That spark of creativity and wit came from the fine folks at Insight Marketing, who, after listening to me babble about what I wanted this idea to become, figured out that I believed that it is possible to have a sense of humor and think theologically.

Who knew?

They also had the audacity to think up my (if I do say so myself) cool tagline: Relevance, Reverence, and Renewal.

My problem is usually that I think up a book title and then get stumped by the book.  In this case I had the “book,” but couldn’t come up with its title!

Insight did, and I like it.

This idea of “relevance” (namely whether Church/God is ‘relevant’ to a believer/believers) has gotten a bit of press lately.  It’s a word that stirs up differing connotations, and it was recently suggested to me that perhaps it would behoove a person (i.e., me) to muse about it.

So naturally I turn to Dr. Martin Marty again, making good use of him before his fine production Context ‘passes on’ at the end of this year.

[insert wailing and gnashing]

So let me begin by laying out the different voices therein exchanging their thoughts on relevance.  I know they are long excerpts, but wow they are good.

From Ralph Waldo Emerson (quoted in Context Feb. 2010, Part A) as itself quoted in Barbara Packer’s piece in There Before Us: Religion, Literature, and Culture from Emerson to Wendell Berry).

I once heard a preacher who sorely tempted me to say, I would go to church no more.  Men go, I thought, where they are wont to do, else had no soul entered the temple in the afternoon. A snowstorm was falling around us.  The snowstorm was real; the preacher merely spectral; and the eye felt the sad contrast in looking at him, and then out of the window behind him, into the beautiful meteor of the snow.  He had lived in vain.  He had not one word intimating that he had laughed or wept, was married or in love, had been commended, or cheated, or chagrined.  If he had ever lived and acted, we were none the wiser for it.  The capital secret of his profession, namely, to convert life into truth, he had not learned.

From M. Craig Barnes regarding the question of whether creeds are relevant (itself taken from The Christian Century, but quoted in Context in the July 2010, Part B issue):

A woman in the congregation where I serve wondered [aloud to me] why we repeat ‘the same old creed’ every Sunday….An exasperated first-year seminary student I’m working with asked me, ‘What’s the deal with all of these required courses? When do we get to study things that are relevant?’

Whenever someone starts talking about relevance….the focal point is always the self.  The individual is the one, and the only one, who gets to decide if something is relevant.  The assumption behind the relevance agenda is that we are on our own to construct life as best we can.  Relationships, work, place, philosophies, and religion are all à la carte resources that can, or cannot, be used in building a life that we prefer.  Our choices depend on their relevance to our cherished ideal of the self.

Relevance is such an unquestioned idol of contemporary society that many congregations have grown by marketing their ability to provide relevant programs, music, and preaching.  It’s as if they are saying, ‘Our church can provide better products than the rest of society as you try to collect the pieces of a life you will like.’

The problem with this success at being relevant is–well, God.  The church marketers are claiming that they can make God relevant to you, but when they do this, God ceases to be God and becomes instead just one more optional resource.  By contrast, the historic churches and the seminaries that serve them are filled with old theological traditions.  Most of them don’t feel particularly relevant on any given day.  That’s by design.  Their devotion is not to make the gospel relevant to the individual, but to make the individual relevant to the gospel.  That’s the function of our creeds.’

From Michael Lee, Assistant Professor of Theology at Fordham, taken from an interview in U.S. Catholic in March 2010 (found in Context‘s May 2010, Part B issue):

One of the important ideas coming out of liberation theology is the notion of social sin.  It’s a difficult concept, because when you talk about social sin, who’s choosing to commit it?  It’s easy for no one to be guilty of it.  But when you look at poverty or racism in this country, you can’t say God is OK with that.  It is contrary to God’s will.  That is the definition of sin.

Sometimes you hear social sin compared to original sin, as if it’s just there, like a medical condition or something.  But there is a connection between my personal moral action and racism, for example, even if I don’t feel like I do racist things or have racist thoughts.  How do you help people see their place in the constellation that produces the U.S. prison system or the connection between my 39-cents-a-pound bananas and inhumane working conditions in Central America?

The hard part is talking about social sin and collective guilt in a way that doesn’t alienate people who are just trying to provide for their families.  In Ignatius of Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises, there’s a reflection in which Ignatius invites a person to stand before the cross of Jesus and ask, ‘What have I done to crucify you?’  A liberation spirituality invites us to look at the crucified people of our world and ask them the same question: What do I need to do to bring you down from the cross?

It’s easy to rattle off piously that the church is the Body of Christ.  But if you begin to ask how it is made flesh, it spurs reflection.  I start my classes with basi question to get this kind of reflection going: What is ‘good news’? What is salvation?  I usually get stunned silence from my students.  They can’t give a basic answer to what salvation means.  It’s just a spiritualized term, and it remains at that level.

And last, from William O’Malley, S.J., at Fordham Prepatory School, taken from his piece in America magazine in the May 5, 2010 issue, and reprinted in Context‘s August 2010, Part B production.

Something vital was lost on the pilgrimage from the Second Vatican Council.  Amid all the attempts–laudable or lamentable–to reform a feudal church, what got lost on the trek was the transcendent God.  Catholics miss the mysterium tremendum of the theologian Rudolf Otto, the power thundering at Job from the whirlwind: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” Moses described that force as a blazing bush that did not consume itself; Isaiah cringed before it; Daniel and Revelation tried to capture this stupefying act of love as an enthroned personage ablaze with light, around whom a hurricane of voices swirled, shouting, ‘Holy! Holy! Holy!’

Such immensity tempts one to humble one’s intelligence, like Eastern mystics before the ultimate–before whom all words fail, even is.  Western theologians effectively stifled the awe of the theolphanies that had been the core of all religions before the Greeks came along.

If bishops wonder why Catholics are not going to church, this is the reason: They don’t find there a personal connection to that enthralling God, which is what the word religion means: to connect.

So here you have four different guys (yes, I’m aware of that: does it count that I’m female and weighing in?) each with a different view toward the relevance of relevance.

Emerson is bugged by a pastor with no passion; no demonstrable proof that he has experienced, well, anything other than piety.

His parting shot, “The capital secret of his profession, namely, to convert life into truth, he had not learned,” captures the gist of his grumbles.

Does this business of God which pulls us out into the snow make any difference (i.e., have relevance) or not?  If this stuff of religion concerns itself at all with our essence, do we have an essence for it to meet (and how does it do that?) and does religion bear at all upon the essentials of life, like love? hope? reconciliation? justice? mercy? grief? vocation? avocation? pain? loss? parenting? loneliness? alienation? connection? emotions? addictions? doubt? brokenness? health? relationships? renewal? rebirth? joy?

Barnes is rightfully concerned that the questions about relevance can become another expression of self-obsession.

Goodness knows, one can argue (as Barnes is, obviously) that in its quest to attend to the essentials of peoples’ lives, the Church has lost its essence.

Sometimes one can get lost on the way to the sanctuary when the congregation’s gym, child care center, coffee shop, and auditorium get in the way.

It does seem as if the priority of “church marketers” is (to steal a phrase from Sister Act) to get butts in the pews instead of preach a gospel which, when really heard well and right, ought to make people run.

His parting shot quarrels with Emerson a bit: “[Traditional seminaries and churches'] devotion is not to make the gospel relevant to the individual, but to make the individual relevant to the gospel.  That’s the function of our creeds.”

I tend to agree with his assertion that churches appear almost desperate for people to “like” them, much like an awkward teenager who will do anything to get noticed by the popular crowd.

That said, the gospel is itself something, and if it seems for all the world to be nothing more than eventual pie in the sky by-and-by, well, I’m with Emerson.  There must be a reason to listen: that point is manifest relevance.

Lee hunts up the idea.  ”It’s easy to rattle off piously that the church is the Body of Christ.  But if you begin to ask how it is made flesh, it spurs reflection.”  Watch out: here is a new way to think of relevance.  Body made flesh.  In other words:

What does the cross mean?  What are its implications?  Does it affect only the sinners or the ones sinned upon?  Does it have anything to do with love? hope? reconciliation? justice? mercy? grief? vocation? avocation? pain? loss? parenting? loneliness? alienation? connection? emotions? addictions? doubt? brokenness? health? relationships? renewal? rebirth? joy? The flesh of life?  Its essence?

If not, we have spiritualized the incarnate.  I can’t think of much more that could be relevant than God incarnate, and to help figure out what that means to the rest of us incarnate folks.

And last, O’Malley, distilled in this sentence of his: “If bishops wonder why Catholics are not going to church, this is the reason: They don’t find there a personal connection to that enthralling God, which is what the word religion means: to connect.”

Like O’Malley, I’m not afraid of advocating for a personal connection between a believer and God.  Perhaps the objection which Barnes raises stems from the “me-and-Jesus” phenomenon.  True, we say in Baptism that Jesus knows us by name…but as a key nod to Barnes, that does not suggest that Jesus does not know everyone else’s name–and I mean everyone.

It’s not as if Jesus learned my name and then had to forget yours to make room for mine.

Feminists have done much for theology by speaking about the relationality of God.  God has a relationship within Godself, and with God’s creatures, and invites us to be in relationship with these others and, naturally, with God.

There is a fine notion of relevance.  Relevance has everything to do with relationship…contra Barnes.  It is not fundamentally about the self, but is about the self and its relationship to others and to God.

What do our worship services, our “mission statements,” our rituals, our prayers, have to do with relationship?  Even a relationship with ourselves, an entity which can become remarkably un-religious, as in the sense of being un-connected.

My hope for congregations and denominations in these days is that we discover that relevance has nothing to do with marketing.

It has everything to do with relationship.

God’s word relates to us.

How, specifically (well, as specifically as is possible) is helpful, and, I would argue, essential.

If not, then worship–let alone a general benevolent belief toward a higher power–is akin to shopping at Wal-Mart, where a person can get something of what one needs, while finding a lot that one doesn’t….all the while realizing that one can get pretty much the same stuff at a Super Target down the way.

So, now I am eager to hear: does this post bear any relevance at all upon your life of faith or congregation or denomination?

Anna

This latest book was born into being because she suffered breast cancer. While the entire experience for her was horrific, she was most particularly appalled at the expectation that she feel buoyant, positive, and thankful for the toughness earned and the lessons learned through her disease.

She didn’t particularly want to feel any of those.

There is no room in our culture, she seems to be saying, to be pissy.

Now, I haven’t read the book; only the review.

But even that caught my attention.

It brought me back to a conversation I had with a dear woman in my world who had suffered a stroke. That event took away much of her remarkable ability (even well into her 80s!) to create art, to amble around finding quirky gifts for even quirkier relatives and friends, to write, and to read letters sent to her by her many grandchildren.

And something of her brightness of being left her.

Naturally, people were worried. Trouble was, they had the audacity to express it, even mentioning the “D” word to her.

One day, when I visited her, she said, “Anna, I am so tired of people asking me if I’m depressed! Finally I had to holler at them, ‘Of course I’m not depressed! I’m a Christian!’”

To which I responded with my typical flair for pastoral care,

“What the hell.”

I don’t think that this woman is alone in her aversion to naming her pain (even to herself), though.

I worry that Christians are so awfully wrapped up in making a person feel better that we don’t allow for the sacred space of pissiness.

Sometimes I do believe that we might be so ready to leap to Easter that we ignore that there is a grave over which we are leaping.

Now that said, I’m all for the healing of body, mind, and spirit!

But could it be that were Christians to be more overt and more intentional about recognizing faults, regret, sadnesses, anxiety, fears, and the possibility that healing-might-not-come-and-what’s-up-with-that, that trust could be built up that maybe, just maybe, this group understands and allows for pain?

After the accident I wrote an extensive blog about Karl’s healing. At the end of most every entry, I wrote, “God is good.”

I did, until someone who had suffered much too asked me, “How do you know? On what basis are you judging that? I prefer,” said he, “to simply say that God is God.”

It was an interesting comment, because then I was invited to express my deeply grieved and astonished self to God. Honestly. And what I wanted to say to God was exactly what I said to this woman close to my heart:

What the hell.

If a relationship is one, then my figuring suggests that there has to be some relating. There are reasons for people to be upset with God, because God’s promises aren’t apparently living up to God’s reality. I can’t help but wonder if some authenticity is surrendered when there is no room for sacred pissiness.

That said, I do realize that not everybody needs to wrestle with God. Some are quite content and quite faithful in their pure and unquestioned faith.

For the rest of us, however, I’m thinking that if one can say to God, “I am really hurting here, and I feel really betrayed by you, and soon and very soon clearly is not soon enough,” then there’s the beginning of renewed trust.

Annie Dillard gets to the matter in Holy the Firm when she retells the following story:

“Once, in the middle of the long pastoral prayer of intercession for the whole world—for the gift of wisdom to its leaders, for hope and mercy to the grieving and pained, succor to the oppressed, and God’s grace to all—in the middle of this [the pastor] stopped, and burst out, ‘Lord, we bring you these same petitions every week.’ After a shocked pause, he continued reading the prayer. Because of this, I like him very much.”

Ah. There’s authenticity. There’s honesty. There’s a man I can trust. He probably wanted to, but couldn’t in the Prayers of the People of all things, say,

What the hell.

Now, in case some are wondering, things are remarkably hunky-dory in my world. This blog is not a vent of some personal, present crisis. It is really only that that review jarred a series of reflections on the pervasive sense of joy, which just plain old doesn’t always jibe with the plain old reality of trouble.

What do you think?

Anna

——————————–

These are fantastic, articulate questions.

I brewed myself a strong cup of coffee, and sat down to settle into it.

1. Your distinction between “reacting” and “responding” intrigues me.

Reacting reminds me of what reptiles do well. They tend not to thoughtfully consider situations, options, motivations, and complexities.

Responding suggests more of an evaluated reply.

As I read the reports of Anne Rice’s departure with your question in mind, I found that on the surface she appeared to “respond.” She spoke of having deliberated for some time about this move, and that there was indeed wrestling involved.

However, her reasons for leaving were stunningly simplistic. To be sure, one can find examples of precisely what she is naming: sexism, prejudice against homosexuals, close-minded and dogmatic thinking.

But two thoughts came to mind:

a) that sort of thinking is surely also to be found in the secular world;

b) that sort of thinking is surely not to be found across the board within the Church.

I was struck with the irony that her decision came not long after my tradition, the ELCA, voted to welcome gays and lesbians in relationship. An interviewer brought this point up to her. She replied that although she was pleased with the vote, she needed to “walk away from the whole controversy, the whole conversation.”

I appreciate fatigue, truly I do. And I appreciate disgust even at the Church, truly I do.

But I don’t appreciate blanket statements so very much.

There is much that the Church has done and continues to do that deserves righteous indignation. But one appears awfully simplistic and judgmental if one suggests that these acts define the Church through and through, and that one somehow is above reproach enough to find something better….alone….without the interference of relating to others….because that always muddies the waters.

Really, I wondered if she knows of Jim Wallis and Sojourners, or of the recent UCC ad that suggests anything but stodgy thinking.

2. There are some parallels, I suppose, to Anne and Martin. Martin left because he thought that the pope usurped his appropriate powers, and he felt that the Church’s teachings were skewed.

But there are some key differences:

a) He did not want to leave. What he wanted to do, despite all of the muck and frustration and danger and anger, was to stick around and reform the Church.

b) Once he left, he did not retreat to a private corner, or shake the dust off of his shoes and blast the entire Church. He set out to build up a new way of being Church.

I really really understand why a person would want to leave the Church. The Church can be clumsy, capricious, and downright wrong.

But it is indeed hard to remain a Christian and not be part of a Christian community, for a couple of reasons.

a) Jesus did not just come for me. Jesus came for the entire world.

I respect a private faith as much as I respect indignation at the Church! There are good reasons to be so frustrated that one walks away! And there are good reasons to craft a deeply personal, private faith. That is not the point.

The danger is that one establishes an “exclusivity” with Jesus, and assumes that whatever one has going on privately with Jesus is way better than what those church-goers are up to, do the degree that one doesn’t need others for one’s own faith.

I’m not so convinced that that is true.

b) Connected with that is the reality that we are all fallible. Community (granted, a healthy community) helps us think through matters collectively and conversationally, so that one doesn’t become navel-gazingly arrogant.

See, I know of specific congregations who would largely agree with Anne Rice’s perspective, and I think that both she and these other gatherings of people suffer the loss of that possible relationship.

I must add, however, that there is a reason that denominations are suffering such attrition these days. We have too often made ourselves and our message irrelevant and/or archaic. Ann speaks a prophetic voice to us, and that ought not be missed in this dust-up.

3. There are reasons to leave certain doctrines and denominations which uphold them.

Although, as I’ve made clear in other blogs, I actively supported (and still do) the recent ELCA decision on the ordination of gays and lesbians in relationship, I understand better the grief and anger of those who are leaving if I imagine how I would respond were the ELCA to withdraw the validity of women’s ordination.

To be in relationship with anyone–person or institution–necessitates a fine balance of humility and principle.

If one concedes that no one–including oneself–is perfect, then one greets frustrating exchanges with more compassion and less haughtiness.

Still, there is a reason why I am ELCA Lutheran, and not Missouri Synod, for example, or Roman Catholic, or Jewish. There are some things I hold to be central, and the ELCA folks seem to resonate with my convictions more than do other traditions. So I suppose I have, to use your language, left those doctrines.

But were I to blast these other traditions with a wide swath of disgust, I would not only ensure that present conversations would cease, I would also guarantee that further conversations would be that much more difficult.

And I would do a fine job of making clear that I am certain that I cannot be wrong, and am always right…or at least on balance right-er than these other misguided or ignorant people in the other pews.

So. A first run at your question(s).

In short, I have felt most every one of Anne Rice’s frustrations. But I’m not sure that leaving the Church with a generalized Pox on the House is helpful, accurate, or fair.

I’m eager to hear if you have some follow-up!

Anna

——————

Yep. What are Lutherans if not espousers of grace…and yet do we really believe it?

I fear that many Lutherans, let alone many Christians, don’t.

So, in short, you’re not alone.

We Lutherans teach that we are saved by grace, and not by works.

Still, I bet a bunch of us don’t believe the opposite implication: We can’t be damned by our works either.

We worry, in short.

We can’t quite swallow this notion that our sins can’t separate us finally and completely from God–never mind that we gravitate toward Paul, and Romans 8 assures us that nothing (not even a single asterisk suggesting that “certain exceptions apply”) can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

The funny thing is that implicitly, when we fret about our sins trumping God’s grace, we are trusting in them more than in God.

That’s bass-ackwards.

Luther said that “Grace is given to heal the spiritually sick, not to decorate spiritual heroes.”

That’s awfully true. Too often we think of grace as something we have to earn like some medal of honor: isn’t that what we are doing when we fear that our sins cut us off from grace?

And yet what is grace if not something that one receives undeservingly? For if you deserve something, whatever you receive is not grace. Grace is that which is offered to someone who doesn’t deserve it. If you earn it, you deserve it…but what you’d get is not grace. A reward, perhaps; praise, yes; but grace? No.

Sometimes people fear that when understood this way, grace is cheapened. Dietrich Bonhoeffer spoke of the danger of cheap grace, grace which is meaningless because it neither invites nor asks for a change of heart.

But grace need not mean that judgement doesn’t occur: instead, it means that judgment, condemnation, is not final.

I think of it in terms of parenting. If I were not to let my children know when they’d crossed the line, I would not honor them nor show them love which invites them into a new way of being in relationship. But that judgment must relent, for I am also not right–the family is not right–until they are back with us. And I will pursue that relationship until is it right.

Even their infraction (and I cannot imagine an infraction terrible enough) will not separate them from my persistent, pursuing relationship with them.

In short, Lutherans assert (at least on paper) that we do not have the power in our relationship with God. God does, and thankfully, God covets a relationship with us. So our good works are not an avenue toward a relationship with God, but a demonstration of it.

Martin Marty does a good job of illustrating this a bit more:

http://www.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=167

So there’s an initial take on your question. I hope it was initially helpful, but of course, I invite feedback!

Peace,

Anna

Thanks for the question!

I do have an opinion.  I actively supported the recent change in policy.

One of the intriguing things about this entire conversation is the way in which Scripture has been employed.  I have come to decide (not surprisingly, given my vocational bias as a systematic theologian) that the question really is not a scriptural one, but rather a theological one.

That might seem to be a surprising distinction, but here’s what’s behind it:

You can use scripture to back up most anything one desires.  Slavery, women’s subjugation, bashing babies’ heads on stones, multiple wives, socialism (not capitalism, come to think of it), celibacy, giving away all you have…you get the idea; all are encouraged in Scripture.

But clearly, some matters in Scripture we embrace, some we do not.

Add to that the fact that Scripture was written over hundreds and hundreds of years, and hundreds and hundreds of years ago.  So as one of my Old Testament professors pointed out, the one commandment we have ever gotten correct was, “Be fruitful and multiply.”  Made sense then, in a day when they needed to populate.  But in a day when we struggle with overpopulation, well, does that law speak to us even now?

And for the Christians in the group, if you add the notion of the living, breathing, Holy Spirit into it, one can not make the case that the Spirit was done speaking at the end of Revelation.  The Spirit can speak to us outside of Scripture.

The question, it seems to me, is less “What does Scripture say,” and more “On what basis do we interpret Scripture?”

When we begin there, we learn about why different groups are in favor of the new ELCA rostering decision, and why some oppose it.

And when we begin there, we also understand something of context, and might even engage in a new form of respectful and humble dialogue.

So while I disagree with those who are angry with the new choice to ordain gays and lesbians in committed relationships, it helps to learn something of their theological framework, and then the conversation becomes much more fruitful than lobbing Bible verses back and forth.

What do you think?

Anna

Dear OMG-er,

Thank you for the question!

It’s tempting to start the mulling at the ways Baptists and Lutherans differ.

But in this case, one could argue that it isn’t a Baptist/Lutheran thing.

Instead I think it’s a Holy Communion thing, namely, how should a person receive bread and wine, body and blood, from Jesus after all? That’s fairly audacious, it seems to me. No wonder that there’s wondering about it.

I think that even within traditions there isn’t a clear consensus. For example, the debate about whether children ought to receive communion or not is active, to say the least, within the ELCA, although it is a long standing practice in Orthodox communities.

So a brief and incomplete survey:

Holy Communion is seen by some as a privilege of repentant Christians. That is, one must be cleansed through confession and forgiveness before one is pure enough to receive it.

Others have seen Holy Communion as a sign of hospitality and welcome. If you are a sinner, this meal’s for you. The pre-requisite is precisely that you are a sinner, and who knows all of the sins one commits anyway?

Others see Holy Communion as a sign of the eschaton, namely a sign of God’s reign in its fullness. There is abundance and tangible grace, and we go to it justified and sent out from it to do justice.

Some approach the table solemnly, feeling sincerely unworthy and as if their guilt is and should be front and center.

Others approach the table singing with joy, feeling as if this is the sign that no matter what, they are loved and they want to share the love.

It’s a really interesting question, actually.

I’m haunted by the story of my mentor Walt Bouman who once refused Communion to a man who was active in his congregation…and active in the Ku Klux Klan. Walt maintained that you cannot be part of the body of Christ and engage in such racism.

I absolutely see his point, respect it greatly…and yet how many of us who sincerely profess to be Christians give to the poor, actively engage in doing justice, loving mercy and walking humbly with God, forgiveness, and so on.

That is, at what point are we aware enough of our sins, or repentant enough, or pure enough to receive pure grace, to partake in Holy Communion?

So it is in part an issue of whether we think there should be standards before you get the bread and the wine. While our reflexive answer might be, ‘yes,’ answering what those standards are gets way trickier.

It could be an opportunity for you to reflect on what you believe about Holy Communion. Why do you receive it, and would there ever be a point when you wouldn’t approach the table?

Peace!

Anna