I am beginning to wonder why there is an increasingly eerie silence on four points:
First, violence against the unborn. Persevering to end violence in all forms is a work of the Kingdom. Yet, though many protest paying taxes or donning Jets jerseys because of militarism, I have yet to see any as passionately decrying state-sanctioned violence against the unborn or questioning the ethics of political parties that unreservedly endorse it. This is a sensitive topic to be sure, but it seems we, who cherish life and seek even the good of our enemies, seem hesitant to declare that a society that will not protect its most vulnerable is a society adrift. We are called to steward all of creation, but we are shamefully silent on the cries of the unborn, the arguments that have made the topic taboo, the renewed social debate that is stirring, and the wounds of women and men who carry the pain of having made that choice.
Second, the topic of hell. Jesus never scared anyone into the Kingdom and hell is not hammer. At the same time Jesus said a lot about life beyond apart from God that we almost completely avoid. Jesus said there are sheep and goats. Jesus said there would be those who opt out and those who are cast out. Have we begun clinging to universalism and on what grounds? Why do we not wrestle over these Scriptures in the same way we wrestle over other things?
Third, the war for the human heart. Humanity has an unwavering love affair with religion. A war for the spiritual centre is raging in our culture between monotheism and deistic or atheistic secularism. That’s why you find Christians, Muslims, and other theists chatting as never before. The desperate look for allies. Every theist position is being challenged by a religious secularism that is working like leaven through dough. Its humanistic tenets, often met with blank shrugs, are thoughtlessly embraced by many and winning the allegiance of a new generation. This raises huge questions about the future of society and ethics. Henry Van Til said, “Culture is religion externalized.” If he’s right then the culture we see developing—for good and ill—is the product of who has won the heart. This battle for the heart and mind must be engaged with Christian compassion and conviction; not silently ignored while we sing our songs of sixpence.
Fourth, the uniqueness of Christ. This is perhaps where our silence screams most hauntingly. We have become those hiding a lamp under a bushel; happy to talk about “God” but almost ashamed to proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord. Our faith rises and falls on the uniqueness of Jesus Christ, God with us, who has risen from the dead. Have we become more concerned about championing our uniqueness than his? While we joy-ride with the next social fad are we downplaying the uniqueness of Jesus whose truth cannot be buried, stands every test thrown his way, loves lavishly and offers forgiveness to every humble sinner, has something to say about our political quandaries, and has sent us to break the chains the bind in his name?
What fears have caused these eerie silences?
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Friday, February 03, 2012
Rethinking Assumptions
The first church that had to endure me as pastor was a gracious lot. I was 23 years old, idealistic, and sure my convictions were right. I had been raised in a Mennonite church, steeped like grandma’s canned cinnamon crab apples (don’t knock ‘em till you’ve tried ‘em!) in a particular brand of Anabaptism and unaware how much I had to unlearn.
In my first pastorate, one who taught me much was Mike, a World War II veteran. It was war that had brought him to Jesus. I’ll never forget the Sunday when horrendous feedback ripped through the sound system, and Mike hit the floor yelling, “What the hell!” It added a touch of authenticity to the morning’s worship! He was reliving Italy in 1944 where his life was saved, he later told me, when the voice of the Lord told him to break rank on a march. As he did, a mortar crashed where he had been, instantly killing a number of his comrades. War is hell, and feedback can take you there.
Mike challenged my thinking. He loved Jesus in a simple way, and hated what war had done to his generation, but couldn’t deny that it was vital in his own path to redemption. What’s a young preacher, so sure of the path of nonresistance, to do with such conflicting reports from the front?
This is just one example of how my assumptions have been challenged as I’ve served as a pastor. My memory of Mike, and being at his peaceful bedside as he drifted into the arms of Jesus, has often caused me to cast a critical light on my own convictions, particularly how I came to them. Is what I believe today in light of my experiences, relationships, and culture-shifts, still tested by Scripture, or is my theology simply assumed, second-hand God-thoughts?
Re-engaging assumptions
We may be at another important moment as a people of evangelical-Anabaptist confession. Might we be living off a theological memory (which must not be forgotten), while ignoring the challenges this day presents? For what it’s worth, allow me to throw out a few assumptions those Menno-shaped members of the family of God might do well to re-engage these days:
First, do our assumptions on peacemaking require a rethink? I once spoke at a Mennonite high school where I heard nothing but a political brand of pacifism defended by students regarding Canada’s involvement in Afghanistan. I did not hear one theological or biblical reason for not using the sword to help girls have the chance to go to school in the face of blatant religious oppression. I heard politics (and second-hand politics at that), but not the politics of God’s kingdom. How much of our conviction of being a peacemaking people is more political than theological? Have we wrestled with Scripture on this lately, or only with pundits?
Second, have our assumptions that we are a Christ-obeying, counter-culture been wrong? Anabaptism originated from the courageous, Christ-absorbed faith of young idealists who risked everything because of a vision of another kingdom. They shaped a long culture of saints for whom “radical” was normal. As a youngster, I recall many young adults I admired entering a period of volunteer ministry service for the sake of the world because Jesus is Lord of it all. There they often met a spouse, and created servant homes founded on alternate priorities. Are we still impacting our world this way? If so, why are young adults increasingly absent from, disengaged from, and bored with our particular form of “radical?”
Third, we should never assume Anabaptism is an ethnic heritage. Anabaptism is a radical declaration of life surrendered to Jesus Christ. I have re-baptized several who identify themselves with Jesus in believer’s baptism despite their infant baptism. One young couple inspired me when they made this decision against their parent’s wishes, choosing to proclaim their own faith in Christ, not wanting to offend, but to challenge the tradition handed down to them. It was a poignant moment when they described themselves as true “Anabaptists.”
I am beginning to wonder if these “new” Anabaptists – and those of nationalities who have never spoken German – are really the future of our branch of God’s family tree. They see it’s all about Jesus. Might some of us have other assumptions?
In my first pastorate, one who taught me much was Mike, a World War II veteran. It was war that had brought him to Jesus. I’ll never forget the Sunday when horrendous feedback ripped through the sound system, and Mike hit the floor yelling, “What the hell!” It added a touch of authenticity to the morning’s worship! He was reliving Italy in 1944 where his life was saved, he later told me, when the voice of the Lord told him to break rank on a march. As he did, a mortar crashed where he had been, instantly killing a number of his comrades. War is hell, and feedback can take you there.
Mike challenged my thinking. He loved Jesus in a simple way, and hated what war had done to his generation, but couldn’t deny that it was vital in his own path to redemption. What’s a young preacher, so sure of the path of nonresistance, to do with such conflicting reports from the front?
This is just one example of how my assumptions have been challenged as I’ve served as a pastor. My memory of Mike, and being at his peaceful bedside as he drifted into the arms of Jesus, has often caused me to cast a critical light on my own convictions, particularly how I came to them. Is what I believe today in light of my experiences, relationships, and culture-shifts, still tested by Scripture, or is my theology simply assumed, second-hand God-thoughts?
Re-engaging assumptions
We may be at another important moment as a people of evangelical-Anabaptist confession. Might we be living off a theological memory (which must not be forgotten), while ignoring the challenges this day presents? For what it’s worth, allow me to throw out a few assumptions those Menno-shaped members of the family of God might do well to re-engage these days:
First, do our assumptions on peacemaking require a rethink? I once spoke at a Mennonite high school where I heard nothing but a political brand of pacifism defended by students regarding Canada’s involvement in Afghanistan. I did not hear one theological or biblical reason for not using the sword to help girls have the chance to go to school in the face of blatant religious oppression. I heard politics (and second-hand politics at that), but not the politics of God’s kingdom. How much of our conviction of being a peacemaking people is more political than theological? Have we wrestled with Scripture on this lately, or only with pundits?
Second, have our assumptions that we are a Christ-obeying, counter-culture been wrong? Anabaptism originated from the courageous, Christ-absorbed faith of young idealists who risked everything because of a vision of another kingdom. They shaped a long culture of saints for whom “radical” was normal. As a youngster, I recall many young adults I admired entering a period of volunteer ministry service for the sake of the world because Jesus is Lord of it all. There they often met a spouse, and created servant homes founded on alternate priorities. Are we still impacting our world this way? If so, why are young adults increasingly absent from, disengaged from, and bored with our particular form of “radical?”
Third, we should never assume Anabaptism is an ethnic heritage. Anabaptism is a radical declaration of life surrendered to Jesus Christ. I have re-baptized several who identify themselves with Jesus in believer’s baptism despite their infant baptism. One young couple inspired me when they made this decision against their parent’s wishes, choosing to proclaim their own faith in Christ, not wanting to offend, but to challenge the tradition handed down to them. It was a poignant moment when they described themselves as true “Anabaptists.”
I am beginning to wonder if these “new” Anabaptists – and those of nationalities who have never spoken German – are really the future of our branch of God’s family tree. They see it’s all about Jesus. Might some of us have other assumptions?
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Start With Why
On a rainy Lower Mainland Friday night my son and I hit the slopes. It turned out to be a beautiful evening on the mountain, where the rain turned to snow and the coniferous trees hung with powder. The line-ups were short and the runs long.
I ski. My son snowboards. As the night drew to a close, he put out the challenge that we swap equipment. I have never snowboarded. I am an old dog; don’t teach me new tricks. But pride is capable of grinding clear thought to a halt and I agreed. I took off the familiar two sticks and strapped myself onto that one board. Perilous. Stupid. How would my Sunday sermon go with a concussion?
I managed one run down the hill. Okay, I was a human snowball. Painful! I never knew falling could happen in so many different ways. Sheer German stubbornness and insulation overcame a multitude of good reasons to quit.
The whole way down one burning question echoed through the apparent empty cavern that had become my skull: Why am I doing this? I knew what I was doing, but that “what” was meaningless without the why. And the why was simple: I needed to show my son I could do it. That why was inspiration enough. That why was the starting place for what I never thought possible.
Author Simon Sinek developed “the golden circle” from his study of what motivates humans, to help us understand how the best and most inspiring leaders and organizations function. He notes they consistently start with why, then ask how, and only then get to what they do or produce. Why are we doing this? Why do we exist? Why? It’s a huge question that we don’t ask often enough—because it’s too hard. It’s too threatening a query. It’s too revealing.
In our churches we would do well to learn from Sinek’s golden circle insights. We generally spend time talking endlessly about what we do, what we should do, what we wish we could do and almost zero time asking why. Perhaps we assume the why is a given. But go ahead and ask the question, and see what type of responses—or non-responses—you get.
Once we ask why, it can initiate some rather unsettling soul-searching and angst. Is what we are doing and how we are doing it even remotely connected to the why of our existence as the people of God? There is no end of what can be done for good in this world. Furthermore, plenty of good is being done by organizations whose starting point of why is not the same as that of Christians. Are we unique? If so, why?
I have to agree with Sinek: those who inspire and make the biggest impact always start with why. And if the church exists because Jesus Christ has risen from the dead to form a citizenship of another world in this present one, then what might emerge from our local fellowships if we had the courage to ask why?
Our early inquisitiveness as children begins with why, so why not live a childlike faith that seeks this understanding always? Start with why and get ready for a healthy struggle that will make learning how to snowboard a comparative walk in a prairie park. But it might begin new inspiring adventures for the glory of God.
I ski. My son snowboards. As the night drew to a close, he put out the challenge that we swap equipment. I have never snowboarded. I am an old dog; don’t teach me new tricks. But pride is capable of grinding clear thought to a halt and I agreed. I took off the familiar two sticks and strapped myself onto that one board. Perilous. Stupid. How would my Sunday sermon go with a concussion?
I managed one run down the hill. Okay, I was a human snowball. Painful! I never knew falling could happen in so many different ways. Sheer German stubbornness and insulation overcame a multitude of good reasons to quit.
The whole way down one burning question echoed through the apparent empty cavern that had become my skull: Why am I doing this? I knew what I was doing, but that “what” was meaningless without the why. And the why was simple: I needed to show my son I could do it. That why was inspiration enough. That why was the starting place for what I never thought possible.
Author Simon Sinek developed “the golden circle” from his study of what motivates humans, to help us understand how the best and most inspiring leaders and organizations function. He notes they consistently start with why, then ask how, and only then get to what they do or produce. Why are we doing this? Why do we exist? Why? It’s a huge question that we don’t ask often enough—because it’s too hard. It’s too threatening a query. It’s too revealing.
In our churches we would do well to learn from Sinek’s golden circle insights. We generally spend time talking endlessly about what we do, what we should do, what we wish we could do and almost zero time asking why. Perhaps we assume the why is a given. But go ahead and ask the question, and see what type of responses—or non-responses—you get.
Once we ask why, it can initiate some rather unsettling soul-searching and angst. Is what we are doing and how we are doing it even remotely connected to the why of our existence as the people of God? There is no end of what can be done for good in this world. Furthermore, plenty of good is being done by organizations whose starting point of why is not the same as that of Christians. Are we unique? If so, why?
I have to agree with Sinek: those who inspire and make the biggest impact always start with why. And if the church exists because Jesus Christ has risen from the dead to form a citizenship of another world in this present one, then what might emerge from our local fellowships if we had the courage to ask why?
Our early inquisitiveness as children begins with why, so why not live a childlike faith that seeks this understanding always? Start with why and get ready for a healthy struggle that will make learning how to snowboard a comparative walk in a prairie park. But it might begin new inspiring adventures for the glory of God.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
The Church is Like Plastic Wrap
Ever been pulled like plastic wrap over a warm roast pan? I was cleaning up after a great meal prepared by my beautiful wife. The roast pan had some leftovers, well, left over, and so out came the plastic wrap. The warmth of the pan gathered the clear plastic to itself, enabling me to pull the wrap so tight I could see my reflection staring back at me. Scary sight to be sure. It reminded me I needed a haircut. And in this most common, everyday task, a metaphor for the journey I’ve been on emerged.
I’ve been stretched tight lately. This church stuff is wearing me thin. This life of being a servant of the King is a humble privilege and a royal pain in the nether regions. I’m not being trite or disrespectful. Truth is, being the church can be deeply painful. That pain can find places best left undisturbed. At least that’s the way we see it. Not surprisingly, this is not necessarily God’s perspective.
This is my recent experience. This is my church’s journey. We’re learning the challenge of being a fellowship, the earthquake of shattered assumptions, the threadbare-ness of the end of a rope.
But what if this is where I discover what it means to be shaped by grace? What if this is the only way we become people with anything remotely meaningful to offer our world? What if God is simply disinterested in making me happy? In this culture, where my happiness is apparently the purpose of virtually everything, what shall I do with such a thought?
I checked, and “Blessed are the smugly satisfied” has been unhelpfully edited out of Jesus’ sermon on the mount. Perhaps a newer paraphrase will replace it. Barring that unforeseen extra-canonical rescue, what if the happiness God intends for me, for a church like mine and yours, is really the blessedness of the poor, the mourning, the meek, the merciful . . . and the peacemakers?
That will mean, will it not, that we have to be led—yes, led—into the admission that we simply can’t do it anymore. We must learn lament. We may need to discover that all we have to offer is mercy, because mercy is all we can hope for ourselves. We may have to be sent to the frontlines of conflict when it would be easier to just golf, grumble about what’s wrong with the world, and watch another movie that steals a couple of hours we can never get back.
Don’t mock me. If you haven’t felt this way at some point about the cost of discipleship, about the cost of becoming the community of the King, you’ve probably not yet considered the awesomeness of the call of Jesus to follow him. Seriously, have you tried dying to self? Yeah, we talk nobly about it, so long as it doesn’t involve the suicide of the selfishness of numero uno. However, the opportunities at the end of our rope, the blessedness of being possessed by the kingdom of heaven, will only be realized when we become pliable in the hands of someone doing clean-up in “aisle me.”
So I stand there looking at my reflection in plastic pulled taught over noodles. My life and the life of my church is like this wrap, I think to myself. Only when we’re stretched, only when the heat grabs hold, only then do we begin to reflect his glory, his beauty, his blessedness. Only then do we taste the joy of leftovers.
I’ve been stretched tight lately. This church stuff is wearing me thin. This life of being a servant of the King is a humble privilege and a royal pain in the nether regions. I’m not being trite or disrespectful. Truth is, being the church can be deeply painful. That pain can find places best left undisturbed. At least that’s the way we see it. Not surprisingly, this is not necessarily God’s perspective.
This is my recent experience. This is my church’s journey. We’re learning the challenge of being a fellowship, the earthquake of shattered assumptions, the threadbare-ness of the end of a rope.
But what if this is where I discover what it means to be shaped by grace? What if this is the only way we become people with anything remotely meaningful to offer our world? What if God is simply disinterested in making me happy? In this culture, where my happiness is apparently the purpose of virtually everything, what shall I do with such a thought?
I checked, and “Blessed are the smugly satisfied” has been unhelpfully edited out of Jesus’ sermon on the mount. Perhaps a newer paraphrase will replace it. Barring that unforeseen extra-canonical rescue, what if the happiness God intends for me, for a church like mine and yours, is really the blessedness of the poor, the mourning, the meek, the merciful . . . and the peacemakers?
That will mean, will it not, that we have to be led—yes, led—into the admission that we simply can’t do it anymore. We must learn lament. We may need to discover that all we have to offer is mercy, because mercy is all we can hope for ourselves. We may have to be sent to the frontlines of conflict when it would be easier to just golf, grumble about what’s wrong with the world, and watch another movie that steals a couple of hours we can never get back.
Don’t mock me. If you haven’t felt this way at some point about the cost of discipleship, about the cost of becoming the community of the King, you’ve probably not yet considered the awesomeness of the call of Jesus to follow him. Seriously, have you tried dying to self? Yeah, we talk nobly about it, so long as it doesn’t involve the suicide of the selfishness of numero uno. However, the opportunities at the end of our rope, the blessedness of being possessed by the kingdom of heaven, will only be realized when we become pliable in the hands of someone doing clean-up in “aisle me.”
So I stand there looking at my reflection in plastic pulled taught over noodles. My life and the life of my church is like this wrap, I think to myself. Only when we’re stretched, only when the heat grabs hold, only then do we begin to reflect his glory, his beauty, his blessedness. Only then do we taste the joy of leftovers.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Rethinking Jerusalem
I recall watching footage of the 1994 Rwandan genocide from the comfort of my living room. Images of machete-wielding young people have staying power in the personal video recorder that is my brain. Almost one in seven people perished in just over three horrible months. Most troubling was the sad fact that the vast majority of Rwandans at the time of the genocide would have identified themselves as Christians. How could this be?
A few weeks ago, our church hosted three Rwandan guests. Their ministry to young people and women with HIV/AIDS is making a difference in the small African country. Facing daunting realities, these servants have acted with vision, rather than wallow or run for sanctuary elsewhere. They took their Jerusalem seriously.
One team member, Luke, had never visited a western nation before. He was like most of us who travel somewhere new, bringing as he did many stereotypes with him. Those assumptions of Canada were shattered as he roamed Vancouver’s Lower East Side, Canada’s “poorest postal code.” He was deeply disturbed. The shock of what he saw on our streets messed with him as much as the jetlag from which he was recovering.
When the group’s leader spoke to our church family on Sunday morning, he gave a powerful challenge. Coming to our Jerusalem from the ends of the earth, he spoke of how hope in Rwanda is replacing despair after almost 20 years of reconciliation and repair. He spoke of spiritual renewal and signs of life, and of the persistent need for transformation and healing. He invited our people, so ably fitting Luke’s stereotypes, to join in financially supporting their important work. But he also brought things back to our Jerusalem. “Don’t come and help us if you won’t look after your Jerusalem first,” he said with straightforward clarity. That arrow of truth sunk deep.
“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you,” said Jesus in Acts 1:8, “and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth.” The world everywhere is a goulash of the beauty and the broken. There is no end of worthy projects to support; of places to send eager servants; and of people who need the wholeness of the gospel that saves sinners, restores dignity and rights wrongs.
All of our churches in some way participate in this immense task in creative and generous ways. Like Luke, some of us will go where our stereotypes will be evaporated and others of us will say our part is to help Luke get there. All this is important, but what are we doing with our Jerusalem? How is our witness of the wholeness of the gospel going there?
So easily do we live with the mess of our own backyard. We can be emotionally moved by stories from far, far away, while the brokenness we pass by in our own Jerusalem is ignored. The familiar is seen with a critical eye. The Sunday
morning prophet’s challenge sounds deep, like sonar for the soul: We must rethink Jerusalem or our witness to the ends of the earth will ring hollow.
Our Rwandan friends knew firsthand what can happen if the witness in Jerusalem is neglected. These brothers were not outside consultants, but spoke from the credibility gained by enduring the worst and working towards a different future in their Jerusalem. And that was precisely what gave heavenly weight to their message.
A few weeks ago, our church hosted three Rwandan guests. Their ministry to young people and women with HIV/AIDS is making a difference in the small African country. Facing daunting realities, these servants have acted with vision, rather than wallow or run for sanctuary elsewhere. They took their Jerusalem seriously.
One team member, Luke, had never visited a western nation before. He was like most of us who travel somewhere new, bringing as he did many stereotypes with him. Those assumptions of Canada were shattered as he roamed Vancouver’s Lower East Side, Canada’s “poorest postal code.” He was deeply disturbed. The shock of what he saw on our streets messed with him as much as the jetlag from which he was recovering.
When the group’s leader spoke to our church family on Sunday morning, he gave a powerful challenge. Coming to our Jerusalem from the ends of the earth, he spoke of how hope in Rwanda is replacing despair after almost 20 years of reconciliation and repair. He spoke of spiritual renewal and signs of life, and of the persistent need for transformation and healing. He invited our people, so ably fitting Luke’s stereotypes, to join in financially supporting their important work. But he also brought things back to our Jerusalem. “Don’t come and help us if you won’t look after your Jerusalem first,” he said with straightforward clarity. That arrow of truth sunk deep.
“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you,” said Jesus in Acts 1:8, “and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth.” The world everywhere is a goulash of the beauty and the broken. There is no end of worthy projects to support; of places to send eager servants; and of people who need the wholeness of the gospel that saves sinners, restores dignity and rights wrongs.
All of our churches in some way participate in this immense task in creative and generous ways. Like Luke, some of us will go where our stereotypes will be evaporated and others of us will say our part is to help Luke get there. All this is important, but what are we doing with our Jerusalem? How is our witness of the wholeness of the gospel going there?
So easily do we live with the mess of our own backyard. We can be emotionally moved by stories from far, far away, while the brokenness we pass by in our own Jerusalem is ignored. The familiar is seen with a critical eye. The Sunday
morning prophet’s challenge sounds deep, like sonar for the soul: We must rethink Jerusalem or our witness to the ends of the earth will ring hollow.
Our Rwandan friends knew firsthand what can happen if the witness in Jerusalem is neglected. These brothers were not outside consultants, but spoke from the credibility gained by enduring the worst and working towards a different future in their Jerusalem. And that was precisely what gave heavenly weight to their message.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tell Somebody To Tell Somebody
Every once in a while, a conversation happens that reminds you what it’s all about.
That happened recently when a friend I grew to love and appreciate when I served as his pastor sat face-to-face with me for the first time in a long time. He was reminiscing on his growth as a follower of Jesus and particularly on his surprising call to serve as an elder of his fellowship.
His is a winding journey, filled with highs, lows, laughter, and disappointments. I recall seeing something in him that I believed needed to be cultivated, and we had spent a lot of time together. We had shared conversations about politics, church, theology, sexuality, and baseball. He challenged me. I challenged him. Life together was all brought together under the lordship of Jesus.
What was so enlivening and renewing for me in our reunion was the realization that the apostle Paul knew what he was talking about, and that I had been blessed by heeding his direction to Timothy: “You then, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus. And the things you have heard me say in the presence of many witnesses entrust to reliable people who will also be qualified to teach others” (2 Timothy 2:1–2).
Three generations of disciples
I am increasingly convinced that the primary test of the fruitfulness of my pastoral ministry is not so much the size of my congregation, but how well the faithful I have been entrusted to lead can teach others to teach others the good news. Paul’s word to Timothy implies a disciple-making leavening that always has in view three generations of disciples beyond the mentor. The disciple-maker (in this case Paul), teaches Timothy, who entrusts to dependable persons, who can then teach others.
Tell somebody to tell somebody to tell somebody!
So, my serendipitous conversation with an old friend reminded me of this once more, but it also spurred me on in new ways. Because of what I and others had invested in his life, he was influencing people in a way I never could. The real test of my disciple-making, however, might very well be what is planted by those he is teaching.
This is telescopic discipleship. It’s the equivalent of measuring your parenting by what your grandchildren will teach to your great-grandchildren. This is Christ-centred mentorship that sees its fruit in what grows out of those with whom we probably have little or no first-hand influence. It is discipleship that essentially gets itself out of the way by getting people on the Way.
Ironically enough, at the same time as this meeting happened, I was reading through Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom. In his memoirs, he reflects on the contingency plan he developed in the early 1950s to make it possible for the African National Congress to survive should it become an illegal entity under the tightening screws of apartheid.
The “Mandela Plan” was centred on small cells of about 10 households led by a cell steward. Mandela confesses that it was that cell steward, often far removed from the influence of ANC leadership, who was the “linchpin of the plan.” In essence, Mandela – who, perhaps not surprisingly, was baptized a Methodist – developed his scheme to ensure the survival of a group that would in time bring down one of the most heinous political systems of recent memory, using the logic of the apostle Paul. Tell somebody to tell somebody to tell somebody!
I’m afraid much of our disciple-making is too short-sighted and even self-centred. What might change in the health of our churches and in the telescopic influence of our fellowships if we took Paul’s words seriously? What if we looked for the long-term fruit of our ministries in what three generations of disciples hence are doing with the gospel we’ve nurtured them on?
To be sure, this requires a decentralizing of the way we think about church and even a reorganizing around what demands primary attention, but it may make for greater kingdom impact in our cities and side roads. It may inspire another Mandela. It may lead to another lazy afternoon conversation that warms the heart and inspires the soul.
That happened recently when a friend I grew to love and appreciate when I served as his pastor sat face-to-face with me for the first time in a long time. He was reminiscing on his growth as a follower of Jesus and particularly on his surprising call to serve as an elder of his fellowship.
His is a winding journey, filled with highs, lows, laughter, and disappointments. I recall seeing something in him that I believed needed to be cultivated, and we had spent a lot of time together. We had shared conversations about politics, church, theology, sexuality, and baseball. He challenged me. I challenged him. Life together was all brought together under the lordship of Jesus.
What was so enlivening and renewing for me in our reunion was the realization that the apostle Paul knew what he was talking about, and that I had been blessed by heeding his direction to Timothy: “You then, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus. And the things you have heard me say in the presence of many witnesses entrust to reliable people who will also be qualified to teach others” (2 Timothy 2:1–2).
Three generations of disciples
I am increasingly convinced that the primary test of the fruitfulness of my pastoral ministry is not so much the size of my congregation, but how well the faithful I have been entrusted to lead can teach others to teach others the good news. Paul’s word to Timothy implies a disciple-making leavening that always has in view three generations of disciples beyond the mentor. The disciple-maker (in this case Paul), teaches Timothy, who entrusts to dependable persons, who can then teach others.
Tell somebody to tell somebody to tell somebody!
So, my serendipitous conversation with an old friend reminded me of this once more, but it also spurred me on in new ways. Because of what I and others had invested in his life, he was influencing people in a way I never could. The real test of my disciple-making, however, might very well be what is planted by those he is teaching.
This is telescopic discipleship. It’s the equivalent of measuring your parenting by what your grandchildren will teach to your great-grandchildren. This is Christ-centred mentorship that sees its fruit in what grows out of those with whom we probably have little or no first-hand influence. It is discipleship that essentially gets itself out of the way by getting people on the Way.
Ironically enough, at the same time as this meeting happened, I was reading through Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom. In his memoirs, he reflects on the contingency plan he developed in the early 1950s to make it possible for the African National Congress to survive should it become an illegal entity under the tightening screws of apartheid.
The “Mandela Plan” was centred on small cells of about 10 households led by a cell steward. Mandela confesses that it was that cell steward, often far removed from the influence of ANC leadership, who was the “linchpin of the plan.” In essence, Mandela – who, perhaps not surprisingly, was baptized a Methodist – developed his scheme to ensure the survival of a group that would in time bring down one of the most heinous political systems of recent memory, using the logic of the apostle Paul. Tell somebody to tell somebody to tell somebody!
I’m afraid much of our disciple-making is too short-sighted and even self-centred. What might change in the health of our churches and in the telescopic influence of our fellowships if we took Paul’s words seriously? What if we looked for the long-term fruit of our ministries in what three generations of disciples hence are doing with the gospel we’ve nurtured them on?
To be sure, this requires a decentralizing of the way we think about church and even a reorganizing around what demands primary attention, but it may make for greater kingdom impact in our cities and side roads. It may inspire another Mandela. It may lead to another lazy afternoon conversation that warms the heart and inspires the soul.
Monday, October 17, 2011
What Are They Looking For?
If you could choose a church from scratch, what would it look like? Much of our angst about being the church seems rooted in our desire to look good. Are we a fellowship providing what people want? Do we roll out the programs and splashy events people will flock to? Are our buildings comfy, our coffee organic, our bulletin font trendy, and our preaching happily short to match our attention spans that can somehow stay dialed in to a two-hour movie, but can’t seem to endure a half-hour soak in the Word of God?
The fearful reality is that the only people who seem concerned about these questions are already church folk. Reginald Bibby, the noted Canadian sociologist who tracks religious and social trends, recently pointed out that, contrary to the very low percentage of the population that attends weekly worship, upwards of 50 percent of Canadians would be ready to engage in the life of a church if they found it worthwhile.
That sounds encouraging. But before we run off to repaint the lobby to look like Starbucks, Bibby points out, “People are not looking for churches. People are looking for ministry.” In short, people are not searching the Yellow Pages looking for something they can spiritually consume; they are yearning to be participants in something greater than themselves, something more grand than a mall shopping spree. Does the church of your liking engage in this?
It should send a tremor through our committee meetings if most of the things we bluster about are focused on answering questions no one is asking. Could it be that much of what we’re worried about is primarily geared at making ourselves happy? Could all our agonizing over what will make people want to join us only result in sheep shuffling from a passé-church to a popular-church?
Seriously, when was the last time your church grew through the conversion of those from the wider culture, rather than the transfer of sheep from another fold? Could it be that we’re gleefully engaging in unholy competition with our Christian brothers and sisters who meet down the road, rather than passionately initiating attractive transformational ministry of kingdom grandeur? Could it be that much of what we do as churches is unconsciously un-Christian, founded almost entirely in our view of the spiritual seeker as a dumb consumer, and not as a parched, searching soul who thirsts for meaning, significance and hope?
Why do we who grumble about the shopaholic reality of our culture still go and shape our churches as if that’s what people really want? What if people still haven’t found what they’re looking for because we’ve hidden the pearl of great price? Perhaps, to our great shame, we have misread the lingering image of God in our neighbours, whose hearts pound to join in the beat of eternity?
I have to confess that these thoughts disturb me. As a pastor, I continually find myself caught between people clamoring for the church life they’ve always wanted and these realities. If I read between the lines, however, I can’t help but think that most church people actually hunger for that same participation in meaningful ministry—in kingdom adventure. So why are we so reluctant to just say it? Why are we so hesitant to simply allow ourselves to go there? And what will it take for us to convert from church people to kingdom people?
The fearful reality is that the only people who seem concerned about these questions are already church folk. Reginald Bibby, the noted Canadian sociologist who tracks religious and social trends, recently pointed out that, contrary to the very low percentage of the population that attends weekly worship, upwards of 50 percent of Canadians would be ready to engage in the life of a church if they found it worthwhile.
That sounds encouraging. But before we run off to repaint the lobby to look like Starbucks, Bibby points out, “People are not looking for churches. People are looking for ministry.” In short, people are not searching the Yellow Pages looking for something they can spiritually consume; they are yearning to be participants in something greater than themselves, something more grand than a mall shopping spree. Does the church of your liking engage in this?
It should send a tremor through our committee meetings if most of the things we bluster about are focused on answering questions no one is asking. Could it be that much of what we’re worried about is primarily geared at making ourselves happy? Could all our agonizing over what will make people want to join us only result in sheep shuffling from a passé-church to a popular-church?
Seriously, when was the last time your church grew through the conversion of those from the wider culture, rather than the transfer of sheep from another fold? Could it be that we’re gleefully engaging in unholy competition with our Christian brothers and sisters who meet down the road, rather than passionately initiating attractive transformational ministry of kingdom grandeur? Could it be that much of what we do as churches is unconsciously un-Christian, founded almost entirely in our view of the spiritual seeker as a dumb consumer, and not as a parched, searching soul who thirsts for meaning, significance and hope?
Why do we who grumble about the shopaholic reality of our culture still go and shape our churches as if that’s what people really want? What if people still haven’t found what they’re looking for because we’ve hidden the pearl of great price? Perhaps, to our great shame, we have misread the lingering image of God in our neighbours, whose hearts pound to join in the beat of eternity?
I have to confess that these thoughts disturb me. As a pastor, I continually find myself caught between people clamoring for the church life they’ve always wanted and these realities. If I read between the lines, however, I can’t help but think that most church people actually hunger for that same participation in meaningful ministry—in kingdom adventure. So why are we so reluctant to just say it? Why are we so hesitant to simply allow ourselves to go there? And what will it take for us to convert from church people to kingdom people?
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