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The Difference between Your Parents' Church and Your
Church St. John’s Presbyterian Church 2727 College Avenue, Berkeley, CA 94705 Telephone 510-845-6830 Fax 510-845-6837 office@stjohns.presbychurch.net http://www.stjohns.presbychurch.net God chooses as king the one least likely --
the least significant, the forgotten. This strange economy comes to its
fullness in the events of Easter where, contrary to all expectations, death
gives way to life and mourning is turned to dancing. David, it would appear, is not a
likely candidate to be given the responsibility of the Kingdom. How could he
ever believe he was called by God to follow the great and powerful Saul? You
may believe you are an unlikely candidate to be called into leadership too, but
if David is a sign, don't count yourself out just yet. As a growing person I went through a
few pendulum swings in my view of the people and leaders of the church. On the
one side was the idea that the people who ran the church were more qualified
than I. On the other, the people who ran the church were holding up a façade,
old beliefs and traditions that were no longer relevant or at least, not
something a rational person like myself could believe. The strange thing is
that no matter which direction I swung on the pendulum, I had this mysterious
sense there was a spiritual presence and power to life, which held a purpose
for me. As a small child I was somewhat in awe
of all big people. I idealized them you might say. I wasn't able to discern the
complexities of human life and so they were the people who knew and did
everything. Then about the time I was tall enough,
I remember getting hugs from church ladies and going home smelling of perfume.
There was one lady whose perfume I really didn't like, and she was the most
likely to give me a hug. (Don't worry. None of you ladies wear that perfume.)
This was the beginning of my understanding of mixed blessing, or the reality that
people bring with them pluses and minuses. While I wouldn't have admitted it,
or even understood at the time, there is something comforting and strengthening
about being connected to a group of people who see you as a child of God, take
joy in your presence and hope the best for you. Then about eighth grade, I decided
that I could think for myself, and that my thoughts were strange, unique and
separated me from the pack. I didn't quite fit in with the youth group kids,
and all that doctrine was strange and archaic. The old people (and now everyone
was old) seemed to believe things I didn't. Somewhere along the line, I think
from my older sister, I got the idea that church people were hypocrites, even
though I remember no strong evidence. That would come later. Also I was certain
that if I were the one doing church, the music would be different. Rebellion
was cool, so I would be a rebel. But I was also afraid of the adult
world of responsibility and didn't understand that if we have to wait to be
certain, to be all right or in total agreement before we make a decision, take
a stand or action, we will be waiting and lonely for a very long time. I was
afraid of being wrong and afraid of making a mistake. I acted like a rebel but
felt quite powerless. I was much too individualistic or self-centered in
college to commit to any kind of group. The mysterious presence was still there
so I took classes: philosophy, Native American traditions and world religions,
and I argued with those arrogant Christians that wanted to cram their beliefs
down your brain to stop you from thinking. I developed a great fondness for the
Hopi religion and for Buddhism, and even went to the temple of a professor a
few times and practiced seated meditation. Another professor was a sort of new
age guru, preaching the hierarchy or evolution of consciousness from primitive
religion, through traditional religions with a childlike image of a personal
God, and after wisely tossing those out, we would move to the highest level, a
quasi-buddhist consciousness, and wars would cease and we would become one. But all of this was more about
thinking than doing or being for me. It was more about sending out good
feelings to the people of the world, rather than the actual practice and
responsibility of trying to build and live in community with real people. And
then I read Reinhold Neihbur and his relentless, historically rooted
"pessimistic optimism," as he called it, and with that my new age
idealism flew off into the ether. My world religions professor also
taught religious ethics. Linda Holler was a wonderful lesbian woman with a
great mind and a heart of gold. It was in her class I read Dorothee Solle, a
German feminist theologian working at the time for Union Seminary in New York.
Solle used Christian mysticism to protest the arms race, and brought a strong
critique against the assumption that there is an all powerful God who is the
cause of suffering like the Holocaust or cancer; and that therefore humans
should put up with suffering for some greater purpose. Instead, as we see in
the life of Christ, God suffers and is powerless alongside us. Humans are to
enter into a Christ-like struggle together against oppression, sexism,
anti-Semitism, and other forms of authoritarianism. In this struggle we discover
the love of God is more powerful than suffering. It was also in Linda's class that I
read Robert Macafee Brown, ordained Presbyterian minister and then professor at
Pacific School of Religion here in Berkeley. Brown introduced me to God's
preferential option for the poor, seen in such places like John Chapter 5. Here
we see that if there is a conflict between pleasing authorities, religious
piety or helping someone in need, Jesus chooses to help the person in need. It
is not about right doctrine, but right action. Right doctrine flows from the
context of love and justice. If we don't see the rightness, the righteousness
of this compassion and justice over social position and piety, we are blind. Here I was, a long way from church,
like Noah running in the opposite direction most of the time, spending more
time drinking Corona and tequila at Hussong's Cantina in Ensenada than in
church. And then, from a class with an
incredibly faithful woman prophet who was not welcome in the church, like the
woman at the well whom we studied last week, I received a clear voice from God,
an anointing you might say, to serve God's church. But it wasn't my church. It was still
my parents' church. It was still the old people's church, the hypocrites'
church (and now after studying history I had the evidence), the church for
people who knew what they believed, knew what they were doing. So I kept running past Mexico into
Guatemala, but at least now I had a sense of purpose. I spent a lot of time
praying in the Peace Corps. From Guatemala I enlisted my parents' church's help
to fund a chicken project with the family of a child who had starved to death.
When I returned home, the church wanted a report. The son of proud parents, I
gave the report. And then I got a hug from the same lady who still wore the
same perfume. It was still my parents' church. Like
David I am way down the line of kids in my family. Like Moses, I still had lots
of excuses why it shouldn't be my responsibility. I'm dyslexic. I had a
daughter with a woman I couldn't possibly marry. I was afraid to speak in
public. I couldn't stand the music. I didn't believe all the doctrine. I wasn't
sure I was born again, and certain people told me that if I were, I would
certainly know I was. And I had to be born again. Otherwise I would be a
hypocrite, a lukewarm Christian whom God would surely spit out. My parents
weren't cool, and the born againers certainly didn't have a problem claiming
ownership of the church, so I would continue to let them have it. With an educated guess, I imagine many
of you have similar stories, similar faith journeys. There are other kinds of
stories. There are those you like my parents who grew up in the church and made
a simple natural transition to faith and leadership of adulthood. There are
those of you who didn't start in a church, whose parents were anti-church. And
there are several who, like Ruth in the Bible, come from other religions, and
yet find yourselves drawn to serve God here. But there are a bunch who were
raised in some church and have had a hard time claiming it for yourself. The
younger generations definitely have a harder time with commitment. We are more
independent in our spirituality and tend to approach spirituality with a
capitalist mentality. We pick and choose what feels right, go where our needs
are best being serviced. But something deeper than all that has brought you
here to meet God, to receive forgiveness, to think about your faith, and to
live in a community which celebrates beauty, grace and justice. This week we started our class reading
of the book, The Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell. Rob says he has a velvet Elvis in
his basement. You know the one I am talking about: the kind you can purchase
next to Hussong's Cantina. He uses that painting as an analogy for faith and
the church. He says, "I think the best part of my velvet Elvis is the
lower left-hand corner where the artist wrote a capital R and then a period.
Because when you're this good, you don't even have to write your whole name. What if, when he was done with this
masterpiece, R. had announced there was no more need for anyone to paint
because he had just painted the ultimate painting?" "We would say that R. had lost
his mind. We say this because we instinctively understand that art has to, in
some way, keep going, keep exploring, keep arranging, keep shaping and forming
and bringing in new perspectives." David the musician was anointed by God
to bring a new tune to the kingdom. Jesus called people to rethink their faith,
scripture, hope and love. Martin Luther, to use just one example in the church,
"raised a whole series of questions about the painting the church was
presenting to the world. He insisted that God's grace could not be purchased
with money or good deeds. He wanted everyone to have their own copy of the
Bible in a language they could read. He argued that everyone had a divine
calling on their lives to serve God, not just priests who had jobs in
churches". In the Reformed or Presbyterian
tradition we have a saying, we are "reformed and always reforming."
"Our tradition then," says Bell, "is painting, not making copies
of the same painting over and over... If this difficult work isn't done, where
does the painting end up? In the basement. The tradition is the painting, not making copies of
the same painting over and over." The tradition didn't stop with Saul.
David stepped up to paint his version of a divinely driven life. He certainly
wasn't perfect. The polls would never have predicted him to be a winner, but
God chose him and he stepped up to answer God's call to the best of his
ability. The Christian faith tells us that Jesus' life was not the end, but
just the beginning. He opened our eyes to show us the way, but we have to take
the journey. Our parents painted their version of the church. They walked the
way the best they could. What is the way you choose to follow? The question before you, before this
congregation after 100 years of mission and ministry is not where has the
church been, but where is it going? Not, what have the people before us done to
make this God's Church, but what are we going to do with our lives, with this
church. Someone once said God doesn't call the
qualified. God qualifies the called. Even after I went to seminary, I still had
not considered any church my church. Even in my home church, I felt like a
guest. I had a tough time in preaching class because I still didn't feel
qualified, I didn't feel like it was my place to say. Then during my internship the minister
went to Scotland and left me to do my best. A woman who was a new member had
recently separated from her husband. The husband kidnapped the kids and
murdered them, and then killed himself. The mother came in and asked if I would
officiate at the service for the children. The family of the murderer and the
family of the mother would be present at the same service, with media looking
on for a show. This was such an overwhelming responsibility that it was
impossible to overstate my lack of qualification. But there is a higher power,
a hope beyond hope. It is not just about personal identity, ownership or
comfort, but also about standing in community with the power of love and grace.
And it is amazing how comforting that can be, how reaching out with hope for
others gives us hope, identity and ownership. When it really comes down to it,
it doesn't matter whether church has been your parents' thing, or what kind of
perfume you wear, or what kind of music is played. What matters is, are we
going to bring God's love today? What matters is that this is God's Church. I don't care who you were yesterday,
what you have done or not done. I don't care who came before you. Nothing
disqualifies you from bringing in God's love today. It is God who justifies.
Christ Jesus who died, and yes, is alive. You may be the seventh son of a
shepherd, or an atheist, hedonist or just blind. God's grace is more powerful
than your disbelief, more powerful than your selfish pleasure or sin. I once
was blind but now I see. Share in the act of love and grace and you will know
love and grace that has no end. |