Sunday, Lonely Sunday

It's Sunday morning. I used to go to church on Sundays. For most of my life Sunday was “church day,” a “day of rest.” Maybe you can relate. On Sundays Mom and Dad would get into their nicer clothes (Dad wore nice suites for work, but his Sunday clothes somehow looked better). My two older sisters and I would do the same. As we kids got older there would invariably be some amount of chaos in the bathroom as three women got themselves church ready. Someone's curling iron was always broken or left unplugged or nylons ripped or clothes wrinkled. And if it wasn't that, we were just behind schedule for unknown reasons. Overslept a bit, took too long to eat, poorly timed bowel movement etc. Whatever the cause, my memory is of many abrupt departures and slightly illegal speeds on the way to church. But we were always there, and pretty much always on time.

Once there, we did churchy stuff—I learned about Jesus and Bible stories in Sunday School while my parents taught or went to Bible study. Then the service: organ music, prayers, organ music, sermon, organ music, offering, organ music, line up to shake the pastor’s hand on the way out. My dad was an usher. Sometimes I would get to sit in the back with him and his crew (he liked to leaf through the bulletin during the sermons). Speaking of which, the sermons where always the same: "good" Lutheran law and gospel, they would remind us how sinful we were so they could remind us how gracious God was in sending Jesus to save us. It was like an inverted roller coaster every week. They took us down, down, down, so they could shoot us back up and send us on our way for the week feeling uplifted.

That may sound like an over-simplification, but it really isn't. That's how we were "fed." Walk into any conservative Evangelical or Protestant church and you will likely encounter the same. To be reminded of God's love was to first be reminded of our guilt. And that was the story, the "good news," told time and time again. People are sinful, but God is loving. It's not a bad starting point, necessarily, but nor is it always a good one either. It doesn't say much about the messiness and pain of life. Nor does it have much of anything to say about complex social and political issues. (And, it just isn't theologically honest to hold the great, multifaceted mysteries of God and life in such a static and elementary state--not to mention the oversimplified and negative anthropology*).

Anyway, that was Sunday: nice clothes, organ music, and a selection of stories about Jesus. My wife and I have done a similar thing with our kids for most of our marriage. We've had our share of mad dashes out the door too! Which I am both a little embarrassed and kind of proud to say.

But over the years we've found different stories in the churches we've attended. They are still the Christian story, but with various places of emphasis. Some try to avoid the weekly down and up roller coaster by simply focusing on God's love as the beginning and end of the story. Again, it's not a bad way of telling the "good news" (sounds a little better than the other way), but it isn't very developed either. "God loves you, and Jesus was a cool guy, and God still loves you" also doesn't really get into the nitty gritty of life. It's definitely not a bad thing to be reminded of, but it doesn’t push you into deeper levels of conversation.

Other churches we’ve visited have focused almost solely on community. These are usually lovely places with loving people. They use God's love as the complete starting and end point and then simply preach and teach the beauty of fellowship and our relationship to all of life. This seems to invite more thought and engagement with the complexities of life. They talk about the issues facing individuals and society quite a bit. But as with any of these, it isn't very attractive or inspiring to those who aren't already drawn to religious community in the first place (I mean, if you're not into organ music or praise bands why sit through it?). All of these types of churches tend to rely on societal norms that have simply changed over the past 50 years.

About that, the institutional church as we once knew it is dying a long, slow death in the United States and has been for more than 50 years. Let that sink in for a minute. I'm 41 years old. That means that my entire lifetime has been lived amidst the slow decline of the church that my parents knew growing up. And the trends still continue. We are witnessing the painstakingly slow death of institutional Christianity. (Note that I did not say the death of the Christian faith, that is a different thing entirely. It is the institution that is dying away.)

Again, this isn't a bad thing, necessarily. It's just a thing. People are changing. Society is changing. We don't gather regularly as we used to, we don't join organizations like we used to. This can all seem a bit unsettling, I suppose, but then you realize that we didn't used to do those things before we used to them either. That is to say, if the institutional church is dying and needs to be reborn, it's not as if it is just now, in our lifetimes, changing for the first time in 2000 years. The church is always changing. There was a time before organ music and wooden pews. There was a time before praise music. There was a time before vehicles and roads made it possible for people from far and wide to gather easily every week. There was, apparently, a time when the "followers of the way" met every day for the reading of scriptures and prayer and shared all of their possessions in common! That time just happened to be what we now call the early church and our society and norms certainly don't compel us to do anything like that anymore... The point is, things change—get over it.

And yet, the title of this piece—I am lonely on Sunday mornings. I can fill them with youth sports or projects or the NFL or fishing or work or friends or whatever. Seems like that’s what most of us try to do. But I want more. I want to be part of a community, something bigger than myself or my friends. I need it. And I want a regular chance to connect with something bigger in a meaningful way.

I’ve always looked to church to fill that desire for committed, intentional community, and spiritual growth. But here’s the thing, even when I do go to church these days, I feel lonely. Something isn’t quite right. The churches that I want to attend tell a beautiful, compelling Christian story of God’s love for the world. They are inclusive and loving places doing their best to be the kingdom that Jesus proclaimed.

Yet they are also fractionalized; their energies are split as they attempt the impossible task of being both open and responsive to their community while also propping up a substantial version of the old way of being church for their more traditional, often older--and often affluent--members (i.e. the ones who have the resources to keep the doors open--you see the dilemma). So the energy is off. The story hits home, but the life is restrained and channelled into dying forms (traditional programs and committees and rhythms) that simply require too much energy. Members are anxious or burning out trying to do both (especially alongside societal expectations that they can have it al in work and family lives as well).

So no matter what I do on Sunday, it feels lonely. And maybe just naming it is the first step toward something better. Maybe stopping long enough to feel lonely and owning that feeling can help me figure out just what it is that I’m looking for. Maybe it is a nudging of the Spirit. At the very least it is honest. Perhaps it is enough to simply rest in that for now.

Dust to Dust: Who is my Neighbor?

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

- Traditional Ash Wednesday Liturgy

In Sebastian Junger's book, Tribe, he points out how people in truly dire circumstances pull together and look out for whomever is in close proximity no matter their background. Whether in times of war, famine, flood, or other catastrophes, it is a beautiful truth about our human race that we react to such frightful times by looking out for one another. And as Junger points out, we do so by essentially following the rules of the tribe, with all who are able working toward a collective good that is bigger than any one individual's self interest.

Indeed, in times of crisis, neighbors tend to help neighbors and the lines of division that exist when times are good become completely meaningless. People work together in egalitarian ways. Leaders emerge but do not dictate, nor do they take advantage of their role. There is no rich or poor in the middle of a war zone, there is no black or white, east or west. For those on the ground, there is only neighbor helping neighbor. And, as Junger reports from his experiences in war-torn Bosnia, not only do people pull together to survive, they actually form bonds of community that are stronger and more life-giving than during other times. Apparently, when the going gets tough, human beings care for one another in community in profound ways.

Interesting that what we think of as the highest moral directive, that we would "love one another, as we love ourselves," might not be something so lofty that we can barely dream of attaining it, but rather that it is something so close to us that we only find it when we are able to forget ourselves and simply "do what must be done." Of course we have instincts to protect our own, but it seems that when times are tough enough, "our own" comes to include anyone and everyone. When we are most aware that we are dust then we are most able to truly love our neighbor and see all of humanity as such.

What does it mean that we return to ourselves in this way? What does it mean that in times of peace and prosperity we lose track of this basic way of being together in community?...

I have spent my life in the safe, sterile affluence of American society at its peak. From a historical perspective, growing up in a middle-class home in a small midwest American town during the 1990's, probably puts me in the 0.0001% of human history in terms of safety and comfort (and theoretically, therefore, the opportunity to grow and thrive). I have lived a privilege beyond the comprehension of the vast majority of those in human history (not to mention the poor and outcast from our own time!).

Yet, I also know how many from this background struggle to feel at peace, how many deal with depression, anxiety, and a lack of meaning in our lives. And I have seen the vain ways we attempt to fill that void--with more and more consumption of material goods or experiences. We've been given the world, yet we've lost track of how to enjoy it together. We long for the connection of true community, a tight-knit neighborhood or tribe of people caring for one another, but we don't know how to find it. We accept endless consumption as a cheap substitute with no seeming knowledge of the actual costs of that consumption to ourselves or our world.

In the time of the greatest wealth in human history, we have the largest and most pronounced gap between the rich and the poor in our nation's history, while also approaching a tipping point in global environmental degradation. Our consuming habit (or defense mechanism) is killing our planet, it is eroding the bonds of our communities, and it is slowly suffocating our souls.

Yet we keep moving, keep buying, keep running to avoid the risk of feeling what we lack--meaningful connection to our local community, our actual neighbors (i.e. the actual people we live and work near, the ones we walk past on the street or in the aisles of the grocery store).

What would it take to remember that we (all of us, neighbor to neighbor) belong to one another? We can imagine the very real threat of global climate catastrophe or a nuclear-armed enemy, but even these actual threats can remain distant and abstract enough to ignore in our daily lives.

In the 90's we liked to imagine the end of the world. We watched movies like Armageddon, Independence Day, and Deep Impact. Thankfully, humanity always managed to pull together in those stories. We didn't pay much attention to how natural that was even as we rode the euphoric high of the imagined, global near-death experience back out of the theater doors into the physical world of our hometowns. But nor did we question, unfortunately, why we couldn't carry the good feelings of cooperation elicited by these stories over into real-life cooperation and connection with those around us.

For if there is anything true and good in those movies it is that they strike a chord of harmony, cooperation, and care for all within the human heart, yet we discount the "deep impact" of emotion as a manufactured yank of heartstrings and ignore that it points to a very real truth: ultimately, when we allow ourselves to feel it or are pushed to the brink together, we know that we belong to one another.

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Dust to Dust, Embracing The Human Tribe: An Ash Wednesday Prayer

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

- Traditional Ash Wednesday Liturgy 

It has always bothered me that the good news of Christianity is anything but the "good news that will cause great joy for all the people (As Luke's gospel put it)." 

No, for too many the Christian message has become at best a point of contention, at worst an excuse for tribalism. It has become news that "is good for me and my group, but not so good for you." With the you being sinners of all sorts—non-believers, liberals, homosexuals, immigrants, conservatives, fundamentalists—whoever is in those "other" groups. Or, perhaps more often, this good news for all people becomes news that is "fine for you, just don't push it on me." With the you in this case being the Jesus freaks, Catholics, Pentecostals, liberals, Baptists, Lutherans, conservatives, Evangelicals, whoever those people are gathering for their so-called worship every week and neglecting to engage with the rest of us (which, by the way, is just fine with us).

I suppose it is natural. It is only human that any news to be shared would also have the potential to divide. For anything we might call "news" must certainly contain some form of knowledge to be transmitted as content. And wherever knowledge exists as such, there is also the shadow side of knowledge—as power to be exploited. Indeed, good news is hard to find! Even the good news. For it's not good news if I am certain of it and you have to agree with my certainty. Then it is dogma, then it is the letter of the law, which Paul tells us will surely convict us all in the end. 

No, good news cannot be about your certainty. But it can be about your convictions. Paul's words in Romans 8 come to mind, 

"For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." 

What a beautiful sentiment. Paul is convinced of these things! See how that strikes you as a the reader? He's not imposing anything upon you, simply sharing a deep conviction of his own and holding forth a lovely list, enumerating the many obstacles which he believes to be nothing before the all-powerful love of God in Christ. He is making a proclamation. He is sharing news, but he is doing it in a way that does not impose.

No, the good news cannot be an imposition. It cannot play on power dynamics. It cannot be something that I have and you need, that I know properly and you know mistakenly, that I will share when I think you are ready, that I have and you don't! What is good about that? Jesus never talked like that. He announced freedom and forgiveness and healing. He announced the kingdom of God. Period. His words were not held as power, but given as gift. 

(Of course some will say, "But, but what about when he said he was 'the way and the truth?' What about when he said that no one comes to Father except by him?" To which I would simply ask "what was that way that Jesus was?" It was a way of humility and peace, a way of submission, yes even submission unto death—that was the way! In fact, Philippians tells us that "[even Jesus] who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited." So yes, of course he was the way, and is the way, and his life showed the fullness of that submissive, giving, way.)

Today is Ash Wednesday. Today is the day that many Christian churches begin a slow, solemn march toward the sorrow of Holy Week and its surprising, culminating celebration, that highest day of good news sharing in the church—Easter Sunday. It is fitting, then, that we would begin this season in humility, that we would at least attempt to avoid the haughtiness of a certainty that would set us apart and remember our humble place within the great tribe of humanity. 

"You are dust and to dust you shall return."

For who can hear the ancient Ash Wednesday reminder without a full recognition of our exact equal footing with every other person who ever was and ever will be? Who can hear these words without the stark realization of our true standing before that which transcends all of the here and now? Who can hear these words and draw any lines between themselves and another?

Perhaps we can take a cue from this stark reality, this "bad news" reminder with which we start the Lenten season. Perhaps this news, stunning and humbling as it is, could be the template for how to speak of our Easter convictions without turning them into lines that divide.

What would it be like to "know" the good news of resurrection in the same way that we know our ultimate fate as dust? Could we hear it like that? Could we "know" it while holding our place of equal footing with others (therefore not judging or rating others in their standing before God)? Could we hold the good news of the gospel in a fundamental way, a way that joins us to one another, a way that allows us to see that we are all in this together, to actually believe that we are ALL the body of Christ, just like our Sunday school teacher said? 

What would it be like to hear the good news of Jesus as such? It might, rightfully, seem as if we were starting to achieve that dream that Jesus had for us, that vision and prayer he had that we might "be one as he and the Father are one."

Hmm... Could that be true for us, mere dust that we are? Why, to hold the story of Easter like that? It might start to actually sound like it was good news "for all the people." Even more, we might start to act like it.

One

... One of twenty-six thousand, two hundred and ninety-three,

Hold on.

One of five point seven nine five million,

Stop.

One of three hundred twenty-five point seven million.

Please.

One of seven point seven billion.

Stop!

No.

1 of 1. Here. Today. Here, now. Alone. Reaching out.

One of seven point seven billion,

Stop.

Nameless, faceless--

No!

1 of 1. There. Everywhere—right now. Alone.

Alone with everyone—driving, pushing, pulling, tossing.

Dancing?

Are you dancing?

Stop, but don’t stop...

Come, listen.

Talk, but don’t talk.

Touch, but don’t touch.

See…

1 of 1

Seven point seven billion of seven point seven billion.

One of one.