Sucker Punched from the Spirit

My relationship with the Holy Spirit has its ups and downs. I'm never quite sure how to take her, or talk about her.  It seems a little crazy to say, “The Holy Spirit led me to …” or “The Holy Spirit is working through…”  If I say those things, won’t people think I’m a little touched in the head?  Most people who believe in a higher power have moments when that higher power comes close and they feel a connection to God in their daily lives. Christians refer to that presence as the Holy Spirit.  The times in my life when I’ve had a “god-filled moment” (as my priest would say) are usually when I’m feeling low.  When life has worn me down, when I’m worn out, anxious, desperate, that is when I reach out to God, “Help me.”  In those moments, I’m searching for a connection to something bigger, something that can soothe me and bring me peace.  

Once in a while, when things are going along just fine and I’m feeling just great, the spirit smacks me upside the head with a sharp dose of clarity.  I'm a pretty "spiritual" person, so to speak. I like to read and study spiritual things, from various traditions.  I know about nonattachment to desire, about putting faith in the practice rather than the end result, I know about surrendering to God.  I can speak about it and write about it and sometimes I can even do it.  I spend quite a bit of time doing church things and thinking about Christianity.  I am a dedicated student. I pay attention, I teach, I volunteer, I serve on committees, and I do my “homework”.  If Christianity gave out grades, I would expect least a 97% on my final--I am that kind of student.  My studies brought me to Peter Rollins’s excellent book, How (Not) to speak of God, and while reading this book, the Holy Spirit gave me a sucker punch right where it counts.

In his book, Rollins describes a liturgy to address prosperity.  I’ve heard of prosperity gospels, and transactional faith. I seriously dislike the idea of doing something spiritual for personal gain, the idea of, “I worship God so he gives me happiness, peace, money, or a life in heaven.”  I expected to wholly embrace and understand this liturgy.  In his description, Rollins tells a story of a man accused of being a Christian.  He’s put on trial, all the evidence is weighed of his church participation, his Bible study, his theological writings, his public speaking about Christ, and he is found Not Guilty--Not Christian.  Confused, the man asked how he can be not guilty, with all the evidence before him.  The judge replies, “The court is indifferent towards your Bible reading and church attendance; it has no concern for worship with words and pen.  Continue to develop your theology, and use it to paint pictures of love.  We have no interest in such church-going artists who spend their time creating images of a better world.  We exist for those who would lay down that brush, and their life, in a Christlike endeavor to create such a world.”  (Rollins 2006).

When I read those words, I was struck speechless.  I was laid low.  The striving, the preening for recognition, the practice, the intellectual learning, all fell away and I was stripped of pretension.  I felt naked and ashamed, held in the hand of God. All my knowledge of right words and right action only amounted to more idols that distracted me from God.  I was accomplishing tasks, rather than loving. I was checking things off the to-do list in my brain, so I could move on to the next assignment in my imaginary course, Becoming a Christan 301.  I was just as much of a sinner as I’d ever been, just as much of a poser, just as much of a liar.  

What could I do now?  If I promised to do better, to try harder, to love more freely, those promises would soon become points of pride again.  There was nothing I could do to make myself worthy; I had failed once more.  Frozen, I knelt and sobbed, “God forgive me.  I have not loved you with my whole heart.  I have not loved my neighbor as myself.  I am truly sorry and I humbly repent.”  Kneeling, exposed, and full of sorrow, I sobbed, crying, “God, please help me to love you…”

In my sobbing, God saw me.  I was broken open, and cool relief flooded down with my tears.  There was nothing in my heart that surprised God, no crevice in which I could hide, no wall I could build.  God saw through the veneer that made me presentable.  God knew my pride, my posturing, my envy, in every form, at every time.  God knew, and God loved me.  It is a terrifying thing to be loved unconditionally.  I’ve felt the love of God when the world has laid me low.  I’ve felt it lift me up and hold me.  Now, I felt it knock me down, and strip the scales from my eyes.  And God kept right on loving me, even though I still couldn’t get it right.

In my desperation and relief, I stopped trying.  Once again, I gave it up to God.  I knelt and wept, and gave up my pretense in place of prayer.   All the hymns I sang, the psalms I recited, the prayers I prayed, spoke directly into my broken heart, and I knew.  I knew the incredible, unconditional grace and mercy that God has for me, a sinner.  In that moment, I could lay down my burdens, my striving, and my pride, and make way for the love of God.  Thank you God, for knocking me down, so I can let you love me.

Rollins, P.  (2006).  How (not) to speak of God. (5th ed.)  Brewster, MA:  Paraclete Press.

This is my practice

Once in a while, church feels like work.  Not extremely difficult or tedious work, but definitely work.  We need to go to committee meetings.  We need to help with Sunday School.  We need to write newsletter articles.  We need to help with fundraisers.  There are so many things we need to do.  Where is that easy yoke and light burden that Jesus promised us, after all?  People here are kind of tired.  We ask questions, "How can we do better?  What are we missing?  Why aren't we making progress in x, y, or z?"

During times like this, in moments of frustration or weariness, I think of one of my favorite stories, a parable of sorts.  There was a Zen archery instructor teaching in the U.S.  After he’s been here for a number of years, a reporter interviews him and asks, “How is your teaching going?”  The master replies, “Terrible!  These Americans just cannot learn the concept.  I try to teach them not to aim for the target, but to practice mindfully, and trust the process.  No matter how hard I try, they cannot get it.  They insist on trying to win.”  The reporter asked him, “Do you plan to return to Japan, then?”  The instructor replies, “No.  This is my practice.  Teaching Americans not to aim for the target is my practice.”

All these things, the counting heads and counting coins, the looking for validation from the world, are like the archery student trying to hit the target.  Of course, I want a full church with vibrant membership worshiping and discussing theology on Sunday mornings.  Of course I want a positive church bank account so we can serve our community.  Of course, the Zen archery instructor wants his students to understand the practice, not just the goal.  He has the wisdom, however, to make that HIS practice.  He has the wisdom to show up every day and give his very best, most mindful, most excellent effort, like the student pulling the arrow with the best technique, without focusing on winning.  He has the wisdom to focus on the practice, not the goal.

This has perhaps been the most important and most repeated lesson in my life.  Whenever I become caught up in producing results, I lose my perspective.  I become cranky, anxious, and selfish.  When I think of the Zen archery instructor, who made his practice teaching people something they may never understand, I regain my balance.  I can work with renewed dedication, focus, and joy.

To quote both Friedrich Nietzche and Eugene Peterson, a spiritual journey is “a long obedience in the same direction”.  That’s a difficult concept in this post-post-modern age of instant results.  As George Leonard explains in his book, Mastery, the path of learning and mastery is long, boring, and sometimes lonely.  Learning happens sporadically, in a series of sharp climbs and long plateaus.  In order to continue learning, to walk the path of the master, the student must learn to love the plateau.  The true student of mastery learns to love not just the exciting new skill or understanding, but the daily repetition, the drills, the scales, the practice.  (Leonard, 1991)  The learner must show up to do the work of worship, teaching, serving, just for the sake of doing it, with a glad heart and a joyful spirit.  If I want to walk the path, even without a glad heart and a joyful spirit, I should do it anyway.  Eventually, I will love the plateau, eventually I will become better at what I can already do, and eventually the next upswing occurs, opening up to another vista and another plateau.

 How do we know if we are continuing with our faithful practice, our long obedience, or if we are merely stagnant and stalled?  How do we know if we are honoring tradition or afraid of change?  How do we know if we are taking the long view towards the Kingdom of God, or if we are stuck in our ways?  Maybe the answer is in the love we give.  If we are reaching outside of ourselves for others, then we must be on the right track, no matter how it feels to us at the moment.  As Christians, loving and serving others is our call and our crusade.  This is not the reward or the target; this is my practice.  

Leonard, G. B.  1991.  Mastery:  The keys to long-term success and validation.  New York:  Dutton.

The Dying Church

People keep saying that the church is dying, which is kind of a bummer, since I just signed up with it.  They tell me that the new gig I’m so excited about is actually with the dance band on the Titanic.  They tell me that the faith of our fathers is worn out and we need to rethink things. These predictions of the church’s demise bug me a little.  After all, I just got to the party and now it’s closing time?  That kind of sucks.  Just a few years ago, I was an “unchurched person”, someone who didn’t believe my beliefs were reflected by sitting in pews on Sunday mornings, singing Amazing Grace.  I was in the spiritual-but-not-religious camp, and quite happy there.  Recently though, I find myself on the inside-looking-out of church windows, asking the age-old question, “Why don’t people want to come to church?”  It’s surprising how quickly I have become an insider, wondering about the outsider I used to be.

What is it that brought me, a product of this post-modern, secular world, to this ancient institution?  Well, what kept me away?  Why didn’t I need church, during those years?  It wasn’t because I was living a life of sin and depravity.  Without church, I was still a moral, kind person (most of the time), who meditated, ate responsibly, and gave money to Free Tibet.  I walked away from the Christian faith as a young adult, because I hadn’t found enough space there. I didn’t believe in the Sunday School version of faith I’d crafted in my mind:  the old man in the sky judging everyone and sending the good ones to heaven and the bad ones to hell.  I wished for an expansive version of the faith of my childhood, something a little stretchier, with room to breathe. I looked into the big world religions, determined to craft my own theology.

Imagine my shock when my spiritual-but-not-religious reading list led me to Robert Farrar Capon’s explanation of the mystery of Christ.  Suddenly, I realized the church I thought I left was not Christianity at all; Christianity was much more mysterious, compelling, and filled with love.  I learned of a Jesus who is The Light of the World--not the lighting company.  I learned of a savior who became incarnate, but is not bound by time and space, a savior that had been with mankind since the beginning of the world, and will continue to save mankind until the end of the world.   Here was a God who won by losing, who conquered with love, and succeeded with unselfishness.  Here was a God who loves the lost, the wicked, who loves the prostitutes, the tax-collectors, the poor, the marginalized, the rednecks, the homeless, the suburban soccer-moms, the hipsters, who loves all of us lovable and unlovable losers, every one of us.  He always has loved us and he always will.  Here was the immeasurable, unearned, catholic grace of God in Jesus Christ.  My immature version of Christianity transformed into something expansive, inclusive, and irresistible.

So, now that I could swallow Christianity, hook, line, and sinker, what should I do?  The idea of attending a traditional church was quite frightening.  Would I find a message of grace or just guilt and fear?  I didn’t believe my beliefs would be reflected by a Christian preacher.  I didn’t want to hear about original sin, about going to hell, about women submitting to men, or about how homosexuality was a sin.  Would Christians greet me with love or with judgment?  I’d known enough of them to hope for the best, but fear the worst.  Eventually, a longing for community brought me through those red doors.  After months of reading, praying, and listening to hymns in solitude, I needed company.  The hope outweighed the fear; I screwed up my courage and packed up the kids on Sunday morning.  I found the party, I found the grace, and I found the love.  

So, what brought me to church?  What transformed me from a “none”, a spiritual-but-not-religious, non-churched person into a vestry member, Sunday school teacher, and Vacation Bible School leader in an Episcopal church?  The holy, mysterious gospel of Christ and the welcoming love of Christians.  I don’t know if our church is dying, or how to revive it.  I do know that the mystery of the grace and love of God through Christ becomes real through ancient rituals, hymns, and communion.  I do know that when churches focus on what they can do for others, rather than how they can fill the pews, when they proclaim love rather than sanctimonious threats, and when they look to serve rather than sell, they are bringing in the kingdom of God.  We may have to die before it is born, but then we believe in resurrection, don’t we?