church

A wrong turn

/ W. Keith Brenton / Leave a comment

I think Christianity took a wrong turn, and much farther back than you might think I’m going to say. I think it took a wrong turn when it became a religion instead of a way of life.

After three years of abstaining from scripture, I’m going back a little at a time to see if what is imprinted on my memory and mind and soul is accurate, reliable, valuable.

I’m trying to divorce it from what I’ve been taught it says and told it means and drilled about its characteristics. I’m trying to just read it.

I’m starting with the gospels. And there I find nothing about Jesus expressing a desire to begin a new religion, but rather to fulfill an old one. I find no pleas from Him to build structures and governances and hierarchies and rules about what to do and how. I find no support for worship or rituals or traditions that lose meaning through repetition because they may be periodically spoken or sung but not LIVED.

Instead I find prophecy about how the old ends and the new begins. I find stories about accepting and rejecting grace; about accepting and rejecting others; about accepting and rejecting Him. I find teaching about how to live, how to be fulfilled, how to show grace and love and compassion for others. All interspersed with His example of living and doing these things as well as teaching them.

I find medicine for broken relationships.

I find promises of His presence.

I find guarantees of His grace.

In fact, the words of judgment that I find are for the religious, the ones who judge, the ones who reject, the ones who make it hard for others to access grace. The ones who are in bed with government they do not trust and will conspire to take His life because it is politically expedient — and will justify their judgment and conspiracy and lies and murder.

What I remember of the story after that is that it goes all right for a while. The story of His life and teachings is told far and wide, and people gather to hear it and keep gathering to reinforce their belief in a life that’s good and noble and gracious — even to the point of ultimate self-sacrifice. A perfect example of it.

The people who originally told the story chose the wise and most caring to shepherd the rest and moved on to tell the story in other places.

But, people remain people. Just like we do. Even if changed in heart and soul, it’s never complete. Gatherings became churches; synagogues with rules about who’s in and who’s out, who’s in charge, what does this mean or can’t mean, what worship includes and doesn’t, and so on and on.

And the letters we read from the people who originally told the story to the people-having-problems-with-being-people keep pointing them back to the “how-to-live” teachings of Jesus, though they sometimes stray into making new rules.

I think it’s natural and human that another religion resulted from the teachings and example about how to live. I’m pretty sure Jesus saw it coming. I understand that a lot of people benefit from the fellowship of shared belief with others; are uplifted and encouraged with worship together; are strengthened by messages that urge them on and reinforce their faith. Some folks need the ritual and the repetition. Church has its place in faith.

Probably in most religions, not just Christianity.

But if the focus is on self — even on the community of faith that one’s self is surrounded with — rather than living that story, that grace, that Jesus … then it truly is just another religion. Perhaps His name is there, but … His presence?

It’s the way of life that gives meaning to the religion.

Christianity can’t just be another religion, and still be Christianity.

It has to be a way of life.

His life.

Church as we know it

/ W. Keith Brenton / 4 Comments

Yesterday, January 31, was the third anniversary of my retirement from preaching.

I mentioned it to a friend, who asked why, and I gave the same answer that I have given before: I never felt qualified as a preacher, or even qualified to play one on TV. (Because, as you know, preachers are supposed to be called to preach and never retire, even on the off-chance that they can afford to.)

That’s most of the answer. And the rest of it isn’t going to be any more popular:

I’ve stopped believing in church.

Church as we know it.

I haven’t been to church in those three years, except for taking a friend (and her mom, if her mom had felt up to it) to church while they were visiting the area, since neither of them drives.

I certainly don’t have anything against the congregation I left behind; wonderful people and I had no problems the three years and three months I preached there. I love them and miss them. And of all the churches I’ve attended and/or served over the years, I have the least difficulty with the way they operate and function as a church.

My problem is with the way we believers do church; with church as we know it.

Church didn’t seem to be a high priority in the teachings of Jesus, as recorded in the gospels. He mentioned it twice, as I recall; once while declaring to Peter that He would establish it on the rock-like faith that Peter had just displayed, and the second time when foreseeing problems within it and advising on how to handle them. If you follow the links, both of those references are only in Matthew’s gospel.

Nowhere in those gospels is there an account about how Jesus wanted the church to be structured or any authority hierarchies within it, how worship within it should take place, whether it should have a building or ministry staff of its own, whether collections should be taken to support all that, what doctrines might include or exclude your place in it … and so on.

People who came after Him established all those details, and they became the norm and the details fossilized — and rarely does anyone question them if they want to continue to remain welcome in church fellowship.

What Jesus seemed to spend most of His teaching time on is how to get along with others; how to love and respect and care for others; how to do that without judging them; how to find blessing in living that kind of life even though it can be really hard — and that doing so can even make others so ticked off that they’ll want to hurt or even kill you.

And He backed up every moment of His teaching time living out everything He taught. That, of course, is really the how. The verbal teaching was just a summary of how He was showing us to live.

But it seems like our focus in church is not so much on Jesus but on church. How to get in, how important it is to get in and be in and stay in, how to protect its purity and reputation, how bad it has to get before people are asked to leave, how to get rid of them, how to defend its doctrine, how right we are and how wrong others are, why we need to financially support it, etc.

And we wonder why people aren’t just crowding the door to get to the front seats every Sunday morning.

A lot of churches have just out-and-out chosen to become The Jesus Show and invested in worship bands and lights and lasers and smoke and screens and videos — to become more attractive, more entertaining. Sermons have become messages that people attending want to hear. Flags become as important as crosses. Coffee becomes as vital as communion.

Church doesn’t help the poor and the homeless and the hungry and the sick because a few undeserving souls might take advantage of Christian generosity and waste “the Lord’s money” in the effort — the money that is needed to support an impressively-sized ministry staff and their offices and the building. Most of which is used once, twice, maybe three times a week in most cases.

This is church as we know it. We are comfortable with it. We don’t question it. Hierarchy and authority solves the problems that are caused by the querulous or defiant. — Sinners, of course, who make church look bad.

Look, I don’t begin to think that there is anything wrong with gathering somewhere to worship with some songs of praise and encouragement, gratefully praying for folks and other needs, reading and discussing scripture as a common reminder. Not at all. Church just means “assembly;” it’s a gathering of people with a commonality. But it seems to me that it’s become what people came up with as a comfortable substitute for the hard work of daily communion with/concern for others inside and outside of that fellowship.

The come-late-to-the-game Apostle Paul writes to Rome that worship is more than songs, prayers and sermons; it’s the way we live our whole lives:

“Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.” — Romans 12:1

You see, I’m not sure that Jesus’ intention was ever to create a new religion out of teachings that shape a lifestyle. And even if He did, then the epistle of James (probably His very close relative) reminds us:

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” — James 1:27

I’m just really not comfortable with the church as we know it. I’ve spent three years doing that internal analysis that church leaders dread and call “deconstruction.” I haven’t spent much time in scripture, because I wanted to get away from hearing it the way I’ve always heard it preached — with all the preconceptions and accumulated doctrines of the centuries in between — and start hearing it as it is.

I figured that if, after studying together and attending and listening and worshiping in church as we know it didn’t at least equip me to have a sense for God’s nature and Jesus’ character and the Spirit’s presence for 65 years, it would at least include a pretty good memory bank of scripture. And three years — probably the span of Jesus’ ministry here and Paul’s initial acquaintance with Him — would not erase the core knowledge of the previous 65. (I always double-checked my memory of wording and context to be sure I had recalled it correctly. Praying? I never stopped praying.)

If that makes me apostate, then I guess that puts me in the company of many in history who have lived a monastic lifestyle — some in seclusion — to meditate on the Word and left their own impressions to enrich those who followed them. Though I don’t know that I ever felt like that was something I needed to do.

Rather, I felt like I needed to be out in my little resort town, among people, helping and encouraging and being gracious to my neighbors and our visitors. Being comfortable around folks whom others aren’t comfortable being around. Offering to help people find things they were looking for. Picking up a little trash here and there. Giving rides. Giving bottles of Ozarka water to thirsty folks strolling in my neighborhood. Opening my home to those who needed a bathroom. Or sometimes, a place to sleep. Buying and sharing a meal together. Loving folks who don’t feel loved. Appreciating people who aren’t appreciated.

That, you see, is the religion that I feel like I can observe in good conscience.

And let me say I understand that church as we know it is a great comfort and boon to the spiritual lives of many folks within it who live gracious lives the rest of the time. It fills their need, and they are an encouragement to others there. I just don’t feel like I serve well there. At least, not while questioning everything about church as we know it.

I know a good part of it is me. I’m socially awkward. Crowds can make me antsy. I’ve pretty much lost my ability to sing with age. I’m not good at accepting the status quo. I have trouble believing in structures and doctrines and limitations that have their origin with people, and not explicitly with God, expressed clearly in scripture.

I can’t preach it if I don’t believe it. And in church as we know it, you’re expected to preach church as we know it.

So I’ve come to a (literally) unorthodox conclusion:

Church is more than people in a box on Sunday morning doing a liturgy. Church is all around us, all the time, everyone we know and meet and don’t — whether they have heard of Jesus; whether they believe or not — because everyone is God’s concern, and everyone ought to be our concern too.

It’s an assembly. A gathering of folks who have a commonality, and that commonality is how difficult it can be to live this life, and how it can be made easier by caring about each other and believing in others.

And every time I think about putting church back in the box, back in the us-and-them, back in the insider-and-outsider artifice, I feel like I’m in the wrong place to really, really worship.

The rest of the Story

/ W. Keith Brenton / 2 Comments

If the gospel you hear is all about Jesus dying and being resurrected but nothing about how He lived what He taught, you’re missing the part of the story that really changes your life.

Because it tells and shows you how to live what He taught.

How to love others as yourself, show grace, forgive, be generous, be compassionate, feed others, wash their feet, help them heal, and be self-less.

If the whole story doesn’t make you want to change your life to reflect that, then all the faith and confession and water immersion and ritual-observance is just a way to spend some time.

The whole gospel changes you. Who you are. Who you want to be. The kind of person you want to live as.

If you didn’t hear that in the good news you heard, you were cheated. You were misled. You were misdirected, maybe for the sake of conversion numbers and goals; maybe just from being taught by someone who was mis-taught and under-informed. You got a little good news, and it may have sounded like the whole thing, because life-after-death is a pretty spectacular idea.

But it’s not the whole idea. THIS life matters NOW. Other people matter NOW. How you live and who you are matters NOW.

Oliver Wendell Holmes is credited with first framing the saying about people who are so heavenly minded that they are no earthly good.

And there’s a point there. That outlook comes from buying into half-a-gospel; the gospel that’s good news for ME. A death and resurrection that means I get to live again.

But that doesn’t really have any meaning if life isn’t lived fully — “abundantly” is the word Jesus of Nazareth uses — right here and now. So that others whom He loves (and we should love) can benefit from that life here and now as well.

I mean, how are people going to be convinced that they matter in an afterlife if they don’t feel like they matter in this life?

Sorry to sermonize on a Sunday. I’m still no preacher. But sometimes I see other posts that feel like what Brian McLaren called “Adventures in Missing the Point.”

Rant over.

Lack of faith

/ W. Keith Brenton / 1 Comment

I still have the same faith in God that I’ve always had. I’ve lost faith in church.

Which is to say, I’ve lost faith in people.

And I’m not sure that ritual — however much we may think we need it — is the best way that worship is communicated; that single-use once-a-week buildings and structures are effective or cost-justifiable in getting God’s work done with Him in this world; or that human authorities, hierarchies, teachings and traditions that judge and exclude others glorify Him or draw others to Him at all.

I retired from a short stint in preaching ministry three years ago, but this conclusion is a long time a-comin’. Decades. More than half of my 67-year life.

I can’t apologize for this.

It’s a doubt that is deeply and honestly held.

Sermons

/ W. Keith Brenton / 1 Comment

They seem to be the centerpiece of the worship service at church, no matter how long they are or what they’re called: sermons, teachings, messages, homilies.

I’m not sure they should be, but they kind of are by default for almost a couple thousand years now.

I would vote for the eucharist, the Lord’s supper, to take that honor and let Him host and be the center of worship, honor and praise.

But, hey, nobody asked me.

So we surround the sermon with all our other acts of worship (singing, prayers, reading of scripture, etc.), and — like I said — it becomes the centerpiece of the table we surround by default.

And what do we hear?

I attended church from before the time I could think or speak until just a couple of years ago. I think I can fairly say I’ve heard about every kind of sermon imaginable, from the very best to the very worst.

I learned a lot, I’m sure; and some of what I learned, I had to later unlearn — because what I heard was not valid, or helpful, or sometimes just wasn’t true. Occasionally it didn’t even conform to what scripture said, and even rarely contradicted and defied it.

But looking back, I think the very best sermons I heard gave me insight into the life, teachings, example and nature of Jesus of Nazareth.

They conveyed His humanity and divinity, His winsome appeal, His unflagging love for all, and His refusal to judge people while being unflinchingly judgmental about how to speak, act and relate to others in a world that God made and God cares about and God watches over all the time.

Sermons like that made me crave that nature and yearn for that living grace; they challenged me to imitate it in what I do and say with the goal of making it my nature.

I genuinely don’t know how you can preach a gospel sermon without talking about Jesus; He is the very best of all the good news in scripture. I tried preaching for several years, but it is not my gift. When I did preach, I genuinely tried to draw my listeners to the grace of Christ.

To the cross, yes, sometimes; even to the empty tomb. But, you see, that’s what the Lord’s table is for; that’s largely His story to tell in His inimitable way — by living it to death and then living it forever.

I can’t do better than that.

And you see, if that were all there is to His story, we would miss out on the part that makes it whole and full and complete: the incredible life of love and compassion that He lived. That, as much as anything else, is what proves He was/is/will always be the Son of God.

God could have raised anyone from the dead — it’s not like He’d never done it before! But who else but His very own Son could have lived such an exemplary life, seen and communicated the loving grace of heaven so clearly, had the unalterable faith to let mankind do its worst and still speak words of forgiveness?

Sermons come and go. A million every Sunday, maybe, all around the world.

But they are only heard by the people who listen to them; and if those people don’t leave that church inspired to live what they’ve heard, then only words have been spoken. Not The Word, the living Logos, the meaning of what God spoke into existence, the why of being, the purpose of living, the joy of loving, the embodiment of grace.

Well, I’ve rattled on here long enough. If I could live like that, I could still try preaching. But I know there is no credibility in what you say if you don’t practice what you preach.

So I’ve chosen to leave that to others of better qualifications, and just do my best to live up to some poor semblance of the One that I most admire.

They say that’s a sermon too.

Being Church

/ W. Keith Brenton / 4 Comments

I get to this time of year, and I still can’t help but remember Angi’s last two weeks.

How brave she was. How much she endured. How quickly her faculties slipped away. How many people loved her.

Nine years ago.

I don’t want to forget. Ever. Not even if the last of my faculties slip away from me in the closing days of my life.

But I may not get that choice.

I also remember how those who loved us clustered around us — locally and virtually — and hoped/prayed for us and ministered to us. People who shared our faith. People who held other faiths. People who held no faith at all, except perhaps in other people.

They were our collective church.

And, ironically, in recent years that common desire of all those dear folks has contributed to the decline in my faith in church.

I’ve come to the conclusion that meeting as church and observing the sacraments and repeating the good words for an hour or three together one day a week has no value at all if we are not serving in the world the entire 24/7. None.

Yes, oddly enough I still have faith in the God who could have answered thousands of prayers and could have come through for Angi but didn’t. I don’t know His business, or how things work in eternity or what’s ultimately good as compared to what I want now. I know she didn’t suffer as long as she could have. I know that we all die; even His Son. I know that Angi was ready because she lived the life of the One she believed in, and served and loved others, often in selfless ways that humbled me.

It isn’t the Father, Son or Spirit I have trouble believing in.

It’s us folks who go to church, but aren’t the church any more or better than folks who don’t believe, but still live out a faith in others with love and compassion and grace.

So who’s lost and who’s not in this scenario? I’m glad I don’t have to sort it out, because I’m not qualified to judge. Just love.

Just love.

I haven’t been to church in a year now. That’s not an indictment of anyone there; they are among the most wonderful and dearly-loved people in the world. They are my family, fellow believers and siblings in Christ. But I have to recognize that they are not the only ones who are children of God, dearly loved by Him.

I’m just not comfortable being in church and saying and doing the right things there, knowing that I’m not saying and doing and being what I should when I am not there. It’s an indictment of me.

But it’s also a deeply profound questioning of how we do things as church. How our time and resources are spent. Whether worship is for God or us. Whether service is for others or ourselves. Whether we need to spend on big buildings for 1-3 hours a week, or homes for the homeless and meals for the hungry and clothes for the shivering. Whether we need to spend for staff, lighting, projections, music in order to worship … or live out our worthship in service to others and reflecting God’s grace.

I think He’s big enough for me to be able to ask where He was when Angi needed Him.

I also think He has every right to ask me where I was when one of my neighbors needed me.

So, at least for now, I have pretty much lost my religion.

But I still have my faith.

Except, maybe, some of my faith in myself.

I am apostate

/ W. Keith Brenton / 3 Comments

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Or at least abstained from gathering with the saints.

It has been six months, two weeks and two days since I have been to church.

I have forsaken the assembly.

Well, not totally. I still pray for my church family. I still pray for people who are not in my church family, but who feel like family. Surely they need Your help as much.

You see, that’s where I’m having this problem. I haven’t lost faith in You, Father; nor your Son; nor your Holy Spirit. I’ve lost faith in your church. The Bride of Christ. At least, I’ve lost faith in the way we’ve conducted ourselves.

As if we’re just married one or two hours of one day every week.

But that’s not all, either. I also feel like when we gathered to worship, it’s all about us. The songs we like to sing. The scriptures we like to read. The prayers we like to repeat. The sermons we like to hear. The gifts we like to put in the collection plate. The potlucks and activities we like to participate in. All in the building we like to have around us with the pews we like to sit in.

I’m just not at all sure that’s what You meant by “church” or “assembly.” I’m not convinced You intended for it to happen once or twice a week, every week, with the same rituals played out over and over with the same words spoken and sung and prayed. I’m not positive that the gifts we give should be largely funding a building and its expenses or even a ministry staff. I’m not certain any of that equates to worship.

Because it feels like, if that’s what worship is, we can only do it then and there and when we’re all together, and I don’t find that to be the case in scripture.

And I have to wonder if the time of worship in a specific place at a specific time with everyone gathered was supposed to end when the temple in Jerusalem was destroyed just as Jesus of Nazareth, your Son, predicted. That worship was to be constant, and prayer was to be constant, and singing was to be constant in our hearts — whether we’re alone or together in our homes or a borrowed place or on a seashore or a mountainside or a plain or wherever.

I get the picture that our gifts should be blessing the hungry and sick and poor and homeless. That there wouldn’t be as many of them and the destitution wouldn’t be so extreme if we weren’t spending our gifts otherwise. Mostly on ourselves.

I’m just not comfortable with the way we’ve been conducting ourselves as your family and the Bride of your Son.

I don’t preach anymore because it feels that my life should be the sermon seen and heard by those who aren’t familiar with You, or have had an awful experience with people like me who preached You but didn’t live You or love like You or bless others like You do.

I can’t see myself doing it the old way anymore. I’m spending more time, I think, with people who don’t really know You; people who feel like family whom You would love to hear calling you “Father,” and trying to drop hints to them that they’re loved and You’re listening and that You care.

I feel more at home among my fellow sinners, Father; You know I do.

And I don’t even know whether to be sorry about that.

I know that your family still gathering will be fine without me there. They don’t need to see my doubt and hear my lack of faith in church as they love it. I still love them, and I miss them, and I just can’t be there for them the way I used to be any longer. It’s not their fault or your fault or anyone’s fault, as near as I can tell — not even mine.

I’m just different in my doubt now.

I still believe in them, too; and that they will do much good and their hearts will worship You and people will be blessed.

That’s what I needed to confess. I will never forget what your Son said or did or gave for us, nor cease to be grateful for it, nor will I ever give up on church altogether.

I’m just with a different church now. The one that doesn’t really know You yet. The one willing to shake any preconception of the way church is or must be in order for You to be pleased and worshiped.

I want to hang with them, and be less of myself and more like You. Loving. Accepting. Gracious. Forgiving. The nonconformist who fishes for men and shepherds people and shares meals and tries to help heal brokenness.

That’s my confession, Father. I may be totally wrong and off-base, and if so, I’m doubly triply sorry. But I can’t believe in church as church is done right now, and I have to try something else.

Lord, help my unbelief.