Author: Sara Palmer

  • The Cross as Gospel: Speaking of Providence in a Time of Pessimism

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    THE CROSS AS GOSPEL: SPEAKING OF PROVIDENCE IN A

    TIME OF PESSIMISM

    C. McCoy Franklin

    First Presbyterian Church, Auburn, Alabama

    There is a mood oí pessimism abroad throughout the land. We have always had our doomsayers and chronic worriers to warn us of trouble on the horizon, but they have usually been few in number and weak in influence. Americans are generally an optimistic people. But a new mood of pessimism is sweeping the country. Not only are Americans worried over energy shortages, rising prices, and a deteriorating quality of life, but the feeling is strong that the future holds only a worsening of the situation. A scientist like William Pollard looks at the industrialized economies which have been built up over the past 200 years on the foundation of unlimited raw materials and unlimited energy and says bluntly, “The joy ride is over!” No one describes our prospects more forcefully or analyzes them more frightfully than does Robert Heilbroner in AN INQUIRY INTO THE HUMAN PROSPECT.(l) The prospect he sees is another dark age characterized by overcrowding, hunger and poverty, authoritarian governments, and a rigidly oppressive culture—in short, the very opposite of what we have valued. Dacques Ellul, looking more to the present than to the future, says that, in spite of scientific breakthroughs, we have never felt so closed-in, so confined, or so impotent as we do today.(2) Millions of folks who have never heard of Pollard, Heilbroner, or Ellul have caught their mood. Dr. Gerald L. Klerman, the nation’s highest ranking mental health officer, says that melancholy or depression has become our greatest social disease.(3) For the first time in the history of public opinion polling, more than half of the American public believes that the next five years will be worse than the last five years. Some economists see this pessimism reflected in the vascillating stock market and in the soaring price of gold. Anyone who is trying to preach in 1980 must be prepared to recognize and to reckon with this mood of pessimism. The themes of Lent offer special opportunities and resources for the preacher in a time such as ours. Lent is a special time to focus on the Cross. The mood of Good Friday was not optimism but pessimism, not victory but defeat, not hope but dread and dispair. And yet it was precisely in the midst of pessimism, defeat and dispair that the work and purpose of God was most clearly shown. The Cross speaks a special word to all who have lost hope, because it takes seriously all those factors which lead a person to dispair. Reinhoid Niebuhr, after a Good Friday service in the Detroit working class church he served in the 1920’s, reflected in his diary on how his experience of life had helped him to see the cross as a symbol of ultimate reality: “It is because the cross of Christ symbolizes something in the very heart of reality, something in universal experience, that it has its central place in history.” He goes on to reflect upon how life is tragic, and the power of the cross lies in its ability to show how tragedy can be redemptive.(4) The Cross proclaims that God is most actively and surely present in the

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    painful, humiliating, destructive experiences of life. Elie Wiesei gives a moving testimony to God’s presence in destructive situations with an anecdote from his experience at Auschwitz:

    The SS hanged two Jewish men and a youth in front of the whole camp. The men died quickly, but the throes of death of the youth lasted for half an hour. “Where is God? Where is he?” someone asked behind me. As the youth still hung in torment in the noose after a long time, I heard the men call again, “Where is God now?” And I heard a voice in myself answer, “Where is God? He is here. He is hanging there on the gallows.”(5)

    That is what the Cross demonstrates and proclaims. Therefore the Cross speaks a special word of good news to those whose hope is gone because the Cross proclaims that God is present and working precisely in those hope-robbing situations. Likewise, those whose hope is at low ebb have a special insight into the Cross. Those who have never known pain or defeat, never experienced forsakenness, never lost hope can have little appreciation for and little understanding of the Cross. A time of pessimism may be the very best time for understanding the Cross of Jesus and therefore may be the best time for perceiving where and how God is at work in the world. Langdon Gilkey suggests as much in his book REAPING THE WHIRLWIND: A CHRISTIAN INTERPRETATION OF HISTORY which contains a comprehensive treatment of the Christian doctrine of providence. Gilkey suggests that whether a person views providence positively or negatively depends, to a great extent, upon the mood of the time in which the person lives. In optimistic times, when we are impressed by the vast potential of human knowledge and ability, any talk of God’s power and God’s purpose seems to cast a constraint on human freedom and a limitation on human possibilities and therefore seems repressive. However in pessimistic times, when we are impressed by the strong forces of destruction, the “principalities and powers,” the oppressive systems working against us, then the affirmation that God is at work and that God has a purpose for human life comes as an offer of liberation and as a basis for hope.(6) If Gilkey is correct, this Lenten Season is an opportune time for the preacher to speak of God’s providential activity in the world. The Cross of Jesus provides a clear demonstration of that work.

    I. FOUR FORMS OF PROVIDENCE

    Gilkey focuses his study of providence, not on the Cross, but on Israel’s perception of God’s involvement in her history. The main elements of that involvement included (1) liberation from bondage in Egypt; (2) establishment of the basic structure and institutions of Israel’s communal existence: the covenant, the federation of tribes, the monarchy, the priesthood, the Temple, etc.; (3) judgment against the perversion of these structures and institutions which rendered them no longer valid; and (4) promise of new possibilities for new structures. This cycle of liberation, establishment, judgment, and new possibilities is descriptive of God’s work in the world. Says Gilkey: “This model provides, I believe, the interpretative symbolic framework in terms of which alone the creativity, the sin, the tragedy and the renewal of hope, characteristic of historical experience can be comprehended . . • concrete history as we experience it has a dialectical, tragic character analogous


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    to this biblical drama.”(7) This biblical model suggests to Gilkey four forms of God’s work of providence: (1) the grounding of human freedom in the purpose and work of God, (2) the divine activity to preserve, sustain and continue the universe over time, (3) judgment against whatever has become distorted and destructive and (4) the vision of new possibilities within each situation. We have already affirmed that the Cross is the place where the involvement of God in the world is verified and demonstrated most clearly. Therefore these four forms of God’s work of providence suggest four ways of speaking about the significance of the Cross.

    (1) Providence as the grounding of freedom in the purpose and work of God.

    God is at work in the world setting people free. The liberation of all people is one form of the work of divine providence. That is contrary to the commonly accepted perception of providence. Providence has often been perceived as a predetermined plan, as an impersonal fate imposed upon human nature and human history. As such, providence has sometimes been perceived as the antagonist of freedom. Whether providence is perceived as deterministic or as liberating turns on the perception one has of freedom. What does it mean to be free? From what do we need to be liberated? Is freedom an end in itself? Is it enough to be freed from restrictions and restraints or is it necessary that one be freed for some purpose? The biblical account of God’s work of liberation consistently grounds human freedom in the purpose and work of God. To be truly free is to have the freedom to be the person God created us to be and to do the work God intended for us to do. The Children of Israel were set free from bondage in Egypt in order that they might be better able to serve God. “Let my people go that they may serve me,” was the divine ultimatum. Freedom is never an adequate goal in itself because freedom is easily corrupted. One person’s or one nation’s freedom is usually expanded at the espense of other people or nations. History has shown how easily the oppressed can become the oppressor. Dr. Gilkey points out, “It is in our use of freedom that we sin against our neighbor. The most fundamental problem of history is not only that some people oppress others—though that is a vast problem; it is that each of us in our use of our own freedom oréate suffering for others and for ourselves.”(8) The Cross is the focal point of God’s work of liberation. It is the means by which freedom itself is set free from the corruption and distortion caused by Sin. It is the means by which we are freed from the fear of death, which is the end result of Sin, and therefore freed from the frantic and ultimately frustrating attempts to save ourselve* and avoid death. The Cross is the means by which we are liberated from self and the need for self-justification and are set free to love God and neighbor. The Cross shows us the example of a truly free man. The only person in that chain of events leading up to Good Friday who was really free was Jesus. Even as he hung helplessly and hopelessly nailed to a cross he remained free—free to choose how he would respond to his circumstances, free to be obedient unto death, free to forgive those who abused and ridiculed him, free to show concern for others in spite of his own pain, free to take upon himself the punishment and shame he did not deserve. Here, as no place else, we see the truly liberated man. Here, as no place else, we catch a vision of what God has set us free to be. Here, as no place else, we see the shape of the freedom for which God is working in the world.


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    (2) Providence as God’s work to preserve and sustain the universe.

    God is also working to preserve, sustain, and enrich human life. This is the creative and constitutive work of providence. God is at work “through the processes that shape and change the earth and the living things upon it.”(9) God is at work in social institutions as the source of their significance and power. Social institutions are instruments through which power is exercised in any society. God, who is the ultimate source of all power, not only upholds social institutions but permits them to exercise power. They are instruments of God’s care and servants of God’s will. God is not limited to intermittent, “supernatural” interventions into human life. God is at work constantly and consistently within the very institutions which shape history as the creator of their function and the source of their power. When ancient Israel looked for assurance of God’s providential care it instinctively looked to its social institutions—the monarchy, the priesthood, the Temple, the law. These were both the symbols and the instruments of God’s presence, God’s power and God’s will for their life. The activity of God in and through these institutions was one important form of God’s work in the world. When we come to see how this form of providence is demonstrated by the Cross, the task becomes more difficult. The Cross, in fact, seems a blunt denial of providence, at least of this form of providence. The Cross shows how all the social institutions were allied against Jesus. The government, the religious establishment, the reform movement, the law, all worked together to reject and to crucify the Son of God. Instead of showing how God works through social institutions, the Cross demonstrates how institutions work against God. To argue that these institutions were instruments of God’s will and activity is to pit God against Himself. Nevertheless, the one place succeeding generations of Christians have looked to see the presence and to learn the will of God is the Cross of Jesus. The Cross seems to contradict providence because we assume that providence requires a particular type of power and a particular type of care. We think we know what power is and we try to impose that concept upon the crucifixion event. We think we already know how a powerful God and a caring God should act and we try to interpret the Cross from that perspective. The pieces never quite f i t because we have the cart before the horse. There is no place where we get a clearer picture of God than at the Cross. Jürgen Moltmann has written:

    When the crucified Jesus is called the “image of the invisible God,” the meaning is that this is God and God is this. God is not greater than he is in this humiliation. God is not more glorious than he is in this selfsurrender . God is not more powerful than he is in this helplessness. God is not more divine than he is in this humanity.(10)

    The Cross as the unique revelation of God is also the standard by which power and care are defined and evaluated. In the powerlessness of Jesus on the Cross a new kind of power is demonstrated. It is not the power that pulls strings and forces compliance. It is, however, the power that creates love, that relieves guilt, that evokes faith. It is the power to comfort and the power to challenge commitment. This is the manner in which God was at work in and through the social institutions that were united in opposition to God’s Son. God was not absent from these actions. God did not preserve these institutions from corruption and distortion. Neither did God coerce or force them into a particular course of action.


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    But God was at work in spite of this apparent lack of power. God was at work within these institutions as the power to create, out of even their worst motives, their worst decisions, and their worst actions, a unique and powerful demonstration of love, grace, and truth. The Cross, far from proving that social institutions are devoid of God’s influence and outside of God’s sphere of action, demonstrates that, even at their worst, the ordinary institutions and processes of human society are channels through which God works his providential care.

    (3) Providence as God’s judgment against whatever has become distorted.

    Judgment is sometimes called the “hidden” or “alien” work of God. It is the destruction of whatever has become destructive of human society. The Old Testament prophets frequently used the image of fire to describe this activity of God. In doing so, they made note not only of the destructive power of fire but also of the use of fire as a test—the refiner’s fire—to distinguish gold and straw, to distinguish between truth and falsehood, to distingush between God’s standard and human distortions of God’s intentions. As in the case of the positive, sustaining work of providence, so in this negative work of judgment, God is not limited to intermittent, “supernatural” interventions into human life. The very movements of human history are instruments of God’s judgment. The prophets saw the hand of God at work in the political and military events of the day. Isaiah could call Assyria the rod of God’s anger against the sins of Judah. Jeremiah could see military defeat and political exile as God’s judgment against Judah’s distorted goals and values. Hosea could see that the result of Israel’s sowing the wind would be the reaping of the whirlwind. All these obviously destructive events and movements were seen as events in and through which God was working to correct, cleanse, and refine the distorted and destructive elements of the national life. The Cross of Jesus is likewise an event in which the judgment of God is clearly at work, though in an ironic or almost paradoxical manner. Jesus was the one placed on trial. Jesus was the one accused of blasphemy against God and treason against the state. Jesus was the one who bore the shame of the Cross. If the Cross demonstrates the judgment of God, Jesus seems to be the one against whom the judgment is rendered. The full force of God’s judgment can be seen only in the light of the Resurrection of Jesus on Easter morning. In this light it is clear that Jesus was not on trial at all. In this light it is clear that Pilate, Herod, the Sanhédrin, and the mob were the ones on trial. They are judged by the judgment they brought against Jesus. The fact that all the social institutions were allied in opposition to the Son of God is itself a devastating judgment against them. The crucifixion of Jesus is a clear demonstration of the vulnerability of all institutions, ideals, and persons to distortion and destructiveness. Even good people and good institutions can find themselves in opposition to God. The Cross as the focal point of God’s work in the world is a powerful reminder that God is unrelenting in his work of correcting what is distorted, destroying what is destructive, and refining what is imperfect in human society.

    (4) Providence as the vision of new possibilities within each situation.

    In one of his sermons, Paul Tillich said, “Providence means that there is a


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    creative and saving possibility implied in every situation, which cannot be destroyed by any event.”(11) Gilkey develops this idea as another of the ways God works in the world. God works in every event to give each person and group “an ordered vision of possibility.” It is an ordered vision in that it bears some relationship to the present situation. Yet, it is still a possibility because it is a leap beyond the present and is not determined by or predictable from the present situation. Such possibilities do not appear before us simply as an alternative among other alternatives but as an insistent demand upon our conscience, as a moral imperative to which the only response can be commitment.(12) The Old Testament prophets saw a possibility present and active in the disaster which was falling on Israel and Judah. They saw in the break-up of the old covenant the possibility of a new covenant between God and the people which, while related to the old, would be quite different. The new covenant would not be written on stone or scroll but upon the heart. The defeat of the nation and the disgrace of exile held the possibility of an emerging remnant of the faithful who would more nearly fulfill God’s intention. God was at work in these most destructive events creating new possibilities. The Cross is the supreme symbol of hope and possibility. Who could have predicted that God would have used an instrument of human tortue to reveal the reality of divine love? Who could have predicted that this moment of godforsakenness would become the one unique place where God’s presence is most clearly seen? Who would have predicted that this hopeless looking event would become our one sure basis for hope? The Cross, as no place else before or since, demonstrates God’s work of offering to us in every event and in every circumstance a vision of new possibilities—a vision which calls us to commit ourselves to making the possibility a reality. The Cross is truly good news not just wishful thinking. The Cross demonstrates God’s presence and purpose at work in the most evil and hopeless of circumstances. The Cross proclaims clearly and convincingly that God is at work in the world even in the worst of times. The Cross assures us that whenever God is at work there is a purpose, that wherever God is at work there is a reason for hope.

    II. DETECTING GOD’S WORK IN THE WORLD TODAY

    These four forms of God’s providential activity in the world provide us with important clues to help us find what God is doing in the world today. In every situation and in every event we can look for God to be at work setting people free, sustaining life, judging and correcting what is distorted, and providing a vision of new possibilities. With this guide before us we are in a position to speak a word of direction and hope in the midt of these pessimistic times. Where is God at work and toward what purpose is God working in the present situation? Let us look at one of the contemporary problems. The problem which is felt most keenly and by most people, at least in this country, is the growing scarcity and soaring prices of natural resources. Petroleum is the one most keenly felt at the moment, but it is only the first among a long list of metals and minerals (to say nothing of water) which are becoming increasingly scarce and, therefore, increasingly expensive. The economic consequences for nations and individuals are obvious and frightening. How and where can we expect to find God at work in this situation? It seems apparent that God’s judgment against distorted values and destructive habits is


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    active here. We have thought that the resources of the earth were ours to do with as we please. We have imagined that economic growth is the ultimate goal. We can now see that these goals and values stand under God’s judgment. We have been wasteful in our use of the world’s goods. We have been destructive of the environment which supports us and unjust in the way the world’s resources have been shared by all the world’s people. We can now begin to see the reality of our failures and the consequences of our sins. We can expect God to continue to work through this impending crisis correcting our distorted values, destroying our destructive habits of consumption and calling into question our arrogance and our selfishness. It is also possible to see evidence of God’s work of liberation in this situation. God’s liberating activity is at work on different levels. On one level there is liberation from economic bondage. This is difficult for us in the United States to see, but some of our brothers and sisters in South America, the Middle East, Africa, and Asia read the shift of economic power toward the oil and ore producing nations as economic liberation. To say that God is at work in this economic shift does not guarantee that the results will be either godly or good. They may use their economic liberation selfishly and destructively. Yet candor requires that we recognize the purpose of God in the liberation of all people from all types of oppression. The anger and sense of injustice we are feeling because of the arbitrary pricing policies of the OPEC nations gives us a taste of the subtle yet powerful reality of economic oppression. This experience should help us to be more sensitive to the effects our own nation’s economic policies, and the pricing and wage policies of large corporations, have on peoples in other countries as well as on segments of our own population. There is another level upon which God’s work of liberation can be seen. It is possible that God is at work in this economic readjustment to free us from our bondage to affluence. It is possible that this is the method God is using to free us from the illusion that our personal worth is measured by our standard of living and the significance of our life is determined by the size of our salary. This might just be the way God is working to free our energies and resources from the task of preserving and protecting what we own, so that we can put more into the work of building up the whole community of God’s children. As we look for God’s purpose and work in the present situation we can expect to find God at work using the ordinary institutions and processes of society to sustain life. We could point to several examples of how God is using imperfect and often distorted human institutions, governments and corporations, political and economic systems to provide the goods, services and jobs necessary to preserve, sustain and enrich human life. One piece of that system worth mentioning is the segment we often call technology. By the term technology I am referring to the people and institutions involved in the research and development of scientific knowlege and the application of that knowledge to daily life. Some see technology as the culprit which created this problem we are discussing in the first place. It is certainly true that technology has required enormous amounts of resources for its development. Technology has spawned an extravagant waste of resources to keep itself going. Technology has nourished the arrogant illusion that we could and should accomplish whatever we put our mind to accomplish. Nevertheless technology is one of the institutions through which God has and is working to sustain human life. Technology has made us dangerously dependent on limited resources, but technology is one of the principal systems which God can, and I believe God will, use to relieve this danger. Technology is one of the systems through which God is at work


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    preserving, sustaining, and enriching the life of the world. A fourth way we can expect God to be at work in the present situation is in providing us with a vision of new possibilities in the midst of our present dilemma, jt is too early to say exactly what that vision will be. But the search for the vision has already begun. One expression of that vision which is now being circulated and discussed speaks of a “just, participatory and sustainable society.” This vision was the basis for a recent (July, 1979) conference at MIT sponsored by the World Council

    0f Churches and attended by theologians and scientists from around the world. The meaning of these adjectives is still developing as the vision is still taking shape. No one can predict from past experience or from the present situation exactly what the future will be. It will be God’s gift. Yet God does bless us from time to time with a vision of the Kingdom of God which God is establishing and which God calls us even now to enter and to serve. Providing us with the vision and the hope of this kingdom is God’s most powerful work in our midst.

    The Lenten Season provides the Church, and especially the preacher, with the appropriate context in which the current mood of pessimism can be acknowledged and addressed. As we speak about the Cross and about the action and purpose of God in and through that event, we have both the opportunity and the responsibility to let that event illuminate God’s activity and purpose in the events which mark our entry into the 1980’s. It is our calling to preach Christ, crucified. To some people it will sound like terribly bad news. To some people it will sound like utter foolishness. But to some, especially to those who are tempted to give up hope, it would sound like pure gospel—”the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith.” (Romans 1:16)

    (1) Robert Heilbroner, An Inquiry into the Human Prospect, (New York: Norton, 1974). (2) Jacques Ellul, The New Demons, trans. C. E. Hopkins, (New York: Seabury Press, 1975). (3) Quoted in Context, June 1, 1979, p.l. (Ψ) Reinhold Niebuhr, Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic, (New York: Meridian Books, 1957), p. 106f. (5) Eiiezer Wiesel, Night, trans. S. Rodway, (New York: Hill and Wang, I960), p. 75f. (6) Langdon Gilkey, Reaping the Whirlwind: A Christian Interpretation of History, (New York: Seabury Press, 1976), p. 254. (7) Ibid., p. 262f. (8) Ibid., p. 236. (9) “A Declaration of Faith,” Chapter 2, adopted by the 117th General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church in the U.S. as a “contemporary statement of faith.” (10) Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God, trans. R. A. Wilson and J. Bowden, (New York: Harper and Row, 1974), p. 205. (11) Paul Tillich, The Shaking of the Foundations, (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1948), p. 106. (12) Gilkey, oj>. cit., p. 252.

  • On Divers Spirits: Theological Themes in Thomas Wolfe

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    ON DIVERS SPIRITS: THEOLOGICAL THEMES IN THOMAS WOLFE

    John B. Trotti

    Union Theological Seminary in Virginia

    Based on a longstanding reputation which Asheville gave Thomas Wolfe as a hedonist, agnostic, or worse, I began a senior essay at Davidson College in the midfifties with the pre-research title “The Dearth of the Spiritual in Thomas Wolfe.” My reading of Look Homeward, Angeld) destroyed that view and led to a lifelong interest in this fellow Ashevillian and his painful spiritual pilgrimage. Far from a “dearth” I have found his novels, short stories, and letters shot through with profound spiritual reflection and insight well worth a pastor’s serious consideration. Although Wolfe was raised under the influence of my home church, First Presbyterian Church, Asheville, North Carolina, he was not a Christian in any traditional sense. His conviction that all beliefs ebb and flow, changing and growing like a river, would not allow him to subscribe to any set creed which would fix one’s belief—leading in his view to a set of fixations. Yet his writings down to the time of his early death at 37 in 1938 abound with love/hate reflections on the Church, wistful appreciations of Presbyterianism, a gnawing sense of sin and guilt, a fear and finally truce with death, a prophetic critique of cant and hypocrisy, and a constant cry of pain at his lostness from the world above and from the Father. Many a passage in Wolfe’s first and best novel, Look Homeward, Angel (LHA) provide grist for the preacher’s mill. This is a patently autobiographical novel (despite Wolfe’s denials) which struggles with a young man’s coming of age in a mountainbound Southern village in the first quarter of this century. It is a superb rendering of the agony we all experience in battling through adolescence to stand on our own two feet, in peeping over the rim of our home and hometown’s circling mountains to see new vistas with all the threat and promise uprooting offers. Insofar as it is that, the novel speaks timelessly to the young and continues to be present on college bookshelves. Drifting like an everpresent mist throughout Wolfe’s poetic descriptions and expansive rhetorical outbursts is the theme of “lostness.” He seeks “a stone, a leaf, a door” which will open the way back into the spirit world. Ponder his preface which ends “O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again” (LHA, p. 2). This refrain, in part or whole, is echoed throughout the novel. In a brief reflection on death and afterlife, Wolfe cries “shall not this dust awaken, shall not dead faith revive, shall we not see God again, as once in morning, on the mountains? Who walks with us on the hills?” (LHA, p. 484). In this he affirms faith, though weakened, in God or else the likeness or comparison fails. He also affirms the centrality of his father’s dynamic person in his life. The notion of the “quest” for God and its relation to the father figure is further developed in Of Time and the River (OT&R).(2) One of the most powerful scenes in Look Homeward, Angel is the death scene of Tom’s beloved brother Ben.

    Eugene did not believe in these things, but he was afraid they might be true. He was afraid that Ben would get lost again. He felt that no one but he could pray for Ben now: that the dark union of their spirits made


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    only his prayers valid. All that he had read in books, all the tranquil wisdom he had professed so glibly in his philosophy course, and the great names of Plato and Plotinus, of Spinoza and Immanuel Kant, of Hegel and Descartes, left him now, under the mastering surge of his wild Celtic superstition. He felt that he must pray frantically as long as the little ebbing flicker of breath remained in his brother’s body.

    So, with insane sing-song repetition, he began to mutter over and over again: “Whoever You Are, be good to Ben to-night. Show him the way . . . Whoever You Are, be good to Ben to-night. Show him the way . . .” He lost count of the minutes, the hours: he heard only the feeble rattle of dying breath, and his wild synchronic prayer (LHA, p. 556).

    Here Wolfe feels the pinch of his adolescent agnosticism when the head-trip of his philosophical inquiries smacks into the emotional crisis of the death of the one person closest to him. Consistent with his lifelong spiritual reflections, Wolfe is quite clear about the demonic forces but not as clear about angelic or positive ones. His passionate sensuality and inclination to ritual was forever in tension with his inability to formulate a consistent theology. In this crisis he “buys celestial insurance” with a ritualistic, inquiring, beseeching prayer. He is not sure about the nature of God nor of afterlife, but he is sure about Ben and that Ben does not and will not cease to exist. Thus an insecure faith, even among intellectuals, easily lapses into some form of spiritualism. It is a poignant moment as the youth stammers prayers to what is in essence “the unknown god.” Throughout his writings Wolfe wrestled with death. The death scene of W. O. Gant (Wolfe’s father) is a classic in all literature (OT&R, pp. 261-268). In the last writing Wolfe penned, he said to Maxwell Perkins, his former editor and close friend, that the critical illness that ultimately took his life had given him a positive perspective on death and hope for his life. Wolfe wrote:

    I’ve made a long voyage and been to a strange country, and I’ve seen the dark man very close; and I don’t think I was too much afraid of him, but so much of mortality still clings to me—I wanted most desperately to live and still do, and I thought about you all a 1000 times, and wanted to see you all again, and there was the impossible anguish and regret of all the work I had not done, of all the work I had to do—and I know now I’m just a grain of dust, and I feel as if a great window has been opened on life I did not know about before—and if I come through this, I hope to God I am a better man, and a wiser one—If I get on my feet and out of here, it will be months before I head back, but if I get on my feet, I’ll come back.(3)

    The multiple references to his upbringing in the Presbyterian Church are instructive as comment on the “social sources of denominationalism,” on the superficial social values of church attendance, on the order and stability of Presbyterianism as contrasted with the disorder of Wolfe’s life, and on the hypocrisy of church members, so troubling to one with an inquiring mind and erratic lifestyle. Wolfe describes how the teachings of his “oppressively Christlike” male Sunday School teacher stirred up more guilt and misery than faith. “Eugene became vaguely miserable as he talked, thinking of something soft, furry, with a wet tongue” (LHA, p. 139). Elsewhere, Eugene gave mock attention and then a demonic outburst of laughter when “an old lady of the church, who with all her power of persuasion and earnestness was unfolding the dogma of Presbyterianism to him . . .” (LHA, p. 253-


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    254), in an attempt to lead him to faith. In a marvelously funny passage Eugene and his friend George Graves boast of the superiority of Presbyterians and Episcopalians to Methodists and Baptists, and then lapse into a biting exchange on the utility of Church membership: A negro dug tenderly in the round loamy flowerbeds of the Presbyterian churchyard, bending now and then to thrust his thick fingers gently in about the roots. The old church, with its sharp steeple, rotted slowly, decently, prosperously, like a good man’s life, down into its wet lichened brick. Eugene looked gratefully, with a second’s pride, at its dark decorum, its solid Scotch breeding. “I’m a Presbyterian,” he said. “What are you?” “An Episcopalian, when I go,” said George Graves with irreverent laughter. “To hell with these Methodists!” Eugene said with an elegant, disdainful face. “They’re too damn common for us.” . . . “We oughtn’t to talk like that, ‘Gene,” said George Graves reproachfully. “Sure enough! It’s not right.” He became moodily serious rapidly. “The best people in this town are church members,” he said earnestly. “It’s a fine thing.” “Why?” said Eugene, with an idle curiosity. “Because,” said George Graves, “you get to know all the people who are worth a damn.” Worth being damned, he thought quickly. A quaint idea. “It helps you in a business way. They come to know you and respect you. You won’t get far in this town, ‘Gene, without them. It pays,” he added devoutly, “to be a Christian.” “Yes,” Eugene agreed seriously, “you’re right.” To walk together to the kirk, with a goodly company (LHA, pp. 329-330).

    Can we fail to see that same dynamic today in those who believe “It pays to be a Christian” in a very monetary and materialistic way? Wolfe’s attack on superficial religion and hypocritical public posturing led him to drag many a skeleton from the Asheville closets. The exposure of these foibles led to a terrific backlash of criticism from Asheville citizens when Look Homeward, Angel hit the bookstores in 1929. We may commend the prophetic insight he showed in condemning the materialism in the real estate boom leading to the crash, in attacking the “foxhole religion” of those who ignore God in good times, and in bringing to light the private sensual indiscretions which ran counter to the public moral and credal affirmations. Wolfe for example was well ahead of his time in exposing the sin of the preacher’s condemnation of Sunday baseball while at that very moment a black woman sweated in the pastor’s kitchen preparing the Sunday dinner for these pious white folks. Unfortunately, however, Wolfe did not move to a constructive, positive theology, but remained in the negative, analytic stage. Those sins which he condemned in his father and in society at large were the very ones which continued to trouble him throughout his life. His flirtations with the church were always tainted by his own overwhelming sense of guilt. Thus he writes in The Story of a Novel:(4)

    And beyond, beyond—forever above, around, behind the vast and tranquil consciousness of my spirit that now held the earth and all her elements in the huge clasp of its effortless subjection—there dwelt forever the fatal knowledge of my own inexplicable guilt (SN, p. 64). Indeed, his last words before death were “Mama, I’ve been a bad boy, I’ve been a bad boy all my life.” Somehow the preaching and teaching which stuck with him was


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    that of sin and guilt, not grace and forgiveness. Is there not an important word for the preacher here? Wolfe’s quest for spiritual wholeness took special focus in his reflections on seeking and finding again his father. In Of Time and the River this motif is announced in the preface to Book I: “Where shall the weary rest? When shall the lonely of heart come home? What doors are open for the wanderer? And which of us shall find his father, know his face, and in what place, and in what time, and in what land?” (OT&R, p. 2). His agony over his own father’s death and any possibility of afterlife and reunion already suggest that the quest is for something more than the physical father (OT&R, pp. 139, 268, 333, et al). Note especially his questioning “Shall I know you, though I have never seen your face? Will you know me, and will you call me ‘son’? Father, I know that you live, though I have never found you” (OT&R, p. 856). This is a bit awkward way to speak of one’s physical father and is perhaps more in phase with Wolfe’s later affirmation that his search was not the quest to return to childhood nor to the lost father of his youth, but rather the seeking of a force beyond this life—rather, I would say, a quest for God. Wolfe wrote:

    From the beginning—and this was one fact that in all my times of hopelessness returned to fortify my faith in my conviction—the idea, the central legend that I wished my book to express had not changed. And this central idea was this: the deepest search in life, it seemed to me, the thing that in one way or another was central to all living was man’s search to find a father, not merely the father of his flesh, not merely the lost father of his youth, but the image of a strength and wisdom external to his need and superior to his hunger, to which the belief and power of his own life could be united (SN, p. 39).

    Wolfe’s writings are shot through with Biblical quotes, Biblical allusions, and a Biblical rhetorical style. One of the most interesting short pieces is his essay “God’s Lonely Man” found in The Hills Beyond (THB).(5) In this work, Wolfe analyzes his own loneliness and states: “The most tragic, sublime, and beautiful expression of human loneliness which I have ever read is the Book of Job; the grandest and most philosophical, Ecclesiastes” (THB, p. 190). He moves to a broader discussion of loneliness in the Old Testament, then takes focus on the life of Christ and his purpose “to destroy the life of loneliness and to establish here on earth the life of love” (THB, p. 194). In Wolfe’s judgment, Christ’s life was a lonely one.

    And now I know that though the way and meaning of Christ’s life is a far, far better way and meaning than my own, yet I can never make it mine; and I think that this is true of all the other lonely men that I have seen or known about—the nameless, voiceless, faceless atoms of this earth as well as Job and Everyman and Swift. And Christ himself, who preached the life of ilove, was yet as lonely as any man that ever lived. Yet I could not say that he was mistaken because he preached the life of love and fellowship, and lived and died in loneliness; nor would I dare assert his way was wrong because a billion men have since professed his way and never followed it.

    I can only say that I could not make his way my own. For I have found the constant, everlasting weather of man’s life to be, not love, but loneliness. Love itself is not the weather of our lives. It is the rare, the


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    precious flower. Sometimes it is the flower that gives us life, that breaches the dark walls of all our loneliness and restores us to the fellowship of life, the family of the earth, the brotherhood of man. But sometimes love is the flower that brings us death; and from it we get pain and darkness; and the mutilations of the soul, the maddening of the brain, may be in it (THB, p. 196).

    Surely there is stimulus for reflection in this analysis of human loneliness and the mission of Christ, in the attraction of the life of Christ yet the rejection of it, and in the wish to believe despite the “billion men” who espouse Christ’s way but don’t follow it. Perhaps the best known, and certainly the least understood, theme in Wolfe’s writings is the now proverbial saying “You can’t go home again.” From the first to the last we see this theme of quest for the lost home, the reveries of the past, the painstaking examination of Wolfe’s “roots,” and a posthumous publication an entire volume is entitled You Can’t Go Home Again (YCGHA).(6) The average reader (and those who have not read it but use the saying) understands this phrase to mean that you can’t return to the happy days of the past. This is usually applied, with considerable pain and nostalgia, as the reluctant wisdom of those who find that not only has home changed, but that they, too, have so changed as to no longer fit easily into “home” anymore. This negative observation is usually accompanied with sighing and head wagging. Such, however, was not the sense of the matter for Wolfe. To be sure, his works abound with a sense of nostalgia. As indicated above, he was on a passionate quest for some threshold leading back into a lost home and to a lost father, however this quest was much more a spiritual and metaphysical one rather than an historical and physical pilgrimage. Despite the real anxiety Wolfe had about returning to Asheville (especially after the uproar created by Look Homeward, Angel), his theme was something far more positive and hopeful. As Wolfe wrote to his old friend Belinda Jelliffe:

    I know now that you can’t go home again, but I know also that our home, yours and mine, and every mother’s son of us, is in the future, and I believe in it and trust in it as I believe and trust in life . . . and to that end I am now willing to devote all the energy, talent, faith and hope that in me are. And I have also found out that although you can’t go home again, there are certain things you do not lose, but that grow and flourish as the years go on, and one of them is the love and belief of a friend. . . . Great bridges may be burned, and there is a path which we can never take, a road down which we never shall go back again; but there is also a fire that once lighted will always burn, and that never while life lasts can be put out.(7)

    Wolfe expanded on this theme in writing to his old high school teacher, Mrs. Margaret Roberts: But my discovery that “you can’t go home again” . . . went down to the very roots of my life and spirit . . . it was like death almost, because it meant saying farewell to so many things, to so many ideas and images and hopes and illusions that we think we can’t live without. But the point is, I have come through it now, and I am not desolate or lost. On the


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    contrary, I am more full of faith and hope and courage than I have been in years. I suppose that what I am trying to tell you here is a spiritual conviction that will inform the whole book—you could almost call that book, “You Can’t Go Home Again,” although I don’t think I shall call it that. But I do want you to understand that it is not a hopeless book, but a triumphantly hopeful one. . . . I, too, believe in the brave new world, and I hope now that I am on the way to find it.(8)

    Thus for Wolfe the observation that “you can’t go home again” had a forward thrust which has great relevance for preaching in this day of rootless, homeless, transient people. The positive affirmation is that our home is in the future, that there are new challenges and vistas before us, that we are a pilgrim people “on the way,” that we are strangers and sojourners on this earth, for our real home is with God. Wolfe’s insight can spur us to critique biblically our current preoccupation with nostalgia as that turning which turns the turner into a pillar of salt, as that faithlessness in the wilderness which would lead us back to Egypt and slavery rather than forward to a new day and a promised land, as that clinging to the past which prevents our laying aside every weight and sin in order to run the race of faith, or as that backward look which causes the runner to stumble instead of pressing forward to the goal. A final passage in Wolfe seems to me to be particularly apt for reflection today. It is taken from Wolfe’s credo at the end of You Can’t Go Home Again.(9) Following a chapter, “Ecclesiasticus,” in which he reflects on the philosophy of life and especially the struggle of belief and doubt, Wolfe moves to his “Credo” where he sings the praises of America. It is surprising that this did not get wider currency during the Bicentennial celebrations. Again and again, Wolfe affirms his solid convictions about Evil and the demonic, but still is hopeful for America and believes our best days are yet ahead. He ends with a poetic, hopeful note addressed to his dear friend Fox (Maxwell Perkins):

    Dear Fox, old friend, thus we have come to the end of the road that we were to go together. My tale is finished—and so farewell. But before I go, I have just one more thing to tell you:

    Something has spoken to me in the night, burning the tapers of the waning year; something has spoken in the night, and told me I shall die, I know not where. Saying: “To lose the earth you know, for greater knowing; to lose the life you have, for greater life; to leave the friends you loved, for greater loving; to find a land more kind than home, more large than earth—Whereon the pillars of this earth are founded, toward which the conscience of the world is tending—a wind is rising, and the rivers flow (YCGHA, p. 7*3).

    In Wolfe there are indeed “divers spirits” at work. Although his America was that of 1900-1938, his eloquently articulated pilgrimage and his painstakingly thorough observations on life and death, belief and doubt, morality and hypocrisy, can lead us to view with greater empathy those struggling questioners who from time to time grace our pews and flirt with a faith they cannot quite embrace. In a graduate paper at Harvard, Wolfe noted that Coleridge had been criticized for returning to the established church in his later years after a period of revolt in his youth. Yet Wolfe felt that this was an inevitable prodigal journey, and that the


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    mature person would finally come to the recognition of a power beyond his own. Dying young at 37, Wolfe did not complete his own prodigal journey. Who knows where he might have come out, given a few more years? The point is this: there are ones such as Wolfe in our communities and perhaps occasionally in our pews. Can we so lift up Christ and the grace of God as to make the angelic vision as real and meaningful as the demonic one already seems to be? It is all too easy to make common cause with a Wolfe in describing and defining the demonic spirits, but our real challenge is to affirm the Father and his benevolent spirits of grace and hope and love.

    (1) Look Homeward, Angel (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1929).

    (2) Of Time and the River (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1935).

    (3) John Hall Wheelock, ed., Editor to Author: The Letters of Maxwell E. Perkins (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1950), p. 1*1.

    (*) The Story of a Novel (New York: Charles Scriber’s Sons, 1936).

    (5) The Hills Beyond (New York: Harper & Brothers, 19*1).

    (6) You Can’t Go Home Again (New York: Harper & Brothers, 19*1).

    (7) Elizabeth Nowell, ed., The Letters of Thomas Wolfe (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1956), p. 707.

    (8) Ibid, p. 730.

    (9) YCGHA, p. 7*3.

    2*

  • The Power of the Holy Spirit for Social Ministry

    This text was converted from the original print edition for full-text searchability. Formatting may differ from the original. Consult the PDF for citation and presentation details.

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    THE POWER OF THE HOLY SPIRIT FOR SOCIAL MINISTRY

    Walter T. Davis, Jr. Atlanta Association for International Education, Atlanta, Georgia

    Pentecost recurs in surprising ways as God continues to break into history to renew and transform. In 1921 the Spirit descended in a new way on the people of the then Belgian Congo. God appeared in a dream to Simon Kimbangu, a Baptist teacher in a small village near the mouth of the great Zaire river, and told him to preach and heal. After an initial period of resistance reminiscent of the excuses Moses offered to avoid responsibility, Kimbangu obeyed. The news spread like a brush fire: ,fGod has sent us a prophet who heals!” The crowds flocked to Kimbangu for healing

    and for the renewing word of God. The colonial government was quick to react, accusing Kimbangu of political subversion. He was arrested and incarcerated 2000 miles from home. This policy of exiling trouble makers had always worked before, and there was no Gamaliel among the colonial masters to warn that they might find themselves fighting against God. It was an uneven match, for the foolishness of God is wiser than human cunning. As soon as Kimbangu was “put away” other prophets rose up who were also arrested and exiled to prisons in other parts of the colony. Persecution backfired, for instead of containing this outpouring of God’s Spirit, the colonial government was in reality paying the travel expenses for a new brand of missionary pioneers. In prisons all over the land they founded cells of Christians filled with the power of the Spirit. Today this indigenous church numbers several million, more than most of the Protestant churches combined. The colonial rulers lacked the insights of Gamaliel, but they understood in very clear terms the intimate link between Pentecost and social ministry. They knew that a genuine spiritual awakening could not separate the personal from the social, the private from the political. Not only were they “extremely jealous of the apostles” (Acts 5:17), they also perceived that people who are healed create communities of healing which demand a “healing of the nations” (Rev. 22:2).

    I. PRIVATIZING PENTECOST

    We do not normally link Pentecost with political subversion or social transformation. Why? Because we have spiritualized the Gospel? Because we are blinded by the demon of individualism with its selfish and private version of salvation? Or because our place in society would be threatened? Later on I shall suggest several reasons, but whatever the cause, our very terminology belies a formidable gnostic heresy. We speak of evangelism, meaning personal transformation , and social action, meaning social transformation, failing to recognize that there is no biblical or scientific justification for such a linguistic dichotomy. Persons are saved in community or destroyed by communities, and communities are built or undermined by the persons who constitute them. Any charismatic movement that claims the gifts of the Spirit but concentrates on personal renewal (evangelism) to the neglect of public renewal (social action) gives away with the left hand what it seizes with the right, for the garment of life is without seam and the threads of our


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    personal and social being are inextricably interwoven. Our dichotomy between the personal and the social dimensions of the Gospel was foreign to the Early Church. Biblical scholars have sometimes maintained that because Jesus didn’t lock horns with Rome, his message and ministry scrupulously avoided politics. Juan Luis Segundo and others, however, have pointed out that this view misunderstands the context of Jesus’ ministry. Segundo states,

    The anachronism in all this . . . consists in localizing the “political element” of the period of Jesus in the structures of the Roman Empire because they are what most resemble a modern political empire. The fact is overlooked that, at that time, the political life, the civic organization of the Jewish multitudes, their burdens, their oppression, their differing social and cultural situation, depended much less on the Roman Empire and much more on the theology ruling in the groups of scribes and pharisees. They, and not the Empire, imposed intolerable burdens on the weak and dispensed themselves from them, so establishing the true socio-political structure of Israel. To that extent, the countertheology of Jesus was much more political then pronouncements or acts against the Roman Empire would have been.(l)

    Jesus’ message was clearly social and political, centered on the kingdom of God with good news to the poor, release for the captives, and liberty for the oppressed. Zacchaeus understood instinctively that repentence required a change in his vocation habits, and the rich young ruler went away sorrowful because for him following Jesus required a radical change in lifestyle. This is commonplace knowledge, but worth reiteration because we have so spiritualized these texts as to rob them of any fundamental claim upon us and therefore any renewing power. We even forget that Jesus was murdered because of the political implications of his message. There is no denying that the Early Church was a socio-political movement which not only transformed personal lives, but did so as a sign of God’s inbreaking political kingdom. Jesus articulated his message not in terms of private salvation, but entrance into a new society. When the disciples asked the risen Christ, “Lord will you at this time restore the Kingdom of Israel?” (Acts 1:6) they were asking about a political kingdom. The reply was not what they expected, but it was also unmistakably political. “You shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you shall be my witnesses . . . to the end of the earth.” Three aspects of this reply need emphasis. First, the Holy Spirit descends not just on individual persons but on communities. That is, the Spirit empowers communities for corporate mission. We speak so much about the gifts of the Spirit to individuals that we neglect the power of the Spirit given to the community for public ministry in the larger society. Second, passivity is inappropriate. “Will you at this time restore the kingdom . . .” asked the disciples, as if God would do it all. The Risen Christ replied, “YOU— the community of believers—will receive power. . . .” Here the power of the Spirit is promised for the same kingdom building politics which Jesus announced as his own mission in Luke 4:18ff. Third, the coming kingdom will not be a return to Davidic nationalism but the extension of the rule of God to the ends of the earth. There is no other-worldly, privatized salvation here. The emphasis is clearly on a new society with new kinds


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    of human relationships grounded in a new relationship with God. We are all aware of this commonplace exigesis, but do we grasp the fact that what is promised at Pentecost is power for social and political ministry? The Early Church was certainly aware of this. When the Spirit descended in power on the day of Pentecost, Peter spoke to the crowd in words that could only be understood by his hearers in political and social terms: “. . . this Jesus whom you crucified, is the one that God has made Lord and Messiah.” Nor were the implications wasted on the High Priest, his companions, and the Sadducean party. Just as the Belgian colonial authorities knew, they knew that healing the lame has public consequences. They recognized that personal transformation would spill over into public life. The lame man whom Peter and John healed became a threat to their authority . The “miracles and wonders . . . performed among the people by the Apostles” (Acts 5:12) caused a public stir. The leaders were forced to choose: either to recognize the lordship of the Risen Christ, with all the consequent social, political, and especially religious changes, or to persecute the Church (Acts 5:17ff). Times have not changed all that much. Do you know the still-unfolding story, “Faith in a Fight,”(2) about the congregation in Florida which set out to heal the wounds of the migrant workers? They came up against the corporate powers of the fruit growers, the community, and the Presbytery itself, as they demonstrated the intimate link between the needs for personal healing and the requirements of social transformation. In the process, they discovered how theological distortions allow us to deny the Lordship of Christ by restricting the Gospel to the private sphere. I would offer three reasons why we privatize the Gospel and lose the power of the Spirit for both personal and social ministry: domestication, immaturity and blindness.

    1. The Domestication of the Spirit

    We all have a limited understanding of the work of the Spirit of God. In fact, any adequate doctrine of the Spirit must affirm our limited understanding, for the Holy Spirit symbolizes the dynamic activity of God, the freedom to do new things in unexpected ways and places. Because the Spirit “blows where s/he wills” we are never able to predict or capture in doctrinal expression the activity of God in the world. Our understanding is always partial and incomplete. But these limits which derive from God’s freedom and our finitude should expand not restrict our appreciation for the sphere of the Spirit’s activity. Traditionally, however, predominant emphasis has been placed on the activity of the Spirit in only two arenas: the inner life of the believer and the fellowship of the community of believers. Examine the section on the Holy Spirit at any seminary library and you will discover that theologians concentrate on the work of renewal, reconciliation, comfort, illumination, guidance, healing, sanctification, etc., usually in individual terms. But the Spirit of God is neither the prisoner of the Church nor the private possession of Christians. The Spirit is active in all persons and places. The Westminster Confession affirms that the Spirit is “everywhere present, . . . the source of all good thoughts, pure desires and holy counsels. . . .” (Chap. IV, II). While the work of the Spirit is disclosed with special clarity in the personal lives of believers and in the Christian community, this activity is not different in kind from the Spirit’s activity elsewhere. In fact, says Norman Pittenger, the working of the Spirit “is greater than the specific operation which occurs in the ‘religious realm.’ The world is the Lord’s; the Spirit is active in every nook and


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    cranny of the creation.”(3) The Spirit works not only at the conscious level in believers and in the Church, but also at the subpersonal level of chemical processes, at the subconscious level of hidden forces, and at the suprapersonal level of social movements in history. Any restriction of the sphere of operation of the Spirit, any division between “insiders” and “outsiders” or any separation between the work of the Spirit in persons and in society is dangerous. Any claim by the Church or by Christians to a monopoly on the Spirit is presumptuous and sinful, promoting both Pharisaism and the misuse of power. If the New Testament evidence for this is insufficient to convince us of this fact, then Church History should make it abundantly clear.

    2. Immaturity

    The moral growth process explains why many are preoccupied with personal problems to the exclusion of social issues. Whether it be a young person on drugs, a couple with marital problems, a family on welfare, an executive near bankruptcy, or anyone beset by the various life-crises that accompany the stages of human development, the problems are immediate, personal, and acute. Often the greatest need is for an all-pervasive awareness of the love of God. Pietism responds to such needs by offering an overpowering emotional experience of the Holy, tied to a simple and clearly articulated recipe for salvation. Fundamentalism diagnoses the disease and prescribes a remedy in the simplest of dogmatic terms. You will not be too quick to criticize if you have friends who have been saved from suicide or quiet despair by such evangelism. A person who is, drowning wants a life preserver not a swimming lesson, for the immediate concern is to stay afloat, not negotiate the river. In his epistles, the Apostle Paul served up a lot of meat, but he also recognized the need for milk. Unfortunately, the milk of religion can be addictive, locking us into a secure but harmful perspective that prevents social ministry and retards the development of a social conscience. Pietism and fundamentalism are not the only forms of spiritual milk which restrict social ministry. A relevant public ministry requires considerable sophistication , for public compassion and social justice are beset with numerous complexities. Intellectual laziness and the professionalization of ministry avoid these complexities by declaring social issues unimportant or even out of bounds. By restricting Christian morality to the private sphere we are spared the hard work of reading the newspaper, collecting the facts, and debating the issues. We also avoid the risk of conflict or of error, unaware that obedience is always a risk. Thus our immaturity serves as a convenient excuse for ignorance of social issues and an escape from moral ambiguity. Lawrence Kohlberg’s six moral stages which have received wide recognition may help us plot the degree of moral development of individuals and congregations as well.(^) Kohlberg describes three levels with two stages per level: the preconventional level, the conventional level, and the post-conventional or principled level. There is a developmental progession from narrow egocentrism in which rules are obeyed from fear of punishment, to universal ethical principles which embrace the widest possible social concerns. It is instructive to note that ethical concern for society begins in a systematic way only at stage four, midway in the process of moral development. Jim Fowler of Candler School of Theology has integrated Kohlberg’s moral

    1*


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    stages into a broader framework of the stages of faith.(5) Fowler provides us with a developmental approach to the contemporary pilgrim’s progress, an approach which also applies in many ways to the development of the social ministry of a congregation. This stage-by-stage analysis shows that sanctification is not an enigmatic mystical happening, but a process which can be critically monitored and consciously nurtured. It also facilitates the evaluation of ethical decisions. Instead of acquiescing in the traditional labels of conservative and liberal decisions, specific issues can be evaluated in terms of alternative solutions of greater or lesser degrees of ethical maturity, and higher and lower forms of religious faith.

    3. Blindness

    There are two types of blindness which separate personal and social sin as well as personal and social renewal. One is perhaps innocent, but the other is perverse, the result and the expression of sin. In most cases they are combined. Let us examine two examples of blindness.

    a) Sometimes we interpret the story of Pentecost in such a way that social ministry is undermined. The fellowship of the Early Church is cited as a reason to avoid public issues which may provoke controversy. “If we drag social issues into the church, we may divide the fellowship. The Holy Spirit came upon the Early Church to overcome division—to reverse the effects of Babel—to break down the walls that separate.” This is true, for Pentecost signifies God’s intention to unite us as one people. But we must not overlook the fact that even this divine initiative of reconciliation created conflict. The descent of the Spirit at Pentecost rent the church (Israel) asunder. From the martyrdom of Stephen to the imprisonment of Paul, the Book of Acts logs the Church’s early voyage of conflict and persecution.

    b) Traditional theology has also manifested a certain blindness in regard to the social dimensions of the work of the Spirit. Three aspects of the work of the Spirit have been emphasized: 1) the inspiration of Scripture (both for the writers and the readers/hearers), 2) the justification and sanctification of believers (the gifts of the Spirit), and 3) the creation of a Christian fellowship by removing barriers that separate. To these three—understanding, holiness, and unity—a fourth must be added. This is the ministry of public compassion and social justice.

    Two years ago in these pages Shirley Guthrie commented on the famous passage in Luke 4:18-20 and asked the question, “What does it mean to be filled with the Holy Spirit?” He answered the question by pointing to what Jesus did when he declared, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me.”

    The answer we get is quite different from what we would have expected on the basis of what we usually say about the Spirit. We would have expected to hear Jesus bear witness to the gifts he received when the Spirit of the Lord came upon him: how blessed he was, how much meaning he found in his life, how his worries and anxieties were relieved, how his personal problems were solved, how much love and joy and peace filled his life, how free he was from everything that separated him from God and other people. But instead he speaks, not of various gifts to be enjoyed, but of a task to fulfill. He does not list the benefits he has received but describes a job he has to do. Preach! Proclaim! Heal! Liberate!”(6)


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    Contemporary theology is rediscovering this social dimension of the Spirit’s work.

    II. SOCIALIZING PENTECOST

    Domestication, immaturity and blindness all produce false consciousness which restricts religious faith to the private sphere and inhibits the social dimension of ministry. The social sciences can help us overcome this false consciousness by clarifying the relationship between three interlocking realities: society, culture and persons. By now we are all aware that a racist society tends to produce persons who are racists. We have learned that converted racists will not automatically reform a racist society. In fact, conversion sometimes strengthens racism. The “Christian academies” are sufficient proof of this fact. To be successful an attack on racism must be launched on three levels. First, at the cultural level the doctrines and values of racism must be refuted. Second, at the personal level the false consciousness and willful perversity must be altered in a growing number of persons so that more and more people reject racist attitudes and behavior. And finally at the social level, institutional practices of discrimination must be terminated. Continuous action at all three levels is necessary, for the three levels—society, culture and persons—reinforce one another like the sides of a triangle. This is the process of consciousness-raising, the most widely-used strategy of social change today. Twenty years ago most of us accepted “the woman’s role” as subservient to that of men. Leaders of the women’s movement have spent themselves in counteracting the sexist doctrines and values of our male-dominated society. Gradually a new generation of “converts” is changing its consciousness and their behavior, so that the movement for genuine and full equality is gathering momentum, despite temporary set-backs here and there. But large-scale progress for everyone requires the legal abolition of sexism in social institutions. The economy offers one of the best examples of how culture, persons and institutions interact. At the cultural level the cornerstone of our society is the belief that “more is better.” Our institutions rise or fall on the “bottom line,” that is, how successful they are in maximizing profits. And many would have us believe that this is the only way to organize social institutions. At the personal level many of us consider ourselves failures if our opportunities for expansion are restricted. Thus, this central belief—”more is better”—is built into the very structures of our consciousness as well as our social institutions. Recently a Panamanian theologian was asked the question, “Why is the Church in Latin America so active in society? What is the secret of your social ministry?” “We are beginnig,” he replied, “to exercise a crucial social ministry because we have analyzed the structure of evil in our society. And because we have come face to face with the evil in our midst, we are beginning to draw the outlines of a new society we believe God is creating.” Perhaps the reason we experience widespread malaise and powerlessness in the American church is that we have neglected the analysis of sin and evil in our midst, as well as the shape of God’s future for us. The first step towards a recovery of the Power of the Spirit for social ministry involves just such an analysis of the cultural, social and personal forces of evil in our midst. As we take that step we are likely to discover what churches elsewhere have discovered, that God reveals the future only to those who struggle with the present.


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    (1) Juan Luis Segundo, p. 118 in Claude Geffre & Gustavo Gutierrez, The Mystical and Political Dimension of the Christian Faith (New York: Herder & Herder, 1974). (2) This filmstrip and tapes may be ordered from The Office of World Service <5c World Hunger, Presbyterian Center, 341 Ponce de Leon Avenue, N.E., Atlanta, Georgia 30308. Rental is $5.00.

    (3) Norman Pittenger, The Holy Spirit (Philadelphia: The United Church Press, 1974. (4) These stages are summarized in Life Maps by Jim Fowler & Sam Keen (Waco, Texas: Word Books, 1978), pp. 30-33. (5) Ibid., Chapter 2.

    (6) Shirley Guthrie, “The Spirit and Witness: Listening to Luke 4:18-20,” in Journal for Preachers, Lent, 1978, p. 36.

  • Easter Hope in an Age of Resignation

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    EASTER HOPE IN AN AGE OF RESIGNATION

    James A. Wharton

    Memorial Drive Presbyterian Church, Houston, Texas

    I. Easter Hope in Any Age

    Before we talk about an “Age of Resignation,” let’s take a hard look at three problems with “Easter Hope” in any age. The first is that Good Friday looks too dark for otherwise relatively hopeful people to swallow and digest. The outrageous claim of the Christian community about Good Friday is that the whole human experiment reaches the point of utter bankruptcy in the death of Jesus. From the theological standpoint Good Friday was no isolated or merely “typical” personal tragedy in the life of one good man. The claim of faith is that all of us stand exposed, in a decisive failure of our humanity, when the world finds Jesus of Nazareth intolerable. That is an uncommonly depressing assessment of our natural human resources for justice, righteousness, faithfulness, truth, goodness, wisdom, compassion, and love. Surely things can’t be that bad! Such a dim view of people makes Freud and Sartre seem like naive optimists by comparison. Yet any move to soften the horrendous scandal of Good Friday, to reduce it to one more example of humanity at its worst, over against which the best that is in us shines even brighter, simply dismisses what I take to be the distinctively Christian affirmation about the death of Jesus. We are all implicated in his death without remainder. The crisis between God and the people who put Jesus to death is the crisis in relationship between God and humanity. That’s dark! Perhaps too dark? The second problem with “Easter Hope” in any age is that Easter dawn simply looks too bright for otherwise relatively realistic people to swallow and digest. The outrageous claim of the Christian community about Easter is that the whole human experiment reaches the point of utter vindication in the resurrection of Jesus. Or, as Paul put it, “In Christ, God was reconciling the cosmos to himself, not counting their trespasses against them!” A fullness and permanence of human life, beyond the most optimistic human dreams, has been granted to us by God through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. Charles Swinburne and Buckminster Fuller look like screaming pessimists by comparison. Yet to claim less than this for Easter dismisses what I take to be the distinctively Christian affirmation about the resurrection of Jesus: Through this life God penetrated the human experience at absolute depth, sharing life with us, bearing its pain and death with us, and creating life out of death on our behalf. We are all implicated in Jesus’ resurrection. The victory of God on behalf of the people who put Jesus to death is the victory of God for our humanity. That’s bright! Perhaps too bright? The third problem is linked with the other two. No candid assessment of the human condition before and after Easter reveals any unambiguous sign that the fundamental condition or character of the human race has been altered in the slightest by what happened at the turn of the era in Jerusalem. Human experience world-wide has continued to be a mixed bag of relative good and relative bad, relative success and relative failure. We have certainly become more numerous, the issues have become more complex, and we have achieved vastly greater technologi-

    *


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    cal proficiency for good as well as evil. But the authentic resonance of the ancient biblical stories with contemporary human experience constitutes sufficient evidence in itself that the fundamental crisis of our humanity—and particularly the crisis of our humanity vis-a-vis God—has really not changed decisively since Abraham. In one form or another, however amplified or “complexified,” the real issues are still those of justice, righteousness, faithfulness, truth, goodness, wisdom, compassion, and love. If, after two thousand years, one detects no decisive changes wrought by Easter in the overall character or condition of the human race, what’s to hope? That’s confusing! Perhaps too confusing? The proclamation of Easter hope, in any age, necessarily swims upstream against an apparently self-evident consensus that its assessment of humanity is simply too dark on Good Friday, too bright on Easter morning, and too confusing against the background of historical human experience. If you undertake to preach about the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, you simply grasp those three burning nettles with your bare hands. Particularly if your theme is something called “Easter Hope.”

    II. An Age of Resignation

    Christopher Lasch has recently published a book entitled The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations. I think any thoughtful Presbyterian preacher could have written ninety percent of the analysis simply from careful people-watching out of a theological perspective. Listen to a few chapter headings: “The Awareness Movement and Social Invasion of the Self,” “The Narcissistic Personality of our Times,” “Changing Modes of Making It: From Horatio Alger to the Happy Hooker,” “The Banality of Pseudo-Self-Awareness: Theatrics of Politics and Everyday Existence,” “The Degradation of Sport,” “Schooling and the New Illiteracy,” etc. Evidence is marshalled to describe America as a nation in “the dotage of bourgeois society,” crippled by a “world view of the resigned,” suffering from “the eclipse of achievement,” “ironic detachment,” “leisure as escape,” the “atrophy of competence,” the “trivialization of personal relationships,” the “dread of old age,” “the collapse of authority.” Although Lasch writes from a distinctly leftish position, the phrases I have cited explain why reviewers from the left have accused Lasch of reverting to curiously right-wing analyses and criticisms. Lasch would repudiate any such charges, but at least it is clear that a resolute Calvinist would have little difficulty writing a passionate homily on almost any of the topics listed. It is perhaps this peculiar blend of Calvinistic-sounding criticism with “new left” presuppositions that makes the book somewhat shocking to both ends of the political spectrum. And perhaps worth reading for ministers who share Lasch’s alarm at the unparalleled mood of resignation that currently grips our body social and politic. However one evaluates Lasch’s book—and it can be praised or condemned from a number of viewpoints—there is an extraordinarily wide consensus that our society indeed faces a loss of public vision, a retreat in the direction of “inwardness” (if not narcissism), and an unaccustomed general mood of resignation. As Eric Sevareid pointed out in one of his pre-retirement television chats, America has never yet come to terms with what Unamuno called “The tragic sense of life.” For a variety of reasons, our experience of history has not forced American society generally to conclude that “nothing can be done.” We may not have reached that point yet, as a cultural and societal consensus. There is still something touchingly naive and even


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    inversely optimistic about distinctively American forms of resignation. There is a lingering sense that we once “had it,” or “almost had it” or “might have had it.” And perhaps no small fund of sentiment that “by gum, we may make it yet.” But it is hard to deny that this people, whose birthright was revolution and whose style was progress, now wonders at a new depth whether anything will really work. The old hope of the American dream, the great society with its promise of freedom and justice—and of course prosperity—for all, is surely dimmer than it has been in a long time, perhaps since 1776. And there is little doubt that people by the millions are opting out of social and political concern in favor of a peculiarly self-centered kind of resignation from the arena of public involvement. If Easter hope is to be proclaimed in 1980, it will fall on the ears of a great number of people who experience this as an age of resignation. In view of the age, and in view of the preacher’s own experience of the three classic problems with Easter hope in any age, ministers may face their own crises of resignation in preaching about Easter hope one more time. The pragmatic question is raised again: What good will it do to rehearse the story of Cross and Resurrection for people who are trapped in a mood of resignation? “I’ve said it before. They’ve heard it since they first developed the church habit. What is left to be said.” Perhaps that is the place for preachers to begin: not with resignation as a new cultural phenomenon in America, but with a peculiar resignation ministers may feel who have proclaimed Easter hope as many as five years in a row. If you have ever felt the sense of boredom and vulnerability that comes from trying to say the too dark word about Good Friday and the too bright word about Easter against the too confusing background of the historical human experience of the past two thousand years, you know the experience of resignation “up close and personal.” If you are more concerned about generating the energy to go through Easter one more time than to proclaim Easter hope, then you are a native child of the age of resignation. And you have some dang good reasons for giving up and taking care of yourself for a change. Where is the evidence that the sum total of all proclamations of Easter hope has produced substantial change? What hope is there that Easter proclamation in 1980 can counter the mood of resignation even among the relatively few our words may reach?

    III. Easter Hope in an Age of Resignation

    I suggest that the three classic problems with Easter hope in any age, strangely enough, provide the church with what may be said and must be said on Easter to counter the current mood of resignation. If one remembers the total eclipse of all human possibilities for love and justice and peace on Good Friday, the darkness of any subsequent moment is never quite complete. Resignation feeds on the sense that things are not only in bad shape but that the worst lies ahead of us. The outrageous Christian claim about Good Friday is that the absolute worst lies behind us! Clear reflection on Jesus1 cry of dereliction provides for faith an ultimate floor beneath the devastating experiences of human failure, defeat, and loss. When you stand on that floor, by faith—at the rock bottom of human experience—every line of sight is upward. At their worst, all contemporary experiences of failure, defeat and loss only approximate and participate in the moment when God’s utterly faithful person cried out for all of us, “My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Good Friday darkness is not measured against our ordinary trivial swings from optimism to pessimism and back again. It is not measured against our fitful efforts, our self-


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    pitying and self-serving moods of frustration or disappointment. The utter darkness of Good Friday is measured against the life of Jesus, the maximal human expression of God’s will for justice and righteousness and faithfulness and truth and compassion and steadfast love and peace. Take that ground and you simply cannot take the individual and corporate failures of the present time with ultimate seriousness. By comparison with that memory, this time and place in human history is charged with endless concrete and real possibilities for good. Take that ground and contemporary resignation begins to look like the pouting of an indulged child who has lost a lollypop. The disillusionment of Good Friday should make it impossible for Christians ever again to be completely disillusioned or shocked or surprised by anything anybody ever does, including ourselves. And from the Good Friday vantage point of total disillusionment , even the darkest future discloses openings to be explored, avenues to walk down, goals to be pressed toward. We remember an infinitely worse time than these times. Good Friday is not too dark! It is precisely dark enough to equip Christians with the rock bottom realism necessary to take all lesser failures and defeats and losses in stride. The apparently too bright word of Easter should also be a direct and powerful counter to the current mood of resignation. Resignation not only stems from a hopeless estimate of how things are. It also stems from a dismal view of what might be accomplished if we put our minds and hearts and backs to it. What achievable goals lie out there for the American people capable of firing imaginations and steeling resolve to go after them together? All the envisionable goals appear to be either altogether impossible or too trivial or simply too splintered to make corporate social and political efforts worth the candle. The outrageous Christian claim about Easter is that the absolute goal of all human striving, the utter and complete vindication of the human, has been reached in God’s vindication of Jesus against all the odds. No lesser goal can ever prove finally adequate for human hearts than a quality of life in which people are knit to people by the liberating bonds of justice and compassion and truth and peace and love. The best we have achieved in the history of the race are tantalizing but very dim approximations of that quality of life. These approximations are sufficiently tantalizing to give us a notion of what we are resigning from, but sufficiently dim to convince us that such a quality of life is inherently unrealizable, and therefore not finally worth the effort. At the very least, the life of Jesus demonstrates that the interior quality of a single human life appropriate to that goal not only can occur but has occurred in the historical experience of the human race. From the vantage point of Christian faith the goal itself gets sharp and clear definition in the way this one human being exercised his humanity in relationship to people and in relationship to God. At the very least, the death of Jesus demonstrates that this interior quality of a human life was tested against the worst that human experience can bring against it, including death itself. But at the very least, the Christian claim about the resurrection of Jesus affirms that this quality of life was not only achieved by Jesus but vindicated by God as the pattern, the goal, and the accomplished fact of the life God intends for all humanity. The future of our common humanity, in that sense, is no longer a carrot at the end of a stick to be plodded after as it recedes endlessly before us. It is a God-given and God-guaranteed reality to be received, to be entered into, to be explored with excitement and joy in all the details of ordinary individual and


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    corporate expressions of life. The rejections and failures and losses we meet in that enterprise are those Jesus met. But God has overcome them decisively in the vindication of Jesus. Take that ground and the obstacles you confront in the search for that quality of life are no longer decisive frustrations that kill the vision. They are painful. They are real. Their power to kill is something Christians remember from the career of Jesus as well as the countless careers of suffering millions of people. But Easter faith forbids the judgment that those obstacles possess the power and majesty and finality of God. Resignation in the face of such obstacles constitutes worship of an alien god, an act of ascribing the kingdom and the power and the glory to the forces that cripple and destroy human life. Let it be said in 1980, on the grounds of Easter hope, that resignation is no less serious a thing than abject servility to the gods of injustice, hatred, triviality, self-pity, and corruption in every form. It is a celebration of the power of the cross over the life of Jesus. That brings us to the third problem with “Easter hope” in any age: On any grounds other than faith it is simply not evident that Good Friday and Easter accomplished marked changes in the fundamental character or condition of the human race. Yet the same faith that challenges us to perceive utter human defeat in the cross and utter victory for the human in the resurrection also challenges us to view human history in a decisively altered way. History is the field on which God is working out this ultimate defeat and this ultimate victory in all the real details of historical human existence. I think there is one experience of Christian faith, more nearly than any other, that makes this perception of human existence uncommonly real. You stand at the graveside of a friend, starkly confronted with the Good Friday negation of everything that seemed to make this beloved life worthwhile. If the grief is real and the loss is great, you may experience resignation in its classic and most acute form. External involvements that seemed so urgent yesterday now seem pale and pointless. It is impossible, for the moment at least, to imagine their ever becoming urgent again. If such a life as this one finally adds up to this mocking zero, what’s the use? The horizon of your own life shrinks down to the intensely personal hurt within. The dominant input of your consciousness becomes the undisciplined output of your own feelings. It is the universal narcissism of authentic grief. And it is the experience of Good Friday. But then it may happen—and it has happened literally billions of times in the community of faith over the past two thousand years—that the fact of Easter explodes in Good Friday hearts at such a time. Often, perhaps most often, without conscious efforts to draw on the ideological or theological resources of Christian faith, an interior confidence is born that this specific death has not negated this specific life. If it is Easter confidence that thus invades a human heart, it is not a question of denying the pain or the reality of this human death. Easter must never be taken as a trivialization of the suffering and death of Jesus, or the grief of his friends, on Good Friday. But if it is Easter confidence that surges at such a time, it comes with the strangely objective perception that nothing—not even this d e a t h – nothing “in all creation shall be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord!” As often as people find courage, singly and together, to build life on this Easter reality by faith, “resignation” is simply not an option. Easter faith constantly refuses to be reduced to a cosy spiritual comfort that our intimate loves and our loved ones are somehow death-proof. Rather, the victory we are able to celebrate in the instance of this one fragmentary life now throws all of life and history into a


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    dazzling new light. We have become witnesses together with the apostles that the forces that seemed to have the upper hand on Good Friday have been denied their ultimate victory. We have experienced the fact, in our own time and place, that the life Jesus lived out of love for God and people is sheerly invincible. Hope of such magnitude demands the engagement of all our resources, in every area of life, to celebrate what Christ’s victory means for God’s beloved world. Easter hope always carries with it the acid realism of Good Friday. This is a cross-shaped world, make no mistake about it! There really are no self-evident signs, over the past two thousand years, that Easter made a difference. Christians should be singularly aware that no amount of twiddling with the ideological dials or fine-tuning of programs for human improvement can produce the kingdom of God on earth. The enemy is far too ingenious and well-organized for that. Christians do their work in the face of two apparently withering Good Friday realities: The best we produce may wind up on some Calvary, and (most devastating!) we ourselves may be implicated in the very evils we set out to oppose. In fact, “If Christ be not raised from the dead . . .” we Christians should be among the first, out of Good Friday realism, to resign all efforts “to make and keep human life human” (Paul Lehmann’s phrase). “But now is Christ raised from the dead!” Concretely that means that there is no area involving human well-being where Christians are not called to celebrate Easter. Human life and history no longer appear, in the brilliant light of Easter, as “a mixed bag of relative good and relative bad, relative success and relative failure.” From the vantage point of Easter faith, every tentative and fragmentary gesture in the direction of “making and keeping human life human,” whether individual or social or political or economic, is charged with testimony to God’s victory for our humanity in Jesus Christ. Singly and together, Christians are involved in those areas in direct proportion to the vividness and scope of their Easter hope. To our society, in an “age of resignation,” Christians owe some remarkable debts and perhaps the foremost is to believe our own gospel and reject the temptation to resign our social and political and economic efforts on behalf of people. And there is the perennial debt Christians owe to share the hope in Christ to which we are called. But not least is our debt to those who may never share the particular form of our hope. Out of diverse reasons, or for no identifiable reasons at all, there are millions of people who have not bowed the knee to the Baals of hopeless resignation. They press on, in ways large and small, with the effort to secure greater justice, to make human life richer and fuller and more loving. In the apparent absence of “Easter hope,” they yet live more hopefully than thousands of Christians who see and wish no more for “this old world” than a Good Friday finale, with the gracious exception of themselves and their kind. Not infrequently in the biblical story the “insiders” have had to learn from the “outsiders” just how good the good news of God actually is. That may be peculiarly true in the present age of resignation, when the signs of Easter victory are cropping up in unlikely places, wherever people refuse to give up on the human experiment. To learn from and encourage and pray for such hopeful people in the world may be a signal celebration of Easter hope in an age of resignation.

  • All Hat and No Cattle: Evangelism and the Presbyterian Church

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    ALL HAT AND NO CATTLE

    Evangelism and the Presbyterian Church

    John R. “Pete” Hendrick, Executive Presbyter

    The Presbytery of Brazos, Houston, Texas

    Go down Highway 59 southwest from Houston. Six miles past Wharton and you’ll come to Pierce Junction. Turn left. Across the way is a deteriorating ranch headquarters building. Shanghai’ Pierce, who lived up to every stereotype of a Texas cattle baron, built it at the turn of the century. At the urging of the wife and his Scots ranch foreman, he also put up a clapboard chapel. Presbyterians used to conduct services there. Once during a protracted meeting there the visiting preacher became quite agitated. The chapel builder hadn’t come a single time. Seeing ‘Shanghai1—all six feet four inches of him—striding along the board sidewalk, the preacher gathered courage for a confrontation. Stepping forward he pointed toward the little chapel, “Mr. Pierce,” he pressed, “do you belong to that church?” The conversation is reported to have ended as quickly as it began. “Hell no, preacher, that church belongs to me!”

    I. Our Program vs. God’s Mission Ministers in central Texas who speak loosely of “my church” do it only once if David Currie (The Presbyterian Outlook prayer writer) is in earshot. How well I remember! “It’s our Lord’s church; never forget it.” Yet the proprietary sense dies slowly. Members easily see the congregation as their church; after all they built it, financed it, maintain it, and pay the preacher. For our part, we ministers approach our people with our program—based on our preferences, prejudices and parochialisms . Thus it is that the claims of God’s total mission for his church are seldom preached or promoted. The 1978 Mission Consultation of the Presbyterian Church stands as a clear challenge to all of us who would limit our ministry to our program in our church. Taken as a whole the Mission Consultation Report emphasizes three facets of God’s one mission in the world through its church: 1) Proclamation/evangelism; 2) Compassion/social service, and 3) Justice/societal change. According to the document, these are to be carried forward in partnership with others, with a spirit of reconciliation and undergirded by strong programs of education. In churches I know and the Presbytery which I serve, God’s mission has been preempted by our program. Our program focuses on the care and maintenance of the congregation and its members. To test this in your congregation, estimate quickly the per capita of members and money devoted to internal caring and serving; compare that to the number and amount directed to those outside your church in one or more of the three aspects of mission above. Do comments in recent literature describe your congregation—”preoccupation with church business,” “concentration on serving the denomination,” “narcissism in the churches,” “altogether scandalous introversions of religious energy”?


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    Our program at best gives primary emphasis to one aspect of the total mission. A 1975 ecumenical poll of mainline ministers showed that they spend less time on issues of social justice and seeking new members than any other activity. My estimate of time and money spent by our congregations on the three facets of mission would be as follows: 1) Evangelism, 0-2%; 2) Social Service, 2-15%, and 3) Social action, 0-2%. Over the past twenty years, American congregations generally have come to a new and healthy stress on the mission of compassion/social service here at home as well as overseas. Meanwhile we neglect other parts of mission. This means that we respond to the needs of persons in a limited way. While healing, feeding, and clothing persons is not insignificant, we are more often than not leaving off our agenda the mission of evangelism and societal change which address the distinctly human needs for dignity, opportunity, belonging, and a sense of ultimate meaning and purpose. Except for limited social service outreach our programs are restricted to caring for our people in our congregation. The argument here is not that the maintenance and care of church members is misguided; to the contrary, it is essential and a necessary foundation upon which to build a missionary congregation. But God’s mission is larger than our program and is a challenge to turn from ourselves to the world. Our task now is to look in some detail at evangelism—one neglected aspect of God’s total mission. (Elsewhere in this issue my fellow Brazos Presbyter Walter Davis examines the other dimension of God’s mission generally ignored by our Presbyterian congregations—justice/societal change).

    II. “All Hat and No Cattle”

    Evangelism is one part of the total mission of the church. Its goal is that persons repent, trust Christ and follow him as obedient disciples in church and world. God himself is the Evangelist. The church is called to be co-worker with him; some persons may have a special gift for evangelism (Ephesians 4:11). Evangelistic activity may be directed toward:

    a. the unevangelized within the church, b. our kind of people outside the congregation, c. persons socially and culturally somewhat different from us, and d. those further removed from us by language, culture, and nationality.

    Between 1880 and i960 evangelism was a high mission priority in the Presbyterian Church in the United States. The following activities characterized that commitment:

    Planting new churches—Presbytery evangelists, home mission superintendents , church extension workers. Chapels and outposts—Session outreach to nearby communities. Revival Meetings—Preachers holding special services and seeking decisions for Christ. Visitation evangelism—lay persons visiting two by two in homes, recruiting church members (1930-1960). Sunday Schools—teachers inviting, educating, and evangelizing.

    The last two decades have not seen any change in the official teachings of the church on the work of evangelization. In fact, significant new affirmations have been made. The following may be taken as formal policy of the PCUS on


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    evangelism.

    The Westminster Confession of Faith, X, 4: “Christ hath commissioned his church to go into all the world and to make disciples of all nations. All believers are, therefore, under obligation . . . to contribute by their prayers, gifts, and personal efforts, to the extension of the kingdom of Christ . . .”

    The Directory for the Worship and Work of the Church, II, 217-1: “Evangelization is the primary and urgent task of the Church. All mankind is to be called to believe in Christ as savior, to repent and to obey Christ as Lord of all . . .”

    A Declaration of Faith, VIII, 2: “We testify that God is at work here and now when people obey Christ’s commission . . . We believe that, God sends us to tell all nations that Christ calls everyone to repentance and faith . . .”

    One Mission Under God—Report of the Mission Consultation. Preface and I: “We reaffirm that the primary mission of the church is the proclamation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ . . . As the human family continues to multiply so does the number of those to whom we have the joy of bringing the good news of salvation . . . In partnership with our fellow Christians we are called to seek and use every opportunity to take the gospel to every place.” Presbyterian people consistently echo such sentiments. Constituency surveys conducted during the 1970s at all court levels give evangelism a priority position of 1, 2, or 3 on ail lists. The last two decades suggest that Presbyterians are phasing out of the work of evangelism: Sessions—Chapels, outposts, revivals, visitation, church school outreach have been dropped and few fresh approaches to sharing the gospel have been introduced.

    Presbyteries—New church development was virtually non-existent for ten years. Presbyteries generally have elaborate structure and staff for nurture of church members, but few have staff or even committees to support and advance the work of evangelism. General Assembly—The PCUS Mission Board in Atlanta has one staff person with limited money. For the GAMB evangelization is clearly not “the primary and urgent task” nor “the goal of all its work” (BOCO 217-1 -2). Its newly drawn mission direction statements for proclamation /evangelism lack specificity and hold small promise of fresh advance.

    The conclusion is inescapable. When it comes to evangelism, Presbyterians are as they say in Texas, “all hat and no cattle.” Our rhetoric is presumptuous; the reality is pathetic.

    III. The Distinctive Presbyterian Contribution: Restraint

    After lecturing at Austin Seminary, one student insisted tuat I identify “the distinctive Presbyterian contribution to evangelism.” Twice I passed. Finally, Henry


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    Quinius, former professor there, came to the rescue. From the rear in a stage whisper, he told all in one word—RESTRAINT. “Restraint,” “reluctance,” “reticense,” “reserve,” “resistance,” “recalcitrance.” Somewhere along that spectrum you’ll find the large majority of American Presbyterians. Why is this the case? There is no simple answer. The reasons are diverse—historical, theological, institutional, sociological, psychological, and personal .

    Historical—In American church history it is easy to note times of theological and church rigidity followed by periods of spontaneous refreshment and renewal. Efforts have been made to guarantee and repeat these “revivals” by institutionalizing some of the methods and thought associated with them. We call this tendency “revivalism”; it is very much a reality in American church life today. Billy Graham, Campus Crusade, Evangelism Explosion, and numerous denominations operate with this ideology. Open a conversation about evangelism in any Presbyterian church, and you will discover that most think of evangelism and revivalism as synonyms. Further, a number in every group make it very clear that if being concerned about evangelism means using the style and content of revivalism, they will have no part of it. I would estimate that 10 to 20% of Presbyterian church members joined precisely to separate themselves from that part of their personal history and that stream of American church life. Check around in your own church on this.

    Theological—Major theologians of the last half century properly made war on revivalism with its substructure of individualism, pietism, and moralism. Unfortunately this ‘tearing down’ now largely successful among Presbyterian ministers has not been matched by equal energy devoted to ‘building up’ a proper understanding of evangelism. Students continue emerging from our theological schools with a lack of certainty about the missionary and evangelistic calling of the church. They know what they are against in evangelism, but not what they are for. They can criticize others but are not equipped or motivated to think and act in a biblical and Reformed way in regard to evangelism. Given this theological vacuum, it is not surprising that more and more members and ministers are being drawn back into an evangelism undergirded with ideologies of fundamentalism and revivalism.

    Institutional—There are over 3009000 Protestant congregations in the USA. They average about 250 members. Integral members report that their congregation is like an extended family—supporting and caring for them and theirs from birth to death. Further, they find in them significant belonging, positions of esteem, and opportunities to serve. When integral members are asked about reaching out to invite others into their church, a regular response is “our church is large enough.” For these persons inviting and includind new persons is not unlike adopting a new member of a family. It is a decision to share love, influence and power—or put negatively, it is to risk losing ones own place in a settled system. This can be overdrawn, but such factors do operate in discouraging a true openness to letting outsiders in. Another institutional deterrent to evangelism is found in member expectations of their pastoral leader. They want their needs met. They give the preacher negative strokes if they aren’t, and positive if they are. The pressure on the pastor in all congregations is to take care of his own. Relatively little pressure is on for evangelism or justice concerns which deal with persons outside and unknown to the


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    members. No wonder ministers give less time to new member visiting and social issues than to other matters.

    Sociological—My grandfather, Ε. E. Hendrick, was educated and had his first pastorate in Texas. Then after twenty years as a traveling evangelist for the Presbyterian Church USA he settled down in West Tennessee. One of my father’s vivid memories is of “Papa” telling about efforts at evangelistic outreach in Milan. He began going door to door and even went visiting up on Second Street. At that point he was discreetly advised to curb his zeal. “They’re not our kind of people.” (Wouldn’t a survey reveal that every Protestant pastor has been so counseled at least once in his ministry?) Protestant congregations tend to be made up of persons who are all relatively alike in race, income, education, etc. When reaching out to the community is discussed, a deep suspicion lurks in many minds that such activity will alter the social class composition of their church. Serious efforts to share the gospel with all or many persons has potentially radical implications—it may, if successful, undermine in-group cohesiveness or even alter the social position of people and congregations in the community.

    Psychological—Over the past half century psychology has had an immense impact on the practice of ministry. As a result ministers and laypersons have become increasingly sensitive to the feelings and needs of people around them. This coupled with the high regard and respect for persons our church teaches makes imperialistic and indoctrinative approaches to evangelism repugnant. If evangelism means trampling on the sensibilities of others—buttonholing, cajoling, meetings, pushiness—we will have no part of it. Given our stereotypes, we actually think evangelism and that type of behavior go together.

    Personal—If we assume that evangelism means sharing our faith or speaking to another person about the good news, our deep inside reaction is one of insecurity. We don’t feel sure of where to begin such a conversation or what to say once under way. We wonder about the appropriateness of intruding on another person with religious talk—as important as our own faith may be to us. Beyond this anxiety there may be a deeper problem. If we are to tell good news, we must know good news; if we have no or little faith, it’s hard to share faith. The empirical reality of every church is that there are—as pointed out long a g o – unconverted persons in pulpit and pew. Such persons will inevitably put on the brakes when it comes to evangelism.

    Presbyterian “restraint” in evangelism is buttressed from many sides. It is not the fault of seminaries, national boards, pastors, or presbytery executives. It is a system-wide malaise. All of us are part of the problem; all of us can do something about it. Earlier this year I founded and am now the “beloved leader” of the Presbyterian Institute for Evangelism and Church Development. The aim is to remove during the 1980s as many of the restraints on evangelism as possible. At the end of the decade we hope to have made a modest contribution, along with persons like yourself, to the discovery of a vital evangelism to which Presbyterians in North America will commit large resources of time, energy and money. I resist here the temptation to share the comprehensive strategy this entails. Instead, in an effort to move a few steps toward this large goal, let me offer a few thoughts about the ministerial conscience and the climate of your congregation.


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    IV. Conscience and Evangelism What is needed is a positive conscience about evangelism. A positive conscience is the result of voluntarily accepting a set of beliefs and behaviors; being freely chosen they will be cheerfully and rationally pursued. If you want to make a solid contribution to evangelism, you need a profound and deep conviction that sharing the gospel is a matter of urgent importance. My own positive conscience on this subject emerged over an extended period in the early 1970s. As pastor in downtown Beaumont, Texas, I was immersed in social outreach ministries. My congregation was declining in membership. For reasons still unclear an invitation came to deliver the 1973 Settles Lectures on mission and evangelism at Austin Seminary. Just at that time I was granted leave to accept a Merrill Fellowship for a semester at Harvard Divinity School. There, under the tutelage of Dr. James Fowler, I began afresh to sort out my thinking on evangelism. The result surprised me. From the ecumenical theology and developmental psychology in which I was immersed, I first clarified and then convinced myself that evangelism was at the very core of God’s purpose for the church and the human family. A year or so after the lectures were delivered, the PCUS denominational Council on Evangelism—E. T. Thompson, Dick Hardie, Bob Henderson, and othersasked me to write Opening the Door of Faith as a study book for church leaders. Out of this entire process of intellectual and personal wrestling, a compellingly positive conscience grew in my psyche. Its emergence did not diminish my commitment to social ministry but properly supplemented it. The point is this: When my head was straight on evangelism, then my heart’s^ commitment could follow; now having set my hand to the evangelism plow, I’m not about to turn back because I’ve come to intellectual clarity and deep conviction about it. This head, heart, hand trilogy is important. Not everyone will work through it in the same sequence, but my own hunch is that confusion in the head is the first hurdle that most Presbyterian preachers need to jump. Until our intellectual—theological—problems are worked through, our commitment and action will stay at a low level. Here are some thoughts on moving yourself toward a positive conscience:

    Put yourself in a position where you have to think about evangelism.— Organize a ministers’ study group, teach adult classes, sign up for a Presbytery evangelism committee, preach several sermons, write editorials for your newsletter, etc. Take continuing education courses. Map out a schedule for a year that has continuous opportunities for you to contribute and discuss what you are learning.

    Search out the strongest writers on transmitting Christian faith to others.—Stick to mainliners. Secure books by Al Krass, Orlando Costas, Gabriel Fackre, Ellis Nelson. Search the materials of Barth, Brunner, the Neihburs, Tillich, Moltmann, Pannenberg to see what they have to say about the church’s evangelistic calling. Avoid the neo-evangelicals in the field; evangelism that will motivate the majority of Presbyterians will be grown in the garden of ecumenical not fundamentalist theology. Developing a positive conscience about evangelism will be a several-year process. Chart your own path. Stay on it until the light dawns.


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    V. Climate and Evangelism

    St. Philip Presbyterian Church is located in the Galleria area of Houston. The pastor of this 1,000 member church, Samuel W. T. Lanham, III, recently developed a positive conscience on evangelism. To help thirty key leaders move in the same direction, he scheduled an eight-hour four-week workshop on evangelism last Fall. St. Philip Church has a climate of opinion which is quite favorable to social ministry. In our discussions there, it came out that this was not always so; it is a product of the last ten to fifteen years. Some remembered how the change came. The former pastor had taken a leadership stance from the pulpit, prayers and hymns reinforced the sermons, adult classes studied social issues, budget folk evaluated possible service projects, members visited and worked in areas where church contributions were sent. The thirty leaders in the evangelism workshop evidenced all of the “restraints” typical of Presbyterians. They predicted that most of the congregation shared their hesitancy. But much of this was overcome as the workshop went on. We searched for and found faith and good news in the Bible, ourselves, and St. Philip Church. We identified persons who were to us a source of sadness because as far as we could tell they were without the gospel. We remembered how participating in St. Philip Church boosted our own faith, gave us hope and inspired us to love. Before it was over the group really wanted to open up and reach out so that more and more people could come to know the good things of Christ in the community of St. Philip. I shared a few methods with them—especially Richard Armstrong’s new book on Service Evangelism. They have begun some programs, but their fundamental decision is to work initially to create a church-wide climate favorable to evangelism. This is being undertaken as a several year process by a fifty member task force! No one wants to displace the positive commitment of St. Philip Church to social ministry; however, they do want an equally strong emphasis on evangelism.

    VI. Conclusion

    God is calling his church to one mission with three aspects: 1) Proclamation /evangelism; 2) Compassion/social service, and 3) Justice/societal change. In a remarkable fashion these imperatives correspond to the needs of persons. Societal change responds to the desire for self-determination, opportunity and dignity. Social service speaks to the need of all people for food, shelter, and security. Evangelism relates to human yearnings for ultimate meaning, a sense of purpose and significant belonging. Resistance to God’s mission is great and system wide. However, by seeking to re-educate our own consciences and by striving to create a congregational climate open to the world, we can begin where we are to turn the church inside out. God and many colleagues will make common cause with us. Out this way we know all about “kickers” and drugstore cowboys—suited up for all the world as if they were into ranching and cattle—big hat, boots and all. When it comes to evangelism, too often Presbyterians are all “duded out” with big talk. Surely the time has come to move from pretence to the real thing.

  • David’s Birth: More Than a Metaphor

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    DAVID’S BIRTH: MORE THAN A METAPHOR

    Albert H. Keller, Jr.

    Circular Congregational Church, Charleston, South Carolina

    Thy eyes beheld my unformed substance;

    in thy book were written, every one of them,

    the days that were formed for me,

    when as yet there was none of them.

    -Psalm 138:16

    Several days before Easter, 1979, an event of great wonder and power occurred in my life. Not to preach about it would have been as unthinkable as for shepherds to ignore a choir of angels. Our first child was born. It never struck me, the irony of being handed such a marvelous Advent or Christmas theme at Eastertime. By the time of the actual delivery the power of the event had long since shoved seasonal considerations aside and made connections with the whole spectrum of Christian praise and pondering, but mainly, it seemed, with Easter. Why Easter? Because the drama of birth opened new doors in my consciousness of suffering and death, resurrection, and the life of the Spirit. These openings I wish to share with others who believe that personal events really do reposture our minds in our quest to grasp and interpret the mysteries of faith, and who are thankful when they do. More than a month before Easter I had been teaching a seminar on death and dying to physicians in residence at Medical University Hospital. We began with a guided fantasy intended to loosen images and stir up symbols from the soul. Then in this context each participant was given a piece of paper and a box of crayons, with the simple instruction to draw Death. My own drawing developed quite differently than in any previous seminar. A large, blue circle took shape, which I began to sense was like a pool of water, fed from a spring that flowed into it like a blue column from underneath. I drew a level of water in the round pool, but it was clear that I was not simply looking sideways at it like a tank: I was inside, aware of water all around me; so it all became light blue. Then I drew an outstretched, suppliant hand in the water, as the picture needed some human form to complete the gestalt. Finally, a bright yellow sun appeared outside the blue circle to the top left, and then my picture of Death felt finished. When it was my time to show and tell, I described how the picture had taken shape but could offer no interpretation of it beyond “It just felt right.” One of the residents said, “Lucille is pregnant, isnft she?” She was, very pregnant. “What it looks like to me is you’ve drawn an amniotic sac with an umbilical cord and a little human being inside.” I felt a moment of acute embarrassment, like one who has been caught with his unconscious showing. Of course it was an amniotic sac with a human being inside! But why should that form emerge when I was mindful of Death?


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    Then the connections started. The resident recalled an article he had read recently in The Atlantic (April, 1979), an essay by Carl Sagan entitled “The Amniotic Universe.” In the article, Sagan presses his well-documented exploration of human consciousness into the universe of the fetus. The remarkable thing is that he does so prompted by the widely publicized epiphanies reported by people who had near-death experiences. In case you haven’t heard, these people with surprising consistency report that they experienced first a startling awareness of their surroundings, including a perception of themselves as being perfectly whole, regardless of how wounded or disease-ridden they may actually have been. Then there is a voyage through darkness, sometimes tunnel-like, into a source of glorious light that is experienced as unconditional love. How can we explain the fact that people of different ages, cultures, and religious beliefs have the same sort of near-death experiences? Sagan plays with a few implausible hypotheses about the symbol-structure of common religious beliefs being pre-wired into the architecture of the brain, then makes a proposal that is breath-taking in its simplicity:

    The only alternative, so far as I can see, is that every human being, without exception, has already had an experience like that of those travelers who return from the land of death: the sensation of flight; the emergence from darkness into light; an experience in which, at least sometimes, a heroic figure can be dimly perceived, bathed in radiance and glory. There is only one common experience that matches this description. It is called birth.

    What a pregnant idea! The idea is that the way we experience death is related organically with the way we experienced birth! But the way we experience death includes not only that graphic journey told by a few who came back. It also includes the religious and other ways we humans have of dealing with our mortality. By extension, then, the idea is that the imprinting of memory may begin prior to birth and furnish a matrix for the longings, the inklings, and the symbols of our deepest self as they develop throughout our life. Say that this hypothesis is worth exploring. What kinds of pre-conscious experience might leave their imprint on “the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them?” To begin, consider that we were all once the center of a small, perfectly benevolent universe. “It does not seem impossible,” Sagan says, “that we may occasionally and imperfectly remember this Edenic, golden age, when every need—food, oxygen, warmth, and waste disposal—was satisfied before it was sensed, provided automatically by a superbly designed life-support system, and that we may, in dim recollection years later, describe it as ‘being one with the universe.”‘ Some such existence as this comes to a violent end—such a definite ending to life as the young human being has known it that birth might be called a kind of death. First the universe constricts and convulses in a dreadful reversal of whatever awareness of reality the unborn child possesses. Then follows traumatic expulsion through a dark tunnel into sudden, brilliant light. What impact must the discovery of light make upon the consciousness of a creature who has lived only in sheltering darkness! And then there is the experience of being held, swaddled, nourished. And we are born. Those are the data. Dr. Leboyer’s poetic description of birth is well worth reading in his book Birth Without Violence—one can almost re-experience the event,


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    and without LSD. What interests me in this common reality of the birth experience is that it is full of evidences that point to the mystery of Resurrection life. Look at some of these intimations. Both Jesus and Paul drew images from the whole process of birth to describe what it is like to live in the Spirit. The text that comes to mind at once is one that had obvious sacramental meaning to the author of the Gospel of John. Jesus told Nicodemus that he must be born anew or not see the Kingdom of God. When Nicodemus stumbled over the material impossibility of re-entering the womb, Jesus said to him: “Unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the Kingdom of God.” Do not ignore the water! When we stand before the water in the baptismal font, tank, or river, like an obstetrician helping a person to experience sacramentally death and delivery—the elements of rebirth—with Christ, are we aware that that font theologically is an amniotic universe? And could it be, as Freud suggested, that our common remembrance of the unity, peace, and wholeness of the amniotic state may be the dynamic font of religious consciousness, as well as a symbol of the Kingdom of God? Does the “oneness with the universe” that we experience in the first phase of our life serve to anchor the reality of the oneness expressed and sought for by spiritual teachers of East and West? “For in Christ all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell,” Paul wrote to the Colossians, “and through him to reconcile to himself all things—the Allness—whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross. . . . If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God. For you have died, and your life is hid with Christ in God.” In Christian theology, the oneness of all things that we seek is a reconciliation, presupposing separation and strife. The second phase of the birth process, the time when uterine contractions begin, is a paradigm of separation and strife. Paul chose it as an emblem of the tortured, contradictory yet forward-moving condition of the present age:

    I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. . . . We know that the whole creation has been groaning in travail together until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. (Romans 8:18-25)

    Paul’s analogy is gripping because it evokes for us a time of utter insecurity. The stable uterine foundation upon which the amniotic cosmos is anchored turns against us, Sagan says; the fetus is horribly compressed and shocked for what must seem an interminable period. Could it be that the sudden, traiterous reversal of our first real security plants in our pre-consciousness the seed of the faith assumption that this earth is not our secure foundation? We groan inwardly because we know that the world as we know it can betray us. Faith in the Old Testament is often expressed in terms of God’s faithfulness in “delivering” the person or people from such conditions as those described in Psalm 18:

    Then the earth reeled and rocked; the foundations also of the mountains trembled and quaked, because he was angry.


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    For the Christian, it is impossible to think of the landscape of the spiritual life without confronting suffering and death there. These are the stuff of Good Friday when, Matthew reports, the earth was convulsed and thick darkness covered the scene. Easter itself is not an evasion of the tragedy and heartbreak of our lives, the dashing of hopes, and the final fact that we will die. The struggle to walk by faith and not by sight at such times as these is prefigured in the sense of betrayal and confusion first experienced in the unimaginably unkind jolts that begin the process of birth. The third phase of birth is the passage through the birth canal, the primal journey from darkness into light. By every parameter of measurement except distance our first journey is an awesome one. It is the exodus from a land of security to a land of promise. It is the epic journey of Odysseus through many tests to Ithica. It is the mystical descent and ascent of Dante through the whole geography of medieval spirituality. It is the pilgrimage of John Bunyan through the wicket gates and sloughs of Puritan piety. Or if our journey of faith is more like a leap into the unknown or irrational with Abraham and Kierkegaard, we still have scarcely outjumped our own original leap of faith. The journey has been construed in many ways from Gilgamesh to our own day. The remarkable concensus that life is understood best under the paradigm of the journey may be related to the fact that we have all experienced, in a way that our conscious, mundane memories cannot recapture, a passage of mythological proportions. “Let there be light!” One can almost hear Handel’s triumphant chorus celebrating the passage from chaos to creation when one considers the end of the drama of birth. The crowning, the delivery, the first cry, the physical separation from the mother, the birth of Light—this fourth phase of birth is so momentous that it seems to sum up the whole process. The climax is in the last act. Perhaps it does sum it all up, but in a paradoxical way. Delivery does not change substantially the character and function of the young human being. Yet the change in the reality in which he or she now lives is so vast, so previously unimaginable, so life-changing as to mark one’s birthday forever as the moment one begins having personal identity. Birth: in a physical sense very little is different in the transition from helpless fetus to helpless infant; and yet everything is new! A Zen proverb says it: “Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.” Just so, the Christian who knows himself to have entered into the grace of the Risen Christ knows as well that Easter faith is not different in substance from the life of suffering and pilgrimage common to all humanity. Easter contains Good Friday and all the rest. And yet . . . “If anyone is in Christ he is a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come!” The new stranger whom we greet has not returned to his amniotic Eden. The first burning rush of air into wet, tender lungs proved that. The Promised Land is always occupied by Caananites, it appears, when Israel crosses the Jordan, and Gilgal is more a beginning than an end. And the modern Odysseus of Nikos Kazanzakis, having gained his Ithica, comes to a moment of truth when he acknowledges to his deepest self, “My soul, thy voyages have been thy native land!” The infant pilgrim has not returned to Eden. And yet . . . he is received, and given nurture, and cuddled into membership in the human family. Just so, Easter is not the promise of happy endings in life: Easter is the power for new beginning.


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    It is time to bring this playful theology, this metaphor that may be more than metaphor, to a close. The content of Easter is Christ and his victory over death. That is given. But the structure of our mindfulness of the Easter reality—may it not be formed in part by the imprint from our own primal experience of a kind of death and resurrection, that portentous time when we cannot have avoided learning something of what it means to be a human creature? God’s revelation may find a most welcoming home in those persons who have built their home close to the springs of their own deepest—and most common—humanity.

  • Redneck Mothers, Good Ol’ Boys and Girls: Memories and Reflections on Mother’s Day While Thinking about I John 3:11-24

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    REDNECK MOTHERS, GOOD OL’ BOYS AND GIRLS

    Memories and Reflections on Mother’s Day

    While Thinking about I John 3:11-24

    Roland P. Perdue, III

    Riverside Presbyterian Church, Jacksonville, Florida

    “The floor is now open for nominations for Family of the Year.” It was the first sentence of the Mother’s Day sermon. I had finished the reading of the New Testament selection, prayed the prayer, and started the sermon which was clearly indicated in the ordering of the service and entitled, “For Family of the Year, I Nominate. . . .” At least, I thought it was clear what was happening. It was not. “The floor is now open for nominations for Family of the Year. Are there any nominations?” I should have known better. As I paused for effect and time to give my fellow and sister worshipers a chance to wipe the indulgent smiles away, Mary Lynn stood in the congregation and said, “Mr. Moderator, I nominate the Albert Becker Family for Family of the Year!” I could not believe it. While I was still trying to recover my breath, she continued, “Oh, and the Malcolm Quick Family. They’re nice, too!” That was Mother’s Day 1979. While it is true that Mother’s Day, the Festival of the Christian Family, and the United Nation’s Year of the Family have no biblical or liturgical basis, I am going to be prepared for whatever happens on May 11, 1980. And it will happen. Mary Lynn, who listened that morning as I attempted to make a sermon sound like an endorsement of her nominations for Family of the Year, taught me something. She spoke out of a context. She did not understand my sermonic introduction, but she understood her own context, and the Beckers and the Quicks give her life a content of meaning and significance. As I prepare for this first Mother’s Day of the 1980’s, I am trying to touch the context of our lives. All of us speak out of a context, and I want to recognize the context of my own living, to reflect upon the context of the living of my sisters and brothers in the faith, and to respond to God’s becoming within the processes of our context.

    I. The Context: Impending Doom and Narcissism

    The context of contemporary life is anything but confident. “Those who recently dreamed of world power now despair of governing the city of New York. Defeat in Vietnam, economic stagnation, and the impending exhaustion of natural resources have produced a mood of pessimism in higher circles, which spreads through the rest of society as people lose faith in their leaders.”(l) Read that as the context of our living. Read the daily newspapers, listen to the talk on the jogging trails, watch the news on television, or just look out the windows of any middle or inner city church house. Confidence is at a low ebb, and there is no reason to think it will get any better. Recently I was reading one of those “grocery store” magazines while waiting in


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    line. It was an article on heart attacks, and one of the “danger signals” caught me up short: “Have a check-up if you have a sense of impending doom.” My Goodness! I need a perpetual check-up. Who does not have a “sense of impending doom”? A “sense of the ending” greets us at every corner today. All of us are growing older, inflation eats into our savings and cuts down our hedge against the aging process, our children are being asked to register for the draft again, the plans for boycotting the Olympics have been made, the institutions of cultural transmission are bankrupt in terms of effectiveness, and we are being told that the future will be a time of diminishing expectations. Impending doom! I’ll say! Christopher Lasch says it better for us in The Culture of Narcissism:

    The “sense of an ending,” which has given shape to so much of twentiethcentury literature, now pervades the popular imagination as well. The Nazi holocaust, the threat of nuclear annihilation, the depletion of natural resources, well-founded predictions of ecological disaster have fulfilled poetic prophecy. . . . The question of whether the world will end in fire or in ice, with a bang or a whimper, no longer interests artists alone. Impending disaster has become an everyday concern, so commonplace and familiar that nobody any longer gives much thought to how disaster might be averted. People busy themselves instead with survival strategies, measures designed to prolong their own lives, or programs guaranteed to ensure good health and peace of mind.(2)

    Lasch goes on to suggest that our entire culture has responded to this sense of impending doom by retreating into itself. We have elevated jogging, self-awareness, health foods, dieting, etc,—all harmless perhaps in themselves—to the level of programs for personhood and individual authenticity and, along the way, retreated from political awareness and community responsibility. The result: The Culture of Narcissism. As Mary Lynn spoke out of a context, so does Lasch. And that context is filled with anxiety. “The new narcissist is haunted not by guilt but by anxiety. He seeks not to inflict his own certainties on others but to find a meaning in life. Liberated from the superstitions of the past, he doubts even the reality of his own experience.”(3) Garp worried about his life, his children. He worried about those childhood accidents. “And what were they? Garp wondered. Being hit by cars? Choking to death on peanuts? Being stolen by strangers? Cancer, for example, was a stranger.” John Irving in The World According to Garp adds flesh and blood to the anxiety of our Culture of Narcissism:

    There was so much to worry about, when worrying about children, and Garp worried so much about everything; at times, especially in these throes of insomnia, Garp thought himself too psychologically unfit for parenthood. Then he worried about that, too, and felt all the more anxious for his children. What if their most dangerous enemy turned out to be him?(4)

    How I identify with that! Several days ago, very early in the morning hours, the dogs woke me up barking. I got up to check things out—you know, the locks on my memory, fantasies under the bed, fears in my nightmares. And my mind suddenly filled with things that are always barking to get in: two sons left in Texas—were


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    they safe, where were they this morning, are they behaving? Two sons here in Florida in strange schools with stranger schoolmates—were they happy, are they able to understand why I left Austin, Texas, and moved to Jacksonville, Florida? Our daughter is growing up and older—will she continue to be sweet and sensitive? Jane, my wife, is making new friends and finding her way around the city—does she still miss our old and dear friends, can she put roots down all over again, again, again? Inflation is eating up everything, the house (it used to be “home”) in Texas is still sitting there unsold, owned by us, dragging us down into a hole of debt. The oldest son is driving his motorcycle again, in spite of the terrible accident last year. Three motorcycles in the family, four teenagers at the same time, one snake, four cats, three dogs, several hampsters, a couple of guinea pigs, no telling how many mice, etc. No wonder I could not sleep, there was simply too much in bed with me, too many things crawling around and tumbling over in my mind. Does that sound like anyone you know, like anything you do? It does if your context is the same as mine, or Mary Lynn’s, or Christopher Lasch’s, or the Culture of Narcissism’s. I cannot imagine how it escaped notice in the “drug culture” for so long, but there is a song in the musical “Ain’t Misbehavin’” by Thomas “Fats” Waller entitled “The Viper’s Drag” or “The Reefer Song,” written in 1934, which has this line: “I dreamed I found a Reefer five feet long/I got so high/ But don’t worry/It didn’t last for long!” And it didn’t. Our cultural experience, however, tells us that we will continue to try to escape from facing that which is ending in our society. We run deeper into self-absorption. Lasch quotes Andy Warhol in what has all the overtones of symbolic description:

    Day after day I look in the mirror and I still see something—a new pimple . . . I dunk a Johnson and Johnson cotton ball into Johnson and Johnson rubbing alcohol and rub the cotton bail against the pimple . . . And while the alcohol is drying I think of nothing. How it’s always in style. Always in good taste . . . When the alcohol is dry, I’m ready to apply the fleshcolored acne-pimple medication . . . So now the pimple’s covered. But am I covered? I have to look into the mirror for some more clues. Nothing is missing. It’s all there. The affectless gaze . . . The bored languor, the wasted pallor . . . The graying lips. The shaggy silver-white hair, soft and metallic . . . Nothing is missing. I’m everything my scrapbook says I am.(5)

    Me-ism, I-ism, do-it-my-way-ism, death-ism; escape into the nothingness of “Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, who’s the most narcissistic of us all?” This is our context.

    II. Our Response: Into the Hassle and the Hurt

    “Am I covered? . . . Nothing is missing.” What is missing is the emotion, the open rage, the ability to respond to the Culture of Narcissism out of a context of assurance rather than anxiety; what is missing is Life as it flows from one generation to the next affirming the giftedness of Life and seeking to enhance the future good by reaching past emotional detachment into the hassle and the hurt experienced by all God’s Family of Humankind. For that too is part of the context of our lives! We speak out of the context of God’s becoming in our midst, out of the context of the people of God whose family


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    seeks to provide supportive structures and systems in which we develop. Mary Lynn saw something in the Beckers and the Quicks which gave significance and some degree of meaning to her anxious living. She saw within her nominations some qualities which reached beyond cultural narcissism. For me that means that I will have to encourage my sisters and brothers in the faith in Jacksonville, Florida, to get into the hassle and into the hurt at new levels. While there are certainly exceptions, most of the people with whom I work, move, and have my being are not yet hurting at sustaining levels. They are not yet aware of the hassle which greets the lives of so many today. Most of “my people” are economically troubled only to the extent that they are trading in their gas-aholic cars for diesel-powered automobiles, bothered by the possibility that their maids may be able to come only on two days a week rather than four, etc. My Mother’s Day sermon needs to underscore the diversity of God’s family, needs to suggest that many members of our larger family are hurting and need our help. Silvia Tennenbaum has a scene in her novel, Rachel, the Rabbi’s Wife, which points in the right direction. Rachel is attending a “circle” meeting and the speaker says, “Jews must pay attention to the persecution of Jews. Forget about the others. Why should we care about them?” Rachel leans forward, her face burning with rage, her heart shouting:

    “I tell why we should care,” she said, not in a loud voice but in a voice choked with passion. “We should care because our tradition tells us to care. The most moving, most touchimg, most glorious thing about Jews has always been that we cared so desperately. We showed concern for victims of persecution everywhere, we wanted to do away with exploitation and injustice, and we never asked the question whether it was worth the death of one innocent to save the world. . . . We knew you had to fight for right and justice for everyone before you could truly have it for yourself. If there’s one single reason to keep the Jews alive, it’s for the compassion we feel for suffering. . . . But it is my contention that we must remember the Holocaust just as we remember our slavery in Egypt: not for the sake of revenge, but for the sake of compassion— what the Jews call rachmones. I hope and pray that we will never forget our role as ‘compassionate ones’—that even though Hitler brought death to six million, he didn’t bring death to our hearts and our spirit. . . .”(6)

    Let us hope and pray that we never forget our role as “compassionate ones.” And let us use this Mother’s Day as an opportunity to help ourselves and our people begin to move beyond our narcissism and to identify with the hurt and the hassle which is part of the context of so many. That means being willing to struggle for justice within our communities, to find ways that people of little means will have some means to heat their homes and eat, to help people—ourselves included—have a sense of worth as we move into the strange new world of the 1980s; it means to care and to be compassionate because Well, this is where reflections upon the pericope I am using begin to flood my context. I am reflecting upon I John 3:11-24 as part of the larger context of our lives within God’s household. And I will be zeroing in on 3:11, attempting to fill the term “love” with the content of Christ’s compassion. because Well, certainly not because it is our nature to live for others or to be compassionately aware of and involved within their hurts. It is this word from one of our fathers in the faith which calls us out of our narcissism a bit:


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    For this is the message which you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another. . . . And this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he has commanded us.

    In spite of new teachings, beyond new emphases, transcending all understandings, the basic message of the Christian family is always, “Love one another as Jesus has commanded us to do.” And the mark of love is obeying and going on to love even when the situation is confused and our love-objects are not all that deserving. That is exactly the way we have been loved in Christ! We have been loved, we are being loved, in our grouchiness, our fearfulness and in our anxiousness. We love, however tentatively and carefully in our upper middle class narcissism, not because it is our nature to love, or nice to love, or easy to love, or convenient to love. It is none of that—ever! We love because Christ has loved us and we have believed in his love for us. We practice hardheaded loving, loving which leads to justice and to compassion, because we have been commanded to by Christ and what he has commanded is, simply put, good and right! In talking about his latest movie, Manhattan, Woody Allen says, “There’s a speech I had to cut out of Manhattan and plan to get into the next film, where my character says that the metaphor for life is a concentration camp. I do believe that. The real question in life is how one copes in that crisis. I just hope I’m never tested, because I’m very pessimistic about how I would respond. I worry that I tend to moralize, as opposed to being moral.”(7) That is my fear as well. Or as the author of I John puts it, “If anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart to him, how does God’s love abide in him? Little children, let us not love in word or speech but in deed and in truth!” Let us not moralize, but let us be moral. Does our international mission program receive support because we are silent in those nations where it is not safe to be moral? Do some of us increase our personal wealth by holding stock in companies which grow at the expense of the poor? The former Roman Catholic priest, James Kavanaugh, has a poem which speaks to our fantastic opportunities to be loving in deed and in truth:

    In the city There are families to be found Scattered lavishly around In silent places To replace the one that’s lost By death Or distance Or quarrels never healed As happens.

    There is a grandmother for those who need one, Gray-haired and gentle With cakes to bake And love left over—never used. There is a grandfather, for those who want one Quiet and eccentric With gifts to buy And stories left over—never used.


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    In this city There is blood-love The kind that flows When hearts expand. There is cross-breeding And genealogies are mended Or improved. There are families to be found(8).

    Families to be found—never used, waiting, hoping, needing to become loved by us, waiting to enable us to become as they love in return. A way out of the culture of narcissism is to do what is at hand, to love where and how it is possible. Someone asked the poet Robert Frost what was the first thing he did when getting out of bed in the morning. Expecting a profound answer, he was surprised when the poet replied, “I brush my teeth and I make my bed.” That is it, of course. We love as we can in possible and practical manners. We do what is at hand in the household of God and family of all. Our time, I think as much as any time, needs the Christian Community, the intended family of Christ’s people, God’s very own Redneck Mothers, Good OV Boys and Girls who will believe that Jesus Christ loves us and who will love one another for his sake: people who will not talk about it, people who will not love in speech or in word alone, but in dedicated deeds and in truthful action. We need to be moral and dedicated in the sense Lasch speaks of as he closes his book:

    The moral discipline formerly associated with the work ethic still retains a value independent of the role it once played in the defense of property rights. That discipline—indispensable to the task of building a new order- -endures most of all in those who knew the old order only as a broken promise, yet who took the promise more seriously than those who merely took it for granted.(9)

    I gave Jane a book last Easter. Written by Sharon McKern, the book is entitled Redneck Mothers, Good Ol’ Boys and Girls, and Other Southern Belles. I shall be thinking about Mary Lynn, about The Culture of Narcissism, about my own sense of ending, this Mother’s Day. But most of all, I shall be thinking about I John 3:11-24 and what Sharon McKern has to say as I encourage the people I serve to prepare a meal for a grouch, or to love someone into health and wholesomeness for Christ’s sake. Just listen to Austin, Texas-based Sharon McKern:

    When Robert Graves wrote that man does, while woman is, he hadn’t gotten ’round to visiting Dixie. Leave it to the menfolk to sit around swapping tales of their latest coon hunts, shouting their arguments over hog-waller politics and enjoying their amiable discussions of lost crops, hard times, good whiskey, slow horses, and fast women. Leave it to others, too, to debate the finer ethical implications of solutions designed to alleviate such hardcore problems as unemployment, race discrimination , sexism, poverty, pollution, urban decay, and socialized medicine.

    When it’s time to go to the well, the provincial daughters of Dixie don’t stop to hold a committee meeting.


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    They never put much stock in theoretical solutions. They never had much use for philosophical musings. They’re far less romantic, for all their canopied beds and moonlit verandas, than Southern men. This may have to do with their long familiarity with age-old burdens like washing diapers, administering enemas, and laying out the dead.

    Such chores don’t inspire debate: they just need doing.(9)

    They just need doing! Yes, “For this is the message which you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another . . .” And that needs doing! The floor is open for nominations!

    (1) Lasch, Christopher, The Culture of Narcissism (New York: Warner, 1979), p. 17 (preface). (2) Ibid., p. 28. (3) Ibid., p. 22. (4) Irving, John, The World According to Garp (New York: Pocket Books, 1978), p. 274. (5) Lasch, o£. cit., p. 170. (6) Tennenbaum, Silvia, Rachel, the Rabbi’s Wife (New York: William Morrow), p. 385f. (7) Time magazine, April 30, 1979, p. 69. (8) Kavanaugh, James, Faces in the City (Los Angeles: Nash), “Families to be Found.” (9) Lasch, op_. cit., p. 397. (10) McKern, Sharon, Redneck Mothers, Good OV Boys and Girls, and Other Southern Belles (New York: Viking Press), p. 193. “

  • Can We Preach on International Mission in the 1980s

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    CAN WE PREACH ON INTERNATIONAL MISSION IN THE 1980s?

    Wade P. Huie, 3r.

    Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, Georgia

    The title question perplexes us. As long as I can remember, I have been a part of a church where IM has claimed much attention. Every fifth year the missionary who had gone from our small town church to China would return to report on her work and teach the children to sing “Jesus Loves Me” in Chinese. Between her visits other missionaries would come to help observe the “Week of Prayer and Self-Denial for Foreign Missions.” Through my teen years our Sunday night programs would touch the mission theme, and through college and seminary the quadrennial youth conventions would keep the call for overseas mission ringing. On one occasion I even wrote for an application and discussed with the enlistment secretary the possibility of serving in Japan, which was then suffering from the ravages of World War II. Bringing in new members and building new churches in the suburbs claimed special attention in the fifties, civil rights in the sixties, human rights in the seventies, but recognition was still being given to the need for an overseas ministry. In pious tones we kept affirming the mandate of the gospel for the whole world, but I could not help but notice that in the courts of the church, especially sessions and presbyteries, the strongest leaders were seldom given responsibility for this concern. During these three decades “foreign” changed to “world” and then to “international.” Missions dropped the final “s.” Denominational headquarters moved from Nashville to Atlanta. The word “missionary” became taboo in some settings. In spite of many changes the asking of this question still perplexes us: Can we preach on IM in the 1980s? It becomes more perplexing when a prominent church historian says that IM may be the key issue for the Church in the eighties. Perhaps then it will help to recognize certain factors that provoke this question.(l)

    I.

    The declining influence of the West raises the question for some. For the past 500 years, and especially the past 200 for Protestants, the missionary enterprise has been closely linked with the military, economic, political, and cultural expansion of the Western world. The nations of the West exported their languages, political ideas, economic systems, forms of organization, cultural patterns, and technological advances. At the same time the churches were active in exporting their message, usually shaped in the creedal, organizational, and liturgical forms of the West. Through most of this period the West was the dominant force in much of the world, and for many the acceptance of one dimension of Western life meant the acceptance of other dimensions. Thus for many to become a Christian meant to be Westernized, or to become Westernized meant to become Christian. With the declining influence of Western ways, the non-Westerner raises the question as to the appropriateness of receiving representatives of a religion associated with the West. No longer do nations in Africa, Asia, and Latin America uncritically accept the maxim, “If it’s from the West, it’s good.” Some in the Third World resent the dependency they have felt toward the First World (even the


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    numbering of “worlds” gives cause for resentment) and resist certain imports—just because they are from the West. “Yank, go home” is accompanied by “Missionary, go home,” so the missionary enterprise, which historically has flowed primarily from the West, is challenged by some hard questions. Closely related to the decline of the West is the spread of a revolutionary spirit around the world. What happened in the French and American Revolutions has been happening in large and small nations of the Third World. People have become aware that they and their children do not always have to be poor or ignorant or hungry or sick. They have been exposed to television and transistor radios too much. “The most revolutionary statement I ever heard,” said £. Stanley Jones, “was spoken by an Indian peasant—fI do not always have to be poor.1 ” Expectations are rising and people everywhere are demanding and governments are promising the right to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” By force or by persuasion many peoples have thrown off the shackels of political domination and have claimed the freedom to determine their own destiny. Today few peoples live as colonies of other nations, but many who have gained freedom from political domination are now seeking freedom from economic domination, with an especially sharp accusation pointed toward multinational corporations. The development of the universal Church also provokes the question before us. The missionary enterprise has been so effective that at least in part it has worked itself out of a job. In practically every nation a Christian church lives today. Thus the Church has become a global Christian fellowship, called by William Temple, “the great new fact of our time” and has continually grown in the consciousness of its universal character. We rejoice in this fruit of the missionary movement and in the signs of vitality among the younger churches where missionaries have labored. However we are not sure how to respond when word comes from some of these churches that they no longer need or desire help from the older churches. Early in the 1970s John Gatu, then general secretary of the Presbyterian Church in East Africa, called for what has become widely known as a “moratorium”:

    (Our) present problems can only be solved if all missionaries can be withdrawn in order to allow a period of not less than five years for each side to rethink and formulate what is going to be their future relationships. . . . The churches of the Third World must be allowed to find their own identity, and the continuation of the present missionary movement is a hindrance to this selfhood of the Church.(2)

    A similar message came in 1976 in the form of “An Open Letter to North American Christians.” A group of Protestant leaders in Latin America wrote: “If in the past you felt it to be your apostolic duty to send us missionaries and economic resources, today the frontier of your witness and Christian solidarity is within your own country.”(3) During the seventies other church leaders from the Third World have spoken out in support of or in opposition to the moratorium. The issue was addressed at international church gatherings in Bangkok (f73), Lausanne (74), Rome (74), and Nairobi (75), as well as by mission agencies in the First World. Proponents of liberation theologies add their insights to the debate as they emphasize self-reliance and freedom from domination. So we who have been a part of the sending church are called to listen carefully to what is intended by both those who say, “Go home,”


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    and by those who say, “Come over.” Another factor in the world provokes the question about preaching on IM: the revival of non-Christian religions. We have always known that many converts to the Christian faith came from Hinduism or Buddhism or Islam or traditional religions of the locality. The Christian missionary has been recognized as being the first to question the adequacy of these religions, and such criticisms naturally put adherents and especially leaders of these religions on the defensive. However, as nations gain their independence and revive appreciation of national culture, they encourage participation in the religion of their tradition. Thus to be a good Iranian is to be a good Muslim; to be a good Indian is to be a good Hindu. Patriotic and religious fervor flow together, as they have in the United States where, in spite of our professed pluralism, some politicians especially in the South, still convey the notion that to be a good American is to be a good Christian. The resurgence of non-Christian religions has stimulated discussion of the relation of the Christian faith to other faiths: Do adherents of one meet adherents of another in dialogue for the benefit of the community or in an effort to win them as converts? Or perhaps there is another option. The old “history of religions” question has been raised in a new way, and various answers are crowding and pressed.(^) The choice we make affects the way we respond to the question before us. Increasingly this issue has moved to our own doorsteps. Muslims now live around the corner, own the nearby office building, sit at the next desk in school, and determine the price of gas. Buddhist and Hindu missionaries walk our streets. So the way we talk about other religions and relate to their adherents is no longer just related to our work overseas but to the life of the church at home. Preaching on IM now overlaps with preaching on local mission.

    II.

    Our response to the title question must take into account what is happening in the world, but an adequate response calls for light from the Christian faith. The question may have to do with knowledge or understanding or sensitivity, but at its center is the question of authority: “Can we?” or “Can we not?” Early in their ministry the apostles were confronted by a similar question: “By what power or by what name did you do this.” They could only refer to “the name of Jesus,” and by that name they referred to an ultimate authority and to their own final commitment to that authority. It was their way of confessing the primal Christian creed, “Jesus is Lord,” which covered personal needs but also reached out to all persons and all areas of life. If this new movement had been only a cult of the private, Roman authorities would have ignored it. Only as it moved into public life and began to affect the larger community, which included other faiths, did the opposition come. This creed, around which all Christian creeds have grown, did not affirm only a “Jesus religion.” As the early followers experienced “the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ,” they were able to affirm “the love of God” and “the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.” The Lordship of Christ was linked with the sovereign love and power of the Creator God and the continuing presence of the life-giving Spirit. “Jesus is Lord” became the basis for affirming faith in the Triune God as well as for shaping the movement that would bear his name. That affirmation continues as the basis for shaping the Christian movement


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    and giving authority for its direction. The primary motivation for mission is the Lordship of Christ, not the needs of people or the advancement of a particular way of life or the satisfying feelings (including pride) that result. Since Jesus is Lord, we do not make him Lord; he is! We do not take him to people; he is already there, so we meet him and bear witness to him. Since Jesus is Lord, we have a message which cannot be reserved for any one class or group or nation but must be shared with all in the orbit of our concern. In spite of the emphasis given to the relativity of worldviews in the modern disciplines of history and social sciences, this message is unique, as the New Testament concept ephapax (“once for all”) underscores. The Lordship of Christ means that the mission is God!s, not ours, and we go because we are missioned or sent—under obligation (Rom. 1:1*)—under compulsion (II Cor.5:l*)— as trustees (I Cor. 4:1)—in gratitude (II Cor. 8:9). And we go, not to be successful, but to be faithful. Thus IM, the mission involving other nations, is rooted in God’s mission in Jesus Christ, but also in God’s mission through the Church. It has been so from the beginning. The Old Testament tells the story of God’s people in tension between the exclusive and the inclusive dimensions of the faith, remembering that they were called as a special people but often forgetting why they were called. Prophets tried to stir their memory about “all the lands,” reaching back even to that earliest call to Abraham to be a blessing to “all families of the earth.” The same direction was given the people of the new covenant as they stood under the shadow of the cross and in light of the open tomb. They were promised the Spirit whose activity was not so much to draw people toward Jerusalem but to move disciples from home base to “the end of the earth.” The picture is not that of a fortress to which people come for protection and safety, but of a people in pilgrimage—on the march, blown by the Wind of God from Jerusalem to Rome, and even to far away Spain. At some periods in its history the Church has expressed this sense of mission by caring for others and permeating society close by, but at other times the outreach has been to other peoples and to distant places. But always when the Church has been responsive to its primal calling, its life has been characterized by those penetrating and expanding images—salt, light, leaven. In Brunner’s familiar words, “The Church exists by mission, just as a fire exists by burning.”(5) Or to use Hans Kung’s images, the Church “exists for the world,” in terms of

    pro-existence rather than co-existence, involvement rather than disengagement . . . with windows open to the street. . . , not simply staring at the windows. However profound a sermon, however solemn an act of worship, however well-organized a system of pastoral care, however methodical an instruction, however ingenious a theology, however effective a charity—there is no value in all of this if it is done in the isolation of a self-congratulating community, of a Church which only lives for itself.(6)

    According to A Declaration of Faith, “God sends the church into the world . . . to proclaim the gospel, . . . to strive for justice, . . . to exercise compassion, . . . to work for peace.” The oneness of our mission is affirmed, but the need to express mission in a variety of patterns is also affirmed. Attention to unity need not obscure diversity. And this Declaration knows no limits to the extent of this mission—”all humankind,” “in behalf of all people,” “all nations.” A much older creed affirms that the Church is “one, holy, catholic, and


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    apostolic.” In terms of mission in today’s world, especially IM, we look for a more authentic way to express and to experience the catholicity of the Church. Over the past century our IM strategy has moved through several stages:

    sending church to mission field sending church to missionary church sending church to the mission of the national church church to/from church as partners in mission(7)

    New models are emerging, and the 1977 Mission Consultation at Montreat was one effort in the search for a more meaningful and effective way to do mission in light of the catholicity of the Church. Debates over models and strategy, however, need not obscure our obligation for mission between the nations. Neither should uncertainties as to method free us from the obligation to preach on IM. Indeed the uncertainties call for more creative efforts and an attempt to broaden the perspective of what preaching on IM means. We can move beyond, though not eliminate, the reporting on the work of the Church overseas and the encouraging of support by praying, giving, and going. To enlarge our understanding of IM can thus help us to enlarge our sermonic treatment of the subject.

    III.

    At the time of this writing our nation is being confronted by the capture of its embassy and personnel in Iran. The Security Council of the United Nations has appealed for the release of property and hostages. Our embassies in Pakistan and Libya have been damaged. The President’s wife has returned from Cambodia to report extremes of suffering and famine. The deposed shah of Iran is transferred from New York to Texas because Mexico refuses to readmit him. With the assassination of its President, South Korea moves toward the choice of a new regine. London peace talks between conflicting groups in Zimbabwe-Rhodesia point toward constructive ends. So the news reports keep coming, and so much from the Third World. Even barber shop conversation has become internationalized, not by intentional choice but by the way distant happenings meet us on television and at the gas pump—two key symbols of our culture. Since one function of preaching is to enable us to see “our life in God’s light,” these critical events can be occasions for giving theological perspective to our history, both personal and public. Happenings between nations can be viewed from the perspective of faith as well as power politics and personal comfort and security. Preaching can link us with people of faith who are distanced in space and outlook. As we begin where people are in conversation and understanding, we can seek to broaden horizons and stretch imaginations and give vision of the church’s moving from a posture of maintenace to a posture of mission. Preaching can focus on the interplay between mission across the street and mission across the globe, the connection between voting at the polls and voting with the offering plate, and the interconnectedness of a world in which the God of John 3:16 is “the center, the object of loyalty, the subject of truth, the source of security.” In short such preaching can give a congregation more of a global vision of the gospel, leading toward faithfulness as part of the Church catholic under the Lordship of Christ. For the achievement of this end four possibilities are suggested:


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    1. Preaching on IM can recognize the holistic perspective, with a both/and rather than an either/or approach. Whereas the subject of mission was once considered safe, it now provokes major controversy in the Church. Is our mission to make disciples or to humanize society? To bring about the extension of the Church or to fulfill societal needs? And if the latter, are we to do so by exercising compassion or by empowering the powerless? Evangelization or humanization, which will it be? Love or justice, which? Or can you have one without the other? The Church has been polarized in regard to mission at home and increasingly in the arena of IM. The debate deals with ends but also with means. Few question the sending of a medical missionary to improve the health of children in Africa, but a boycott of Nestle’s products to achieve a similar purpose stirs controversy. From the Third World comes a voice reminding us about spending endless energies in useless and senseless debates over missional programs.

    The fundamental missiological question before the Christian Church today is not whether mission should be conceived as vertical or horizontal, or both; not whether it should be thought of either as spiritual and personal or material and social. It is rather whether we can recover its wholeness and see it as a whole. . . . (Only then is there) hope of generating a wider vision and stimulating a more effective missional invoivement.(8)

    Since returning in 1976 from a year of ministry in Ghana, I have been involved in mission presentations across the denomination where I have been impressed with the extreme to which missionaries are viewed—idolized or ignored. Another impression is the wide variety of views toward IM:

    We’ve taken care of the world long enough. Let’s start at home. Their religion is good enough. Those heathen must be saved from hell. People usually get what they deserve. They don’t seem grateful for what we’ve done. Mission has nothing to do with the Panama Canal.

    As in all preaching, the attitudes of the congregation must be taken into account, so preaching on IM can free persons from such limited and distorted vision and offer a perspective which includes the mission of talking and acting, at home and overseas, with flexibility of method in a variety of ministries. This can extend the action frontiers of IM from the Capitol in Washington to a board room on Wall Street to a Mother Teresa type service in Calcutta to a Frank Laubach style of “each one teach one” in an African village, but “sooner or later,” as Martin Marty reminds us, “the story has to be told.”(9) And such preaching makes its impact on the fight for dollars in our inflation economy. With budget squeezes at all levels of the church, we are tempted to look after ourselves before we look after others, to cut program and personnel at a distance before cutting close by, to reflect an isolationism and a self-centeredness which keeps us within the doors of our carpeted, air-conditioned sanctuaries. Preaching on IM can contribute toward moving us beyond our own doorstep and to recognize the oneness of our mission under God.


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    2. In preaching on IM we also note the importance of receiving as well as giving. For years I had heard sermons from the text, “Come over into Macedonia and help us,” and I had always identified with Paul and Silas. I was the helper and the Macedonians needed my help. My year in Ghana taught me that I could also identify with the Macedonians. I went to help, but I was helped. And Paul’s letter to the Philippians demonstrates that he too was the receiver as well as the giver. In a similar way the story of those strange happenings in Joppa and Caesarea is usually labeled “the conversion of Cornelius,” but its location in the chronicles of the early church suggests as a more appropriate label “the conversion of Peter.” Missionary service is a two-way street. Indeed, the catholicity of the Church calls for each part of the Church to be open to receiving as well as to giving. Though it is more blessed to give than to receive, it is often more difficult to receive than to give. To be on the receiving end turns our community into a “mission field,” which does not sound quite right. When Dora Owusu came from Ghana to Georgia the year I was in Ghana, some could make little sense out of an African’s coming as a missionary to Atlanta Presbytery. It delights us to hear that over 3000 missionaries have gone out from Third World countries, but for them to come to the First World seems out of place. For to receive means that we do not control, as was observed when Christians of other nations, as well as our own, supported the Mississippi Delta Project and aroused strong opposition from the local communities. The difficulty of receiving is also seen in the presence of Christian students from abroad in practically every city. We have thought of those from the Third World as “objects of mission” for so long that we do not know how to treat them when they appear as peers in the faith or as doers of mission themselves. We entertain students at Christmas International Houses, but more in hopes of giving witness than receiving witness. This same difficulty in receiving was experienced at the 1977 Mission Consultation at Montreat. Church leaders from overseas were invited to help shape the direction for mission in the next decade. We said we wanted to listen, but when they spoke words that disturbed us, such as a need for a “new international economic order,” (the same need expressed by Kissinger before the United Nations) it sent shock waves through the church. Receiving is difficult for one so accustomed to giving. So we sometimes ask, what are we to receive? Are not the strong to help the weak, and are we not the strong in relation to the younger churches of the Third World? Strong in certain ways, certainly, but weaker in others. For example, we can gain new insights in biblical interpretation from people who are powerless in this world’s competition. Much of the Bible was first addressed to the powerless, but we who are among the powerful naturally have blind spots in the way we interpret the scriptures. How would our preaching change if we listened more carefully to the biblical interpreters from the Third World who read the Bible from “the underside of history,” or how would our educational programs be enriched if we claimed the gifts of overseas Christians who reside among us?(10) In addition we can gain insight and encouragement for Christian discipleship as we learn from “the strong” in the younger churches how to live as a faithful minority in an alien environment, to endure open as well as subtle persecution, to sacrifice status and salary in behalf of the servant people of God. Where we are strong, we can help the weak; but where we are weak, we can be open to receive and become more linked in solidarity with members of the Holy Catholic Church. We can become truly partners in mission.

    3. A concern for IM can permeate our sermons generally as well as on special


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    occasions. In some congregations IM gets the nod once a year during the Witness Season. A missionary comes, a mission sermon is preached, a special offering is taken, and this cause is checked off the list. Just as the quality of stewardship is low when it gets once-a-year attention, so also the level of concern for IM. A time for special attention is appropriate, but rescuing IM from the ghetto of the Witness Season may also edify the Church. IM can be a continual dimension of all our preaching, helping people make connections between international events and the Christian faith, giving them a sense of kinship with believers in other parts of the Holy Catholic Church, opening windows for receiving from them as well as giving to them. A special word can be addressed to members serving in government and business overseas and to the multitude going abroad as tourists to encourage them to get beyond the “Hilton circuit” and get close to people and to churches for the purpose of giving and receiving. The Christian pulpit can have at least as much international flavor as the daily newspaper. The preacher, for example, can survey the references and examples used over a period of time and evaluate how close the sermons come to reflecting the epitaph on the crypt of John and Charles Wesley at Westminster Abbey: “The world is my parish.” Traditionally Epiphany has been the season of the Christian year for stressing God’s gift of himself to all persons. The Gospel lesson of the Wise Men opens the season, and many readings of this four to eight week period convey a concern for mission, some with strongly international flavor. The event of Pentecost occurred in the midst of a gathering from many nations, and power was given to get the message out of Judea “to the end of the earth.” Thus Epiphany may be viewed as the season to emphasize that God’s action at Christmas reaches out to the whole world, as Pentecost emphasized that God’s action at Easter reaches out to all of life and to all people.

    4. Preaching on IM can sound the celebrative as well as the imperative in mission. After all, we are preaching, and preaching needs to move beyond the imperative, to see that any imperative is rooted in the indicative, and that a strong indicative is the ground for any significant imperative. Only then can preaching become celebrative. The missionary imperative is not to be turned into a law, a heavy burden laid on the conscience of Christians. If this article in any way points in that direction, it needs correcting. Witness is a gift of the Spirit—”a spin-off from Pentecost”— promised to the church which seeks to be faithful to the gospel of the cross. Concern for IM grows under the Lordship of Christ as we seek to be faithful participants of the Holy Catholic Church. Some results of that “spin-off” are set forth in the last book of the Bible, featured by Orlando Costas as a key book for preaching on IM.(ll) The Revelation is “a celebration and an interpretation of God’s mission in the crossroads of history,” rising “from a profound worshiping experience and missionary situation,” and giving “a global picture of the history of God’s mission.” The symbols are international: a throne above all nations, a rainbow of promise to the nations, a community from every tongue and race and nation, and trees whose leaves are for the healing of the nations. Worship is integrated with mission, a mission that reaches out to the whole world. This mission is God’s gift, and thus a cause for celebration.

    So from the call to Abraham near the beginning of the Bible to the visions of John at the end, the imperative of mission is heard, but even stronger is the sound of


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    God’s great indicative, giving cause for celebration. In that hope we have no choice but to preach on international mission in every decade.

    (1) In this survey I am indebted to Leslie Newbigin, especially in The Open Secret, (Grand Rapids, Eerdmans, 1978). (2) Gerald H. Anderson and Thomas F. Stransky, ed., Mission Trends No. 1, (Grand Rapids, Eerdmans, 1974), p. 134. (3) Mission Trends No. 4, (1979), p. 74. (4) A variety of approaches: Peter L. Berger, The Heretical Imperative, (New York, Doubleday, 1979); John B. Cobb, Jr., Christ in a Pluralistic AgeTTPhiladelphia, Westminster, 1975); Donald G. Dawe and John B. Carman, ed., Christian Faith in a Religiously Plural World, (Maryknoll, Orbis, 1978); J. D. Douglas, ed., Let the Earth Hear His Voice, (Minneapolis, World Wide Publications, 1975); John Hick, God and the Universe of Faiths, (New York, St. Martin’s, 1973); Leslie Newbigin, The Open Secret, op. cit. T5) Emil Brunner, The Word and the World, (Lexington, KY, American Theological Library Association, 1965), p. 108. (6) Hans Kung, The Church, (London, Burns and Oates, 1976), pp. 485-487. (7) Unpublished paper by G. Thompson Brown on “Possible Directions for the International Mission of the Church in the Next Decade,” 1977. (8) Unpublished addresses on “Mission and Wholeness” by Orlando Costas at Global Mission Conference at Montreat, 1977. (9) Mission Trends, No. 2, (1975), p. 80. (10) Though not written by representatives of the Third World but by persons sensitive and responsive to the Third World, 3rd World Sermon Notes contains fresh perspectives on the lectionary readings for one Sunday a month. A program of the United Presbyterian Church, these worship resources are prepared by InterAmerican Designs for Economic Awareness, 1121 University Avenue, Madison, WI 53715. (11) Orlando Costas, og. cit.

  • Ministry as discipleship

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    OTAGONIST CORNER

    nistry as Discipleship

    rry L. Chronis lis View Presbyterian Church, Chariton Heights, West Virginia

    I am proposing that we begin to reconceive ministry in terms of discipleship. It *ms to me that the time has come for many of us to let go of an identity and selfderstanding which has “Minister” as its primary designation, and to embrace tead a self-understanding which is defined by these words: “Disciple of Jesus .rist.” This proposal springs from a long-held suspicion which has hardened now into a eviction. The conviction is this: that it becomes increasingly difficult to avoid pping into a ministerial mindset and modus which eclipses our fundamental cation as disciples of Jesus Christ, that this represents an ecclesial as well as an istential crisis, and that the resolution of this crisis requires nothing less than a lical reconception and recapitulation of our vocation. It is not just the “professionalization” of ministry which concerns me now, >ugh that is easily the most visible manifestation of our disease. Nor is it just the rrent infatuation with managerial competence and leadership skills—zealously )moted by much of the literature on “ministry” and by our own seminaries—which >ubles me; this is the natural fruit of professionalism. What I am primarily ncerned about is our seeming poweriessness to fashion a genuine alternative to the ‘tical role-consciousness which animates this professionalism. Merely reemphasiz- ;, for example, the centrality of preaching, teaching, and theologizing in ministry es not deliver us from the stranglehold of functionalism. The exigencies of life d work in a narcissistic and technological culture force the most stout-hearted jis into a preoccupation with their function and effectiveness (as “ministers”) in ?ir respective communities. It is the pervasive and monolithic character of this nisterial mode of consciousness—appropriately dubbed “pastor-think” by a friend mine—which concerns me most. “Pastor-think” (or the undifferentiated mindset and modus of “Minister”) *atly concerns me because it has what seem to me to be unacceptable existential d ecclesial consequences. Existentially, it drowns the awareness and practice of r discipleship. Waking (and even sleeping) hours consumed increasingly by our ncern for leading people cannot be given to our concern for following our Lord sus Christ. I therefore raise, as a central issue for our time, the question of »ether ministry can ever be a “plus” or “extra,” something “beyond” or “outside of” r discipleship. Are thoughts and acts of “ministry” which are not exhausted by our oughts and acts of discipleship really thoughts and acts of ministry? Can a selfderstanding and modus operandi which not only fail to enhance the knowledge and ibodiment of our own discipleship, but actually militate against them, make any ûm to Christian ministry ? I confess that to press these questions against the ckground of my own “ministry” lays open my own deep sense of spiritual poverty. But “pastor -think” impoverishes our churches also, by depriving them of that ne thing needful” for lack of which they suffer most. Not competent

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    administration, powerful preaching, or tender-loving-care—but a living, breathing sample, an experimental paradigm, of what it means to be a disciple of Jesus Christ in this time and in this place. “How can we live the Christian life in the modern world?” (Bonhoeffer). This is always the crucial question. In our own time: How do we live in a hungry world? How do we live without contaminating the earth? How do we live in ways that put family, work and play, and money and possessions in proper perspective? How do we live, in short, as Christ’s disciples here and now? The issues of discipleship are the issues of ministry! Our churches desperately need ministers who will forswear “pastor-think,” who will enter body-and-soul into the common struggle of Jesus’ followers to discern and live out the meaning of discipleship for our time, and who will be courageous enough to let this reality determine the shape and character of their pastoral activity. What I am advocating is release from the “high anxiety” of leading the people (Ministry) and return to the “easy yoke” of following Jesus (Discipleship)—not as some new form of escape or flight from responsibility, but because that is precisely what Jesus has called us to. He has called us to be his disciples, no more and no less. Let us reclaim the noblest but forgotten elements of our anti-clericalist heritage, and affirm that ministry is discipleship. Let us confess that our mindset and modus of “Minister” has been used to excuse us from the costly grace of discipleship so that we might immerse ourselves in the cheap grace of “pastorthink .” Let us begin to think of ourselves, and to act, once more as Jesus’ disciples; and to discover in the doing that ministry—the marvelous power to transform livescomes mysteriously as a gift to all those for whom it is enough to take up the cross and follow Jesus. Then Bonhoeffer’s great beatitudes shall have been pronounced upon us:

    Happy are the simple followers of Jesus Christ who have been overcome by his grace. . . . Happy are they who know that discipleship simply means the life which springs from grace, and that grace simply means discipleship. Happy are they who have become Christians in this sense of the word. For them the word of grace has proved a fount of mercy.

  • The gospel of stewardship

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    THE GOSPEL OF STEWARDSHIP

    Harry Beverly

    Presbyterian College, Clinton, South Carolina

    These reflections are for those who dread the Every Member Canvass and the “Stewardship Sermons” which are supposed to climax in an outpouring of “full tithes into the storehouse” and a subsequent overflowing of heavenly blessing. It is written for preachers who must help “raise the budget” (and maybe also their salaries!) each fall. How do you preach Stewardship sermons to the people who pay your salary without abandoning your call to preach the gospel? Is there a Gospel of Stewardship? If there is, it might make an enormous difference in the way we approach the fall season this year. I believe there is such a Gospel. Here are some ways by which we might enjoy the season, maintain our integrity, and help raise the budget. First of all, there is only one Gospel to preach. Our Good News is the Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. Not only was Jesus always gracious and generous with his love, but God is like that toward us. This means several things:

    We can be gracious toward people with bad theology. There are those who give for all the wrong reasons: Some give because they want to get rich. They tithe because this obligates God to fulfill his part of the bargain. Stewardship can be a kind of religious gimmick. Such gamesmanship includes magic overtones, like fearing dire consequences from a failure to tithe.

    The Gospel of Stewardship means God loves these people with magic theology just as much as those who give out of gratitude for God’s grace (with more enlightened views). Others give to the church in precisely the same way they give to the United Appeal, the college of their choice, or any other favorite charity or non-profit organization. They resist any theological grappling with Stewardship. They will uso a Bible verse for a slogan, but the Gospel should not interfere with raising the budget and selling people on the programs of the church. The Gospel of Stewardship means God loves these people with Madison Avenue theology, just as much as those who give out of thanksgiving for God’s generosity. Others don’t give enough, don’t give anything, or give but won’t pledge. They don’t like the National Council or World Council of Churches, or the denomination, or the preacher, or the Sunday School literature, or the hymns we sing (or don’t sing), or the direction in which the church is moving. These people are looked upon as untapped resources, babes in Christ, or the enemy by those who give generously. The Gospel of Stewardship means God loves these persons who don’t pledge just as much as he loves those who do. So we have an opportunity to represent the Jove of God in a very concrete, practical, down-to-earth way. The Good News is that God is not going to withhold his love from those who withhold their money. This is not the message which the church folk in Jesus’ day wanted to hear.

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    Hit this was his Gospel • of Stewardship. Their response was predictable: Management unfair to workers in the Kingdom. We worked all day and the others »nly a few hours; besides we had to work when it was hot and they worked after it iad cooled off” (Matthew 20:12). That everyone should get the same pay regardless >f their stewardship was simply outrageous. It contradicted their reward system. rhe begrudging of God’s generosity was at the core of Jesus’ conflict with

    onscientious church people. God’s grace calls into question the creed by which most of us ordinarily live »ur lives. Jesus’ Kingdom turned entrenched reward systems upside down. Jesus aid to bad stewards like the despised extortioners and the collectors of taxes for tome, “To you the Kingdom of God also belongs.” In Jesus’ Kingdom it is not airness but generosity that prevails. Stewardship Season offers us an occasion to risk teaching and preaching that ind of a Kingdom. What if, instead of demanding God’s fairness we begin elebrating his generosity? The season might logically lead to Thanksgiving Season. What if we could communicate that God is for us because he wants to be and iot because we maneuver him into loving us; that our relation to God does not lepend on our goodness but his; that God’s generosity occurs freely and not on our nerit system. A young man in jail put the Gospel of Stewardship into his own words: “The îospel means God treats us good cause of his love and not on account of how much tuff we do.” Stewardship Season is a golden opportunity to offer folks a fair deal. It is a ;rand occasion to remind folks of the demands of discipleship. But it is even more a hance to proclaim the Gospel. Moreover it is an opportunity for all of us to >ractice the Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ—who gave, not because he had to, but »ecause he chose to.

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