingdom has taken root and joyful obedience begins to sprout. But first, we rest. First, we consume.

The gospel never calls us to myopic self-centeredness. The kingdom of God moves and (re)creates and leads us to lay down our life and give ourselves away. But who can say exactly when - or how? The new creation I first encounter is God's love that pours and pours and pours into my soul. And I must drink it in. I must consume it, a man desperate and starved with nothing much, for the moment, to give.

Words I've Heard

A few things I've read or heard this week that made me sad, made me laugh, made me want to be a better man:

//sad//

"This is it. This is when it all went away. The Anglican Communion is not going to make it."
Diana Butler Bass on Episcopal Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori's "fighting words" tossed toward the Archbishop of Canterbury and the wider Anglican world.


//laugh//

"Wow!! This is AWESOME!! You are the high king of the church and you get to run the slides!?"
Wyatt, trying to understand what it means for his dad to be a pastor (and confusing it with a certain Chronicles of Narnia character) but actually far more plussed about the revelation that his dad was tapped to run slides for an Evensong gathering at All Souls (our church).

"Dad, I've been thinking about it - and when we get to heaven, I think you'll be able to drink and drive."
For once, this wasn't one of our boys (could have been though). After a discussion the night before on the dangers of alcohol, one of Wyatt and Seth's friends said this (loudly, and among a large crowd of other parents) to his dad when he was picking him up from an event. 


//want to be a better man//

"The truth's not foolish."
Colum McCann's character Claire in Let the Great World Spin

"I gave them all the truth and none of the honesty."
Colum McCann's character Gloria in Let the Great World Spin

Things Far and Near

A litany from the gospel reading, Luke 10.25-37

The lawyer raises the question for us:
What must we do to truly live with God?
The Scriptures tell us to love God with all our heart
But my heart loves so many other things
Love God with all our soul
But I have so many competing desires
Love God with all our strength
But my energy and my passion is divided
Love God with all our mind
But my mind feels too powerful or too broken
to be a place of love
Love, not only God - but also our neighbor, even as we love ourselves
But who is our neighbor?
Our neighbor is whoever God has brought near to us.
Then we will love our God who has come near to us and our neighbor God has brought near to us
In this way, we will love our God
With all of our heart, our soul, our strength and our mind.
And then, people of God, we will truly live.

And a blessing in response to Ephesians 2:11-12

To all who have known what is to be far
Far from love
Far from hope
Far from life
Far from God
Jesus has come near to you
Jesus has brought you near to him
So live near. And free. And alive.
And go the far places in your world. And witness that Jesus is near.
Amen.

ViralHope

A bit ago, I mentioned ViralHope which I contributed a chapter to. Here is a video short created by Aaron Nee (of the Brothers Nee, writers/directors/producers of The Last Romantic). The words come from one of the chapters. If you haven't snagged a copy, consider it.

Drowning

Do you believe that Jesus is the Son of God who came to save us from our sins?
I believe

Do you believe that Jesus died on the cross and rose from the dead to bring you life and to bring you home into his kingdom?
I believe

Do you renounce Satan and his kingdom and all his evil works?
I do

And will you turn from your sins and obey Jesus by the power of the Holy Spirit?
I will

Will you now lay your life down and be buried in God’s love?
I will

Last Sunday, Wyatt received baptism. One of the perks of being your boy's pastor is that you get to participate front and center in these sacred moments. I was knee deep in the baptismal waters, my arm around his shoulders (and that's where I hope to always be, wading into his water, standing next to him).  With joy, I laid priestly hands on my son and said holy words, In the name of the Father and the Son and the Spirit, be buried in Jesus' death...

Baptism is many things, but three things at least - and all three are about belonging. In our baptism, we declare that we belong to Jesus and to Jesus' kingdom. In baptism, the church declares that we belong to the community, this family of faithful storytellers. And, most importantly, in baptism the Spirit declares that we belong to the Triune God. Baptism is really more about what God is doing than about what we are doing. God has marked us, come after us, loved us to death. And life.

Because this whole thing is a communal affair, the entire community renews our baptismal vows before the new vows are taken. In a way then, with each new baptism, it is as though we are being baptized anew. The last question of the vows, the words that are spoken just before we put a body under the waters, echoes for me today.

Will you now lay your life down and be buried in God's love?

Will I?

The verbs in this question are passive. Will I lay down? Will I be buried? Will I surrender the illusion that I can pull my life together? Baptism is something I receive, not something I do. I don't baptize myself; another baptizes me. I don't finagle my way into the church; the community simply gives me a wide welcome. I didn't snag a ticket into God's kingdom with my spit-n-shine resume. God isn't lucky to have me. God came and got me because God is kind and because this is what God does - God comes and rescues.

So this is the question my baptism asks me: Will I lay down and drown in love? Will I drown?

Will I hold my ground and guard my self-interests in my marriage - or will I drown?

Will I wallow in selfish guilt about what my poor fathering choices say about me, or will I surrender every shred of image and reputation and just love my boys, now, today? Will I protect myself - or will I drown?

Will I keep distance from those I'm sure to disappoint or those who I think will leave me lonely - or will I drown?

I choose to drown.

I surrender the image of the put together husband, father, writer, pastor, friend.
I choose to drown.

I am probably not as smart or brilliant or witty or insightful or artful as you are.
I choose to drown.

I will probably never write a bestseller.
I choose to drown.

I want to drown. Because I want to live.

What kind of drowning are you surrendering to?

Firefly

My earliest years were spent in Middle Tennessee. Murfreesboro, to be exact. We lived a few miles out Franklin Road, with vast stretches of farmland between us and town. Our small community centered around a youth camp and working ranch. It was a magical place for a young boy to actually be a young boy. Horses in our backyard. Six thousand acres to roam. A mountain to climb and camp. Rodeos every Friday afternoon during the summer. But the fireflies - those haunting, hovering flashes of greenish-neon light flickering just within reach - are one of the enchantments I remember most. The long, sticky summer days surrendered to the Tennessee evening air; and, just around dusk, the sky began to dance.

My friend Wil and I would chase a couple fireflies down and gently release them into our Mason jars, with a bit of grass stuffed in the bottom and tin foil (with air holes pencil-punched in) wrapped over the top. Even now, remembering, I feel a twinge of that boyhood mystery, when I was caught up in friendship and stories and twilight evenings chasing flashes of light across the backyard.

A few nights ago, we were in Tennessee visiting friends. As the sun began to settle, the fireflies appeared. And our boys, Mason jars in hand, entered the ritual. We were probably only thirty miles from the spot where my firefly memories are rooted, but I am aware that the years and experiences, the disillusionment and the knocks, the questions - and the joys too, have taken me a long way from those simple summers. Laughter comes a little harder, and cynicism a little easier. Friendship is harder work, love more fraught with danger and uncertain outcomes. The world can be scarier. I'm less naive, less trusting. I haven't run barefoot at dusk for quite a while.

But. A lot has stayed the same. I'm still drawn to twilight space. Our front porch, the sun setting over Carter's Mountain, tea in hand, is one of my favorite moments. Miska and I will talk or read or just sit together quietly and bid farewell to a good (or bad) day. Mystery is a friend of mine; whenever someone acts as though they've got life figured out, I find myself thinking they are full of the brown, smelly stuff. Thanks to Miska, I even like to dance (it isn't pretty but it's passionate). And friendship and love - those are high words in my book. I'm not sure I understand all that much about what they mean, but I've tasted enough to know I'll fight for them - and spend my days chasing their glimmer and life.

I'm also drawn to twilight spaces in the soul. I find myself pulled to people and to stories where light and dark are vying for attention. I just had coffee with a friend who shared his three-year journey of brokenness and heartache - and his turn toward hope. That's twilight, as I see it. And, amid our conversation, I almost swear I saw a few flashes of light dancing just within reach.

To Live {why the church.5}

He felt...another kind of awake.
{Colum McCann, Let the Great World Spin}

Jesus is our shalom...creating within his body a new humanity, a new way of being human. {St. Paul}

In these bodies, we will love / In these bodies, we will die / And where you invest your love, you invest your life.
{Mumford and Sons}


Perhaps the plainest way to say it is this: the church exists because Jesus rose from the dead.

Easter happened, and Easter is the prototype for all God's intentions for the world. God did not raise Jesus into the spiritualized psyches of his followers. God did not raise Jesus by enshrining Jesus-ideals into an ethical philosophy for cultures to emulate. God raised Jesus' rotting, blood-crusted flesh from a dark, musty cave. Dead Jesus lay in the tomb, but alive Jesus walked out.

So now, whenever we hear the prophets and the apostles speak of God's cosmic project of New Creation, we know what they are talking about. Dead things coming back to life. Old things restored, new. Not ideals, but a reality. Physical. Present. Body, God's Body.

The church is what happens when resurrection gets to work. Humans are communal creatures. I feel a bit silly pausing to make this obvious point, but... Without friendships, we are lonely. Without a love or a child or an intimate relationship, we are not whole. When we call someone a hermit, we aren't passing a complement. We are hardwired for committed, intentional, sustained, I'm-with-you-even-when-I-don't-like-you relationships. Against this, though, we all have horror stories and vast mounds of disappointment. Maybe we've given up. Maybe we've settled for something shallow or cheap, imitations. Maybe we've grown cynical - perhaps the most damaging turn of all.

But resurrection happened, and now we're discovering what it means to be alive. In other words, we're learning anew what it means to be truly human. And to be human means, at least in part, to live a physical, particular, embodied life within God's physical, particular, embodied community, the church. If God were only trying to elevate disembodied souls into distant heaven, perhaps the church wouldn't matter much (other than to organize, strategize and get this work done efficiently - but I think I've sufficiently run that horse into the ground). However, if God is reconstituting (resurrecting) the whole of his good and beautiful creation, well then, the church (the physical, embodied people of God) becomes ground zero.

Knowing this, we could never act as though the community of God is merely a means to something God is doing. Rather, the community of God rests at the heart of what God is doing. And God is doing a heck of a lot. God's mission is to rescue and love and remake and welcome and forgive and embrace and basically overrun this whole sorry mess with the wonder of resurrection. The old Hebrew word works best: shalom. Wholeness. Well-being. Utter, comprehensive goodness.

This is God's mission. Not ours. God is doing resurrection. And God will resurrect in a God-way, a Trinitarian way - forming a people who begin to live in Trinitarian love and begin to embody resurrection in the tangible spaces, the streets and dining room tables and nursing homes. It's slow. It's messy. Most days, it looks like an absolute disaster. But if relationship and communities, if each and every individual story, matters - then this is the only way.

Here's the crux of why I need church. I need church because I'm selfish and cynical and proud and a shadow of my true self. I've lived among death for too long, and I want to live. I want to be a human alive, a human resurrected. And true humanity is physical, relational, with others, over the long haul. I need the church because Jesus rose from the dead, and I want to rise up from among the dead too. I want to learn "another kind of awake."

////

So, I'm not sure when I'll return to this series. Might be done. However, I would love to interact to any questions this raises for you - especially if you are struggling with finding your life and place within a physical community, a church. Why do you struggle with this? What questions do you have? Why do you think that maybe it isn't important? Email me (winn [at] winncollier.com) or post here. If it's the sort of question I could interact with on the blog, I will. If it is more appropriate just for email dialogue, fine too.




[previous why the church? posts: part one, two, three, four]