Hello all! As some of may have heard, my research proposal to the Christian Congregational Music Conference has been accepted! I am extremely happy for this opportunity, and have a busy few months of research ahead of me.
My proposal is to study the correlation between style of music (genre) performed in a given congregation during Sunday services and the position of that church on the question of Queer acceptance. The suggestion has been made that open and affirming churches perform a certain repertoire and style of music, while churches that are either open but not affirming or closed and not affirming perform another. My first question is: Is this the case? My second is: If so, why? If not, why is that the perception among some Queer identifying people? My final objective for this paper is to highlight the ways in which the theological and ethical identity of a congregation is reflected or challenged by the musics performed as normative worship. What might the implications of any conclusion drawn from this course of study be for practitioners and church leaders?
In addition to this research project, I have been given a couple of awesome opportunities to do some creative writing, and if all goes according to plan, you will be able to enjoy the fruit of my labor very soon! In any case, I will update here when more can be shared. But for now, take my word for it: it's gonna be awesome!
All of this to say, in addition to the small and insignificant task (sarcasm) of being the primary caregiver for a 1 year old, I am not going to be updating the old blog here as frequently with as much depth as I would like. I will still update it regularly, but the posts will just be shorter.
May you all be blessed with grace, peace, and faith over the coming months.
A Legacy of Fear
For much of my life I have been plagued by fear. When I was a small boy I would have debilitating anxiety attacks; most kids are afraid at night, but I was hysterically, irrationally afraid of something getting me in my sleep.
So I wouldn't sleep.
When I was a little older, I was terrified of losing my parents. I remember panicking so badly when they were late returning from a date that I literally ran into the wall of my aunt and uncle's house. From the outside. I was 12 at the time--not a little kid.
And so I tried to keep track of my parents at all times.
By the time I reached high school I thought I had overcome much of my fear. But the trials of teenaged society elicited a new fear; fear of ridicule and scorn. This then turned into fear of being unwanted, unloved. And so I would try my best to say the right things and not offend anyone--if you know me, you know that was completely unsuccessful.
Eventually I grew up.
My childhood fears subsided, or at least became more refined: I still can't sleep, but now I say it's because my mind won't shut off. I'm still afraid of losing my parents, but that's a natural fear when middle age and health concerns become reality, right? And I even stopped trying--sorta--to not offend anyone. Now I just try to offend them for the right reasons!
But I am still afraid.
When I was 26, I had the unpleasant distinction of encountering the hatred and animosity that bitterness can build in someone else. I was the erstwhile recipient of a character assassination by people whom I had considered lifelong friends. That event still stings. I wake up in the middle of the night terrified that they're plotting some new way of doing me harm.
A legacy of fear.
The religious community that I gravitated towards for most of my life was founded and built on fear. There are too many fears to count, but one big one stands out: fear of being wrong. This fear underwrites so much of what I've engaged in the past.
Perfect love casts out fear.
The reason I am writing this post is that at some point in my life I was grabbed by a reality that overcomes fear. I met Jesus--the real one, not the one who makes everyone afraid they're going to hell. I'd like to say that I'm not afraid anymore, but that just isn't true. But what I am doing is learning to live in the love that casts out fear. This love is not a white wash for evil, but is instead a love that realizes the evil--the wrongness of that fear--and forgives it. I'm still learning to do this. And I quite often react in anger and fear when I feel threatened. But the grace of God calls me out of it; calls me into a life of love without that kind of fear. And that is my goal; not just for me but for everyone I know. I want to live in the love that casts out fear. I want to be a part of that love.
So I wouldn't sleep.
When I was a little older, I was terrified of losing my parents. I remember panicking so badly when they were late returning from a date that I literally ran into the wall of my aunt and uncle's house. From the outside. I was 12 at the time--not a little kid.
And so I tried to keep track of my parents at all times.
By the time I reached high school I thought I had overcome much of my fear. But the trials of teenaged society elicited a new fear; fear of ridicule and scorn. This then turned into fear of being unwanted, unloved. And so I would try my best to say the right things and not offend anyone--if you know me, you know that was completely unsuccessful.
Eventually I grew up.
My childhood fears subsided, or at least became more refined: I still can't sleep, but now I say it's because my mind won't shut off. I'm still afraid of losing my parents, but that's a natural fear when middle age and health concerns become reality, right? And I even stopped trying--sorta--to not offend anyone. Now I just try to offend them for the right reasons!
But I am still afraid.
When I was 26, I had the unpleasant distinction of encountering the hatred and animosity that bitterness can build in someone else. I was the erstwhile recipient of a character assassination by people whom I had considered lifelong friends. That event still stings. I wake up in the middle of the night terrified that they're plotting some new way of doing me harm.
A legacy of fear.
The religious community that I gravitated towards for most of my life was founded and built on fear. There are too many fears to count, but one big one stands out: fear of being wrong. This fear underwrites so much of what I've engaged in the past.
Perfect love casts out fear.
The reason I am writing this post is that at some point in my life I was grabbed by a reality that overcomes fear. I met Jesus--the real one, not the one who makes everyone afraid they're going to hell. I'd like to say that I'm not afraid anymore, but that just isn't true. But what I am doing is learning to live in the love that casts out fear. This love is not a white wash for evil, but is instead a love that realizes the evil--the wrongness of that fear--and forgives it. I'm still learning to do this. And I quite often react in anger and fear when I feel threatened. But the grace of God calls me out of it; calls me into a life of love without that kind of fear. And that is my goal; not just for me but for everyone I know. I want to live in the love that casts out fear. I want to be a part of that love.
Let's Talk About Non-Violence
I made a commitment to non-violence in 2009, after surviving the coup that ousted Honduran then-president Manuel Zalaya. It wasn't that singular event that persuaded me to commit to peace, but was rather a long series of events that culminated in a so called "moment of clarity."
Antecedents
My spiritual heritage finds its roots in the undercurrent of 16th century religious reform - alternately called the "Radical Reformation," "the Anabaptists (re-baptizers)," or the "left wing" of the Protestant Reformation. Despite some suggestions to the contrary, most scholars now agree that this movement originated in Zurich ca 1524. The hallmarks of this type of Christianity are equality among the faithful, social justice, and non-violence (there are of course other aspects of this heritage that are emphasized by others, but these are the points of emphasis in my religious history).
I grew up always having some notion that lethal violence was bad, and that it was always better for people to live than to die. But along the way I became convinced that there were certain situations where it was necessary for someone to die. Most compelling to me was the history of WWII. I was absolutely convinced that the Allies were right in opposing Hitler's Nazism. This conviction illustrated to me that there are certain situations that demand lethal force.
Exceptions that prove or exceptions that deny?
So let me back up a little bit and explain what exactly I mean by non-violence. Non-violence to me is a pretext for dialogue: It is an orientation of discourse that seeks to answer the injustices of such evils as Nazism before they demand violent response. Non-violence to me is not a reactive measure - a passive resignation to the triumph of evil should it manifest itself in power - but is a proactive stance that seeks to identify evil before it has a chance to take root. That stance attempts to reveal and subvert evil before it demands violent response. The failure in the context of WWII was not the Allied response to Hitler's aggression, but was instead the unwillingness to check the Nazi regime's aggression preemptively.
Make it smaller.
Okay, so Nazi's and the holocaust are extreme examples, and hopefully not ones we are ever going to face in real life (although don't rule it out). What about a mugging? Or a home invasion? What then? Do we condemn our families to death by inaction when it seems unavoidable? Again, the answer is pre-emptive. What can I do to identify those potentialities and undercut them before they become reality? Can I avoid a mugging by how I dress? Can I avoid a home invasion by not flaunting my wealth or by making sure my house is secure? Perhaps not, but I can work towards reforming the social conditions that make mugging or home invasion attractive activities. I can advocate for better working conditions for others. I can commit myself to a community where my neighbors know me and know that I am looking out for their interests, and hopefully they will do the same.
Boil it down.
But ultimately, it boils down to a faith that relies on God for my protection and an understanding of the world that sees Love as the antithesis of fear and hatred. I cannot profess loving someone I kill, and therefore I cannot kill someone if I profess to love them.
Antecedents
My spiritual heritage finds its roots in the undercurrent of 16th century religious reform - alternately called the "Radical Reformation," "the Anabaptists (re-baptizers)," or the "left wing" of the Protestant Reformation. Despite some suggestions to the contrary, most scholars now agree that this movement originated in Zurich ca 1524. The hallmarks of this type of Christianity are equality among the faithful, social justice, and non-violence (there are of course other aspects of this heritage that are emphasized by others, but these are the points of emphasis in my religious history).
I grew up always having some notion that lethal violence was bad, and that it was always better for people to live than to die. But along the way I became convinced that there were certain situations where it was necessary for someone to die. Most compelling to me was the history of WWII. I was absolutely convinced that the Allies were right in opposing Hitler's Nazism. This conviction illustrated to me that there are certain situations that demand lethal force.
Exceptions that prove or exceptions that deny?
So let me back up a little bit and explain what exactly I mean by non-violence. Non-violence to me is a pretext for dialogue: It is an orientation of discourse that seeks to answer the injustices of such evils as Nazism before they demand violent response. Non-violence to me is not a reactive measure - a passive resignation to the triumph of evil should it manifest itself in power - but is a proactive stance that seeks to identify evil before it has a chance to take root. That stance attempts to reveal and subvert evil before it demands violent response. The failure in the context of WWII was not the Allied response to Hitler's aggression, but was instead the unwillingness to check the Nazi regime's aggression preemptively.
Make it smaller.
Okay, so Nazi's and the holocaust are extreme examples, and hopefully not ones we are ever going to face in real life (although don't rule it out). What about a mugging? Or a home invasion? What then? Do we condemn our families to death by inaction when it seems unavoidable? Again, the answer is pre-emptive. What can I do to identify those potentialities and undercut them before they become reality? Can I avoid a mugging by how I dress? Can I avoid a home invasion by not flaunting my wealth or by making sure my house is secure? Perhaps not, but I can work towards reforming the social conditions that make mugging or home invasion attractive activities. I can advocate for better working conditions for others. I can commit myself to a community where my neighbors know me and know that I am looking out for their interests, and hopefully they will do the same.
Boil it down.
But ultimately, it boils down to a faith that relies on God for my protection and an understanding of the world that sees Love as the antithesis of fear and hatred. I cannot profess loving someone I kill, and therefore I cannot kill someone if I profess to love them.
The Older Brother
This post is inspired by Erwin McManus' sermon of 14 December, 2014.
Have you ever felt like you are on the wrong side of a story? Like the things that happen to you should have happened to someone else, or that the things that happened to someone else should have happened to you?
Have you ever watched someone make a terrible decision and been powerless to stop it? Maybe you've even tried to stop them; tried to explain how they were making a mistake; tried to alert them to the dangers of what they were doing?
Has it ever seemed like the entire country was devolving into violence, anger and hatred? And despite your loud yelling, obvious logic, and confident propositions no one listened to you?
I have.
And let me tell you how I've responded: I've been critical, angry, and petty. I've been despondent, ready to throw in the towel on this whole Christianity thing.
And I've been self-righteous.
I've been angry at the unjust flourishing enjoyed by those who seem to only care about their own interests and getting their own way--no matter what it costs others. I've been livid by what I perceive as self-absorbed piety.
And I've been angry at God for allowing the world to be like this.
But it gets worse. I've been angry at God because the people who seem to be the worst violators of justice and peace are those who call themselves Christians. And even worse still is that these people who claim to follow Jesus are claimed by Jesus too! They enjoy all the benefits of their privileged position, thinking that all they need to do is acknowledge that it was God who gave them that privilege.
And it makes me angry.
So angry in fact that I don't want to go to church, listen to a sermon, sing a song, or talk about Jesus. I've begun to feel as if the people at church are there celebrating themselves and the good fortune of being them.
Breathe.
In Luke 15 Jesus tells the parable that is commonly called "The Prodigal Son." I used to think I loved that story, because that's what good Christians do: they love stories of redemption and hope. But over the years I've begun to like it less and less. Not because I stopped loving redemption and hope, but because I started to realize that my identification with this story was not that of the prodigal, but of the the other son.
I am the older son.
I've never gone off the rails. I've made good decisions. I've done good things in my life. But I am critical and judgmental of those who haven't--let me qualify that-- I've been critical and judgmental of those who are critical and judgmental. I am what I critique. And I need to change.
Not a change that stops calling to a destructive world, but a change in my own heart. A change of how I feel about my fellow "older brother" types. And a change of how I feel about God.
Because the story in Luke 15 is really about God. It is really about a God who loves even the most disgustingly self-righteous as well as the most disgustingly unrighteous and wants to bring both types home. And I need to celebrate when they, like I, come home.
Have you ever felt like you are on the wrong side of a story? Like the things that happen to you should have happened to someone else, or that the things that happened to someone else should have happened to you?
Have you ever watched someone make a terrible decision and been powerless to stop it? Maybe you've even tried to stop them; tried to explain how they were making a mistake; tried to alert them to the dangers of what they were doing?
Has it ever seemed like the entire country was devolving into violence, anger and hatred? And despite your loud yelling, obvious logic, and confident propositions no one listened to you?
I have.
And let me tell you how I've responded: I've been critical, angry, and petty. I've been despondent, ready to throw in the towel on this whole Christianity thing.
And I've been self-righteous.
I've been angry at the unjust flourishing enjoyed by those who seem to only care about their own interests and getting their own way--no matter what it costs others. I've been livid by what I perceive as self-absorbed piety.
And I've been angry at God for allowing the world to be like this.
But it gets worse. I've been angry at God because the people who seem to be the worst violators of justice and peace are those who call themselves Christians. And even worse still is that these people who claim to follow Jesus are claimed by Jesus too! They enjoy all the benefits of their privileged position, thinking that all they need to do is acknowledge that it was God who gave them that privilege.
And it makes me angry.
So angry in fact that I don't want to go to church, listen to a sermon, sing a song, or talk about Jesus. I've begun to feel as if the people at church are there celebrating themselves and the good fortune of being them.
Breathe.
In Luke 15 Jesus tells the parable that is commonly called "The Prodigal Son." I used to think I loved that story, because that's what good Christians do: they love stories of redemption and hope. But over the years I've begun to like it less and less. Not because I stopped loving redemption and hope, but because I started to realize that my identification with this story was not that of the prodigal, but of the the other son.
I am the older son.
I've never gone off the rails. I've made good decisions. I've done good things in my life. But I am critical and judgmental of those who haven't--let me qualify that-- I've been critical and judgmental of those who are critical and judgmental. I am what I critique. And I need to change.
Not a change that stops calling to a destructive world, but a change in my own heart. A change of how I feel about my fellow "older brother" types. And a change of how I feel about God.
Because the story in Luke 15 is really about God. It is really about a God who loves even the most disgustingly self-righteous as well as the most disgustingly unrighteous and wants to bring both types home. And I need to celebrate when they, like I, come home.
Let's Talk About Tone
Over the past few months my social media channels have become more and more saturated with social debates on a broad range of topics. As I have sought to engage these topics effectively, I have become more and more combative in my engagements. This is not due to an intention but to a lack thereof.
Let me explain.
It has always been my purpose in any such debate to advocate for my position with a particular tone: that of gentleness, respect, and love. But over time, this intention became over shadowed by a desire for my voice to be heard. This desire to be heard resulted in an increase in volume, and a decrease in the nuance of my tone.
Think of it like a guitar amplifier.
Many guitar amps sound great turned all the way up. But when I say they sound great, I mean in terms of distortion. I personally LOVE distortion in my guitar amp--a modded 100w Marshall half stack--but the tone emitted from the speakers when cranked and distorted is only appropriate for certain functions. When accompanying a jazz crooner my distorted guitar amp is completely the wrong tone.
It is the same with conversations about justice and equality.
What I or anyone else has to say on those topics may well be valid, needed--even right. But if the mode of purveying that perspective is a cranked up Marshall in an intimate gathering then the beauty of both the gathering and the Marshall is completely lost.
How do you know if it's the right tone?
Does it build up or tear down? Does it belittle or encourage? That is how you know whether the tone of your argument is right. Even if the other party is wrong, you will not be right if your tone is combative and devaluing of their perspective. And from a purely practical perspective, you will never achieve you true aims through combative dialogue.
And friends, I've been combative. And I'm here to tell you I've been wrong.
Not about my positions. I will continue to advocate for the marginalized and the oppressed, because that is what Jesus did and what he clearly expects from his followers. But the way I do so must always be in love. This love does not mean that I silently allow evil to be carried out, but that by my words and actions I expose that evil for what it is without becoming evil myself. And I become evil myself when I fight evil with evil.
And do you know why I fight evil with evil?
Because I am afraid. Afraid of not sticking up for the right cause. Afraid of losing an argument. Afraid of losing face after losing an argument. But fear is always the wrong reason to engage. Fear creates more fear; creates more enemies. But love makes enemies less so. Not by allowing them to do evil uncontested, but by contesting it in such a way as to reveal its depravity without becoming evil in the process.
But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same?And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect. Mt. 5:44-48.
Let me explain.
It has always been my purpose in any such debate to advocate for my position with a particular tone: that of gentleness, respect, and love. But over time, this intention became over shadowed by a desire for my voice to be heard. This desire to be heard resulted in an increase in volume, and a decrease in the nuance of my tone.
Think of it like a guitar amplifier.
Many guitar amps sound great turned all the way up. But when I say they sound great, I mean in terms of distortion. I personally LOVE distortion in my guitar amp--a modded 100w Marshall half stack--but the tone emitted from the speakers when cranked and distorted is only appropriate for certain functions. When accompanying a jazz crooner my distorted guitar amp is completely the wrong tone.
It is the same with conversations about justice and equality.
What I or anyone else has to say on those topics may well be valid, needed--even right. But if the mode of purveying that perspective is a cranked up Marshall in an intimate gathering then the beauty of both the gathering and the Marshall is completely lost.
How do you know if it's the right tone?
Does it build up or tear down? Does it belittle or encourage? That is how you know whether the tone of your argument is right. Even if the other party is wrong, you will not be right if your tone is combative and devaluing of their perspective. And from a purely practical perspective, you will never achieve you true aims through combative dialogue.
And friends, I've been combative. And I'm here to tell you I've been wrong.
Not about my positions. I will continue to advocate for the marginalized and the oppressed, because that is what Jesus did and what he clearly expects from his followers. But the way I do so must always be in love. This love does not mean that I silently allow evil to be carried out, but that by my words and actions I expose that evil for what it is without becoming evil myself. And I become evil myself when I fight evil with evil.
And do you know why I fight evil with evil?
Because I am afraid. Afraid of not sticking up for the right cause. Afraid of losing an argument. Afraid of losing face after losing an argument. But fear is always the wrong reason to engage. Fear creates more fear; creates more enemies. But love makes enemies less so. Not by allowing them to do evil uncontested, but by contesting it in such a way as to reveal its depravity without becoming evil in the process.
But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same?And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect. Mt. 5:44-48.
Featured in FULLER!
I'm taking a quick break from pontifications about the nature of reality and the meaning of life to share this link with you! I will be out of town for the rest of the week, so no more blog posts until November. So in lieu of a post, read about my work in FULLER, the new magazine from Fuller Theological Seminary!
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| "The truth, some lies, and learning to tell the difference" |
Why Am I A Christian?
After a long conversation with an atheistic friend, he turned to me and asked--with great gentleness and compassion--"so why are you a Christian?"
It seems that after the conversation he was unable to see how anything I was saying (and let me be clear, this was not an evangelistic conversation) needed a "god" figure to underwrite it. To him, it was just perfectly clear and obvious that it was better to love others; better to give than to take; better to pursue peace; better to pursue healthy relationships with others. It was just better, he didn't need "god" to prove and command that they were better--they just were.
This raised an interesting puzzle for me. Now, obviously not every person is as amazing as my friend, and would, if given the chance throw off the consequential weight that "god" brings to relationships. But I had to stop and ask myself- "Why am I a Christian? Especially when Christians are so often opposed to the things I am for?" I admit, I was stumped.
And maybe I still am. Or would be, if I wasn't thoroughly convinced of the reality of sin. I see sin--that is, destructive acts and relationships--everywhere I turned. Especially in my own life. And I recognize that there is no way for me to stop sinning or being a part of systematic sinfulness in the society I live in. And so I still need a savior. Not to let me keep on being a part of that sinful system while white washing the tomb of my participation, but by offering me a way out of that system and into life for not only myself but for others also.
I am a Christian because I still need a savior. I know that sounds trite and perhaps does not satisfy anyone. But it is simply the truth. I still need someone to reach in and pull me out of the mess of evil I create and perpetuate. We can get into all sorts of debate about ontological reasons for sin or good or evil or God, but that is not my purpose here.
I am a Christian because I still need a community of people that are committed to the same restoration and healing that I am. But what's strange about that is that community is not always found in Christian circles. This of course causes me to question whether my commitment is to Christianity or to something else. But it also causes me to question whether or not the way we define "Christianity" as a collective whole is also not actually a commitment to Christ, but to something else. Maybe God's plan for the world is much bigger than distinguishing between who is "in" and who is "out." I don't know. But I hope. And the reality is, I am a Christian, because I am committed to following Jesus, who is my savior and the source of my community.
It seems that after the conversation he was unable to see how anything I was saying (and let me be clear, this was not an evangelistic conversation) needed a "god" figure to underwrite it. To him, it was just perfectly clear and obvious that it was better to love others; better to give than to take; better to pursue peace; better to pursue healthy relationships with others. It was just better, he didn't need "god" to prove and command that they were better--they just were.
This raised an interesting puzzle for me. Now, obviously not every person is as amazing as my friend, and would, if given the chance throw off the consequential weight that "god" brings to relationships. But I had to stop and ask myself- "Why am I a Christian? Especially when Christians are so often opposed to the things I am for?" I admit, I was stumped.
And maybe I still am. Or would be, if I wasn't thoroughly convinced of the reality of sin. I see sin--that is, destructive acts and relationships--everywhere I turned. Especially in my own life. And I recognize that there is no way for me to stop sinning or being a part of systematic sinfulness in the society I live in. And so I still need a savior. Not to let me keep on being a part of that sinful system while white washing the tomb of my participation, but by offering me a way out of that system and into life for not only myself but for others also.
I am a Christian because I still need a savior. I know that sounds trite and perhaps does not satisfy anyone. But it is simply the truth. I still need someone to reach in and pull me out of the mess of evil I create and perpetuate. We can get into all sorts of debate about ontological reasons for sin or good or evil or God, but that is not my purpose here.
I am a Christian because I still need a community of people that are committed to the same restoration and healing that I am. But what's strange about that is that community is not always found in Christian circles. This of course causes me to question whether my commitment is to Christianity or to something else. But it also causes me to question whether or not the way we define "Christianity" as a collective whole is also not actually a commitment to Christ, but to something else. Maybe God's plan for the world is much bigger than distinguishing between who is "in" and who is "out." I don't know. But I hope. And the reality is, I am a Christian, because I am committed to following Jesus, who is my savior and the source of my community.
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