Perceptions from a Pewboy

Today, the self-proclaimed “King of All Media,” Howard Stern, gave expression to what might be considered the quintessential articulation of a postmodern functional agnosticism. This is what Stern said:

“I know that there isn’t a God. But I believe that there is.”

I had never heard it put quite that way before.

Very rarely can one find theological profundities in a typical Howard Stern broadcast. But today, as Stern and his cohorts discussed the difficulties of faith and the merits of atheism, I heard one of the most honest descriptions of a struggle for faith that I have heard in quite some time.

“My parents put me through a whole big religious thing,” Stern said of his Jewish upbringing. “And it’s hard to leave that behind. So, I know that there isn’t a God. But I believe that there is.”

Which is to say, “Intellectually, I cannot make cognitive sense of the idea of divinity, and, therefore, I must embrace atheism as my theological position. And yet, at the same time, I cannot shake my heart’s conviction that there is something beyond my rational analysis, and, therefore, I have no choice but to retain a portion of my conviction (however small a portion it may be) that God exists.”

On an infamously crude radio show where God-talk is rarely heard (except for the occasional mockery of religion), it was somewhat refreshing to hear such an enigmatic celebrity make the sudden shift from the scatological to the eschatological.

It made me wonder how frequently in the church’s life people operate with a similar functional agnosticism. We would never name it as directly as Stern did, of course. But my hunch is that we would be absolutely amazed if we knew the number of people in our pews who are standing right smack dab in the middle of this epistemological and phenomenological conundrum: “I know that there isn’t a God. But I believe that there is.”

The perpetual challenge for the church is to become the kind of community that welcomes people whose minds and hearts are not necessarily in complete theological alignment while at the same time nurturing an environment in which intellect and religious conviction are treated as siblings (rather than feuding neighbors) in the journey toward holistic faith.

The implications in this matter are plentiful. Do our Bible studies and theological classes offer biblical truth and doctrinal complexity in a way that also permits the raising of serious questions? Do our apologetics operate with the flexibility of deep conviction instead of the oppressive rigidity of cold hard certainty? Are our people THINKING about faith and not simply FEELING it?

Please don’t misunderstand me here. I am not suggesting that the church lose its sense of blessed assurance, its eagerness to stand upon the promises of Jesus Christ, and its passion for the religion of the warmed heart. Nor am I suggesting that the church take its cue from Howard Stern. But I am suggesting that sitting in all of our sanctuaries are people who, like Stern, are intellectually troubled by the idea of God and yet innately hopeful that God really exists. They are part of our mission field, and a simplistic “the Bible says it and I believe it” isn’t going to make the grade as an evangelical approach.

A few years back, a man spoke with me following one of the Sunday Night worship services at Christ United Methodist Church in Bethel Park. “You know,” he said, “I’m not sure that I can ever believe in all of this Jesus stuff that you preach about. But I like coming here every week because it helps me to understand what I’m struggling to believe.”

It was a conversation that led to the development of a brand new, Sunday night, after-worship gathering called “What’s a Person to Believe?” It was specifically targeted toward agnostics and those who are struggling to believe. The conversations I had in those classes were probably some of the most challenging, unsettling, and, ultimately, evangelical conversations that I have ever had.

It felt like church.

In one of the more compelling developments within the United Methodist tradition, the leaders of GracePoint Community Church (a vital and fast-growing faith community in Wichita, Kansas) made the decision a couple of weeks ago to break away from the United Methodist denomination in order to form a new nondenominational congregation.

An article on this development can be found here.

I am not privy to all of the details surrounding GracePoint’s ministry and Rev. Bryson Butts’ decision to surrender his clergy credentials. Therefore, I will refrain from saying more than I should about that situation.

Of greater interest to me is the ever-deepening tension that can frequently be found between United Methodism’s institutional structure and the vision of some of the denomination’s fastest-growing churches.

In the land of blog, many of the responses to GracePoint’s decision to leave the denomination have revolved around two extremes.

The first extreme (and perhaps the most authentically postmodern) is what might be called the “blatantly anti-institutional” response. This response, in essence, goes something like this: “Of course GracePoint church made the right call. After all, the United Methodist institution and hierarchy are far more interested in preserving themselves than incarnating the Kingdom of God in fresh ways. Denominational structures are on their way out. They are dusty reminders of an era of Christendom that no longer exists. Therefore, GracePoint’s decision was inevitable. That church simply had the courage to do what every church that wants to create multiple campuses HAS to do—specifically, break free from the shackles of denominationalism in order to follow the leading of the Spirit.”

The other extreme articulated by many responding to GracePoint’s decision might be called the “blatantly denominational” response. It goes this way: “How arrogant and self-serving of GracePoint church to leave the denomination that paid for its creation in the first place and provided it with its rich spiritual and theological heritage! Without the denominational institution, there is far too much opportunity for a lack of covenantal accountability and theological integrity. After all, United Methodists are nothing if they are not connectional. For GracePoint to break that connection in the name of following the Holy Spirit is as bumptious as it is foolhardy.”

Interestingly, as a District Superintendent, I am currently part of a denominational hierarchy that many consider to be more a part of the problem than the solution. Nevertheless, as we navigate our way through these challenging ecclesiastical times, I cannot help but wonder if it is possible for us to resist two very specific and very prevalent forms of idolatry: Specifically, an idolatry of denominational loyalty that compels us to demonize all who would choose to go outside of the institutional church; and, on the other side, an idolatry of autonomy that compels us to demonize the denomination as nothing more than an oppressive remnant of a bygone age.

How does one avoid such idolatries, especially in light of the fact that the idols are firmly placed in the middle of a couple of well-established camps?

I don’t have an answer. Perhaps you do.

I conclude with a few observations:

Given the growth of churches like Church of the Resurrection, Ginghamsburg, and Western Pennsylvania’s very own Crossroads (three churches that have created radically new and fruitful ministry while at the same time remaining aligned with the United Methodist denomination), I choose to believe that it is still very much possible for evangelical fervor, iconoclastic ministry, and denominational identity to coexist in a meaningful and redemptive way. Of course, there will always be occasions when it will be the RIGHT thing for a pastor or a congregation to sever ties with a particular denomination (for a variety of logistical or theological reasons). I am not advocating a “give me United Methodism or give me death” kind of stance here. I am simply emphasizing the point that an alignment with a denomination’s heritage and institutional structure need not be looked upon as being automatically antithetical to creative growth.

Second, what I have found in my encounters with some of United Methodism’s newest and fastest-growing churches is that, in many cases, those churches are willing to lead the institution (instead of waiting for the institution to lead them). This, I think, is the denominational institution’s best hope for a meaningful survival—assuming that the pastors of those churches are able to maintain their spirit of humility and accountability and assuming that the facilitators of the denominational institution are willing to be led into creative and unsettling new territory.

Third, the “institutional” issues of the appointment system, the itinerant ministry, and mission share cannot be eliminated from this conversation. How does United Methodism create a sense of healthy balance between demanding accountability to these institutional requirements and allowing churches and pastors to develop freely and creatively? That’s a bigger question than I know how to tackle right now.

Fourth, I am glad that I am part of an Annual Conference that allows and perhaps even encourages its churches (like Crossroads) to develop different campuses in the region. I am not blind to the dangers of such expansion. Nor am I blind to the lack of communication that can often exist between the ministry of the new campus and the ministry of the already-existing churches near to the new campus. (We need a great deal of relational work in that regard.) But I am thankful that the institutional church in Western Pennsylvania has seen fit to bless and support creative expansion instead of getting in the way of it.

Fifth, I am still concerned about the theological accountability of some of our newer churches—and some of our oldest churches too, quite frankly. We are not theological orphans, after all. We, as United Methodists, are the progeny of a deeply rich theological heritage that represents an important voice within the body of Christ. We have much to say about justification, sanctification, atonement, perfection, rebirth, baptism, the Lord’s Supper, worship, the life of ministry, and a host of other important theological issues. Believe me, I am no theological prude. But I want for our United Methodist churches to be distinctively Wesleyan in their theology and ministry, not because John Wesley had a monopoly on the truth, but because that is who we are.

Finally, I pray that both the present and the next generation of leaders in the church will commit themselves to helping the church to find a way to minister that firmly stands against both an idolatry of denominationalism and an idolatry of autonomy.

For nearly twenty years, one of the disciplines around which my life has revolved has been the discipline of preaching. Someone once told me that preachers, if they are going to make it for the long haul, must pause every now and then and remind themselves of the primary purpose of preaching, lest they be tempted to make their preaching about something other than that primary purpose.

So, allow me to do that for a moment.

If you were to ask me what the primary purpose of preaching is, this would be my heartfelt response: The purpose of preaching, as I see it, is to pour out the biblical Word in a way that will help the congregation to recognize its desperate need for “hydration” and in a way that will inspire the listeners both to pour themselves INTO the life of following Christ and to pour themselves OUT for the world that Christ came to save.

The purpose of the preaching, in other words, is not to entertain (although, occasionally, a preacher will inspire laughter over life’s absurdities). The purpose of the preaching is not to foster emotionalism (although, occasionally, a preacher will inspire tears with stories of faith). The purpose of preaching is not to browbeat or to politicize or to placate a congregation by telling it what it only what it wants to hear. Rather the purpose of preaching, in the opinion of this humble preacher, is to offer an authentic outpouring of the Word, which, when accompanied by the Holy Spirit, can inspire an equally authentic outpouring of self.

I utilize the image of pouring here only because that imagery is used so starkly in Second Timothy 4:6, where we find these words, ascribed to the Apostle Paul: “As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come.” The words “to pour out” (in Greek, “spendo”) is what one would do to a beverage. In this moment of Scripture, however, it is a reference to the pouring out of a drink offering made to a deity.

In the Old Testament, God commands the people to make a drink offering of wine to him, along with an offering of their first fruits, as a tangible sign of the people’s willingness consecrate or set apart for God their very best—the very best of their produce, and the very best of their wine. Therefore, when Paul describes himself as a poured out libation, he is making the point that his very life has become an offering to God, and he is pouring out that offering into a passionately devoted discipleship to Jesus Christ. Paul’s desire is for the world to understand that a life outpoured for the cause of Jesus Christ is the most joyful and meaningful life that there is to live.

In his sermon on the mount, Jesus taught that “blessed are the poor.” But in Second Timothy, Scripture puts it a bit differently: “Blessed are the POURED,” is the paraphrased proclamation of Second Timothy 4:6—which is to say, blessed are those who resist the temptation to give to God nothing more than a few convenient drops from their spiritual reservoir, and who instead pour the very best of themselves into the kind of life that honors and glorifies Jesus Christ.

Today, I am thinking of the discipline of preaching as an outpouring of sorts. I am also thinking about the life of discipleship that way. As I journey more deeply into the Lenten season, my prayer is that my preaching and living will both become an outpoured libation, offered wholly to the One who poured himself out so graciously for me and for the entire world.

In the early 1980’s, something significant happened in my life: I drifted away from the practice of reading comic books. I describe this as something significant because I am someone who learned to read with a Bible in one hand and a comic book in the other. Throughout the 1970’s, comic books were instrumental in the development of my imagination, my fondness for well-constructed narrative, and my love for mythic archetypes.

But in the 1980’s, other things demanded my creative energy. I had to navigate my way through the complexities of adolescent angst, the passion of teenage romance, and the intensity of being a football player and wrestler in western Pennsylvania. Comic books didn’t fit easily into the world that I had created for myself. And so, without any clear and conscious decision on my part, Spider-Man, Superman, Batman, Iron Fist, and the X-Men were unceremoniously pushed into the margins of my personal milieu. I had created a social realm that left little room for the superheroes of my childhood.

I lived that way for four or maybe even five years. Then, in 1986, (during the first semester of my junior year of college), a friend of mine asked me if I had been reading the “Watchmen” series. “The what,” I asked. (Up to this point, the only “Watchmen” with which I was familiar was a group of Christian musicians out of Clymer, PA. I was pretty certain that this was not what he had in mind.)

My friend went on to explain to me that “Watchmen” was a 12-issue comic book limited series written by Alan Moore and brought to the page visually by artist Dave Gibbons.

“You have to read this series,” he said, “because it is one of the most creative and provocative comics that I have ever read.”

“But I haven’t read comics for years,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” he responded. “This doesn’t even read like a comic book. It reads like a novel that happens to be accompanied and embellished by some really cool illustrations. It will make you feel like you are reading something important.”

At his urging, I read it.

I liked it.

I really liked it.

In short, “Watchmen” made me believe in the power and potential of comic books again.

As a 42-year-old, I now collect 14 different monthly comic book titles. Every three months, I pay a visit to a small comic book store in Bridgeville, Pennsylvania where I purchase my “gems” and shoot the proverbial breeze with Lou (the proprietor and my official comic book guy) about matters of theology, culture, and superhero lore. I have come to understand that comic books are not throwaway literature designed simply to placate the imagination of children. Rather, as M. Night Shyamalan suggested in his film “Unbreakable,” comic books are the hieroglyphics of postmodern culture and the storytelling mechanism for an age that is desperately searching for an adequate mythos. Comic books, in other words, represent nothing less than a sophisticated art form that is both literary and visual in its expression.

Part of what makes “Watchmen” so unique is that it boldly and consistently rejects heroism in favor of anti-heroism. Instead of a noble Superman (modernism’s quintessential expression of the purely heroic), “Watchmen” gives us Dr. Manhattan, whose immense power is counterbalanced by his misanthropy and his inability to care about the very world in which he lives. Instead of a virtuous Batman, “Watchmen” gives us The Comedian (who is not above attempted rape) and, my personal favorite, Rorschach, (whose penchant for fighting crime is accompanied by an equally strong penchant for thuggery, violence, and rejection of authority). Instead of a regally pure Wonder Woman, “Watchmen” gives us “Silk Spectre,” an emotionally needy soul with severe daddy issues.

By favoring the anti-heroic over the purely heroic, “Watchmen” is the perfect comic book narrative for a postmodern generation that has come to question every one of its institutions (including the church, the government, marriage, and the Justice League of America). As such, “Watchmen” is an artistic doorway into a creative exploration of the skepticism and paranoia that currently saturate the ethos of American culture. In “Watchmen,” after all, most of the “heroes” have been outlawed by the government—a component of its plot that calls to mind a world in which heroes are just another institution not to trust.

In an era like ours in which the concept of heroism finds itself having to bear the strain of broken political promises, paparazzi-captured public meltdowns, and steroid investigations, “Watchmen” still plays like a well-crafted cautionary tale. “There is hope for this world,” proclaims the “Watchmen’s” narrative, “but it won’t come through a blind reliance upon your heroes.”

When seen through the lens of “Watchmen,” last year’s “The Dark Knight” film makes much more sense. We are no longer living in a world that can accommodate the unadulterated nobility of Adam West’s Batman. Rather, as “Watchmen” makes clear, it is time for the anti-heroism of Christian Bale’s Batman—a darkly-hued vigilante crimefighter that the police and public fear more than they celebrate.

“Watchmen” is a deconstruction of sorts. It tears down the archetype that had been embraced since the late 1930’s—the archetype of a righteous “super man” who serves as the defender of “truth, justice, and the American way”—and replaces it with a meta-narrative in which the protagonists are much less jingoistic, much less motivationally pure, and much less…well…heroic.

The characters in “Watchmen” are as complex as they are interesting. Its plotline is multi-layered in its themes and multi-textured in its tones. It never becomes so otherworldly that it loses its sense of realism, and it never takes itself so seriously that it jettisons its sense of whimsy.

The cultural and artistic significance of “Watchmen” is difficult to measure. At the very least, its story stands as a noteworthy signpost on the journey in which we continue to find ourselves—the journey from modernity into postmodernity. It was a compelling enough signpost to lead me back to comic books. For that I am grateful.

Artistically, “Watchmen” demands a great deal of anyone who wishes to relate to it, but, in the opinion of this humble pewboy, it is well worth the investment. Tonight, Tara and I will go to the movie with high hopes, believing that “the comic book that could never be made into a movie” has somehow found a way.

One of the spiritual disciplines with which I am reconnecting during this Lenten season is the discipline of journaling. Interestingly, this blog has functioned as a type of journal for me over the last couple of years (at least insofar as such a public forum can be described as a journal). In recent days, however, the Spirit has drawn me back to a more personal and introspective journaling—a practice that, for me, always involves prayer, meditation upon biblical truth, reflection upon the happenings of my life, and the tangibility of putting actual pen to actual paper.

What is Christian journaling? It is the discipline of writing (or typing) about one’s activities, experiences, thoughts, feelings, and prayers for the purpose of deepening one’s discernment of how it is that God is redemptively and creatively at work in the seemingly common nooks and crannies of one’s daily living.

I have found many different blessings in the practice of journaling:

-Journaling helps me to become obedient to the biblical instruction to “examine yourselves to see whether your are living in the faith” (2 Corinthians 13:5);

-It enables me to clarify my own thoughts and to distinguish between my true feelings and my split-second emotional reactions;

-It brings my hidden sins and ulterior motives to light;

-It helps to purge my potentially destructive emotional energy;

-It strengthens my discernment concerning the purposes of God and the way in which those purposes are fulfilled over time;

-It broadens my perspective on the “big picture” of what life really means;

-It enables me to discern the answering and outcome of my prayers over time;

-It illuminates the evidence of sanctification in my own life;

-It helps me to listen to Scripture more attentively and to encounter it more meaningfully.

Franz Kafka, though not a Christian, articulated very well the urgency of the discipline of journaling for the person who has experienced its potential: “I won’t give up the diary again,” Kafka wrote. “I must hold on here. It is the only place I can.”

Likewise, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, one of my favorite writers, once captured in a single sentence the spiritual potential represented by the practice of writing: “This is not a pen, it is a prayer. One must have compassion for that.”

The other day, I flipped through the pages of a journal that I kept back in early high school (some 27 years ago). Reading the words written by that insecure, self-absorbed, yet earnestly prayerful fifteen-year-old boy brought to my heart a profound gratitude for the relentlessness of God’s grace and the profundity of God’s patience. The pages of that old journal also afforded to me a refreshing glimpse of a season of my life that remains a crucial part of who I am, though I am now far removed from that season chronologically.

That, I suppose, is why I journal in the first place. I journal because journaling helps me to understand how my past and present are inseparably linked in the timelessness of God’s redemptive providence. I journal because journaling deepens my attentiveness to the nuances of this human pilgrimage, no matter whether those nuances are to be found in a 2009 Cabinet meeting or a 1982 trigonometry class.

I journal, in other words, because journaling, through the Holy Spirit, becomes a means of grace that hones my discernment concerning the passing of time, the connectedness of happenings, and the often-surprising intersection between the eternal and the everyday.