Driver’s Education
Years ago, I supplemented our income by working as a driving instructor. I taught teen-aged boys and girls in the car and in the classroom. It was an interesting experience, not always pleasant but ultimately enlightening. I hasten to add, however, that it wasn’t my students that enlightened me so much as the drivers with which we shared the road.
I’d had my own vehicle surgically altered for duty: an extra rearview mirror and a hydraulic brake on my side. I was told that, at one time, certain driver training vehicles came equipped with an extra steering wheel as well. Though I didn’t get one of those, it didn’t take me very long to see the practical benefit of such an alteration. In the year I spent riding with nervous, hormone-ridden teens, I sometimes wished that my car came equipped with armor plating as well. Yet, though a couple of my drivers gave me an anxious, even frightening, moment a time or two, they didn’t scare me nearly so much as the “seasoned” motorists we encountered.
Like the lady who followed us on a curvy, two-lane road. Double-yellow line; speed limit 35. The lady evidently wanted to go faster. She certainly followed closely enough to communicate that desire. You don’t have to be especially good at lip-reading to make out certain common obscenities spewing from a face contorted with anger. Meanwhile, my nervous, young student was worried. I tell him not to worry about her, but keep his eyes on the road and maintain the legal speed.
Eventually, the lady passed us on the double-yellow line. My student breathed a sigh of relief. I said, “Now, you just watch.” Sure enough, within a minute, we pulled up behind the lady at a red light. The delicious irony of the moment was tempered a bit by the knowledge that it was likely lost on Heidi Hurry.
I spent a year riding over hill and dale, through town and county, in all kinds of weather. In that time, I saw drivers perform feats of daring, not to say stupidity, that looked like things you’d see in a movie, e.g., a motorcyclist weaving in and out of heavy traffic at high speed; drivers sweeping across four lanes of interstate at rush hour, no pauses, no signal lights–veritably swinging across like Tarzan on a vine. I saw mothers with car-seated infants strapped in the front seat, their back seat piled with junk. Was Jesus tempted to turn stones to bread? I saw drivers cheerfully changing red to green, ignoring caution lights, running stop lights two and three at a time. I saw left on red. I saw parking lots doubling for highways. I saw a head-on collision with a light pole. And everywhere, in all kinds of traffic, at high rates of speed, I saw drivers with a fistful of wheel and a handful of cell phone. That’s the short list.
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present for your amusement, edification, and hospitalization, the daring, the defiant, the willful; the heedless, reckless, and stupid…American motorist!
The man who trained me for driver’s ed was a brash little guy who began every new driving class with this dictum: “Lesson Number One: Everyone’s a moron.” The corollary to this came with his next statement: “What’s that make you? A moron in training.” That may sound harsh, but, in the years since, having seen so much moronic driving, I’ve wondered how much of our vaunted teaching really sticks? That’s the sad part.
The other, more interesting part, the “enlightening” mentioned above, came as I realized that much of what we see on the road is a stark display of none other than human sin. For years, now, I’ve been telling the people to whom I preach that, if I believed nothing else in the Bible, I would believe in sin. It’s real. It’s s universal. It’s deadly. Any internal quibbling I might’ve entertained beforehand was wiped away by my year of living dangerously.
What is a car to us? It’s not just a means of getting from place to place, is it? It’s power! We zip ourselves up in these two-ton suits of steel, rubber, and glass, and then weeee…EXPRESS OURSELVES! Again I tell you, if I believed in nothing else the Bible taught, I’d believe in human sin—because I’ve watched it through the windshield! I’ve seen pride and arrogance, childish impatience at one end, downright nastiness on the other. For our cars are power and, as Abraham Lincoln said, give a person power and you’ll find out what he’s made of.
I don’t know, though, whether to laugh or cry at my great theological discovery. On the one hand, it’s rather heartening for this sometimes doubtful preacher to see so many drivers taking a yellow highlighter to important Bible passages.
On the other hand…sigh… On the other hand, I got mad this morning at a fellow driver for whipping in front of me in the drive-thru at Tim Hortons.
Talk about driver’s education.
WDTHTDWJ?
I was amused by a joke a friend sent me. Two guys walk into a store. They see a hat priced at $17.95 with WWJD on it. One asks the other, “What does that mean?” The other replies, “‘What would Jesus do?’” To which the first guy says, “Well, for one thing, he wouldn’t pay $17.95 for that hat!”
It’s been a long time since I saw that logo anywhere. Like all fads, its time has apparently passed. Still, the question of what Jesus would do in this or that situation remains valid, still more the apparent concern behind the logo–that Christians act like Christians in all situations. My friend has taken the concern to heart. He therefore tends to think more in terms of WWJHMD: ”What would Jesus have me do?” He has a good point. As I told my Bible study class recently, “Learning Jesus is one thing. Letting Jesus is quite another.”
As a pastor, I’ve been thinking about a different version of the logo: WDTHTDWJ–”What does this have to do with Jesus?” Probably wouldn’t sell, would it? Wouldn’t fit on a bracelet! Nevertheless, as American churches race to catch up with what’s hip, to co-opt the culture–only to find what used to be cool is already out of date–I think my slogan worthwhile.
Chairs instead of pews? Sure. But what does it have to do with Jesus? A huge multimedia screen and strobe lights for worship? Okay. But what does it have to do with Jesus?
I’m not condemning chairs, screens, or lights. I use ‘em all in and out of church. I’m only asking whether the things we use, the things we do, have Christ as their goal. Do they help bring people into a saving relationship with God through His Son? Do they contribute to building people up in Christian faith, hope, and love? Do they send people out into the world as His servants? Preaching, teaching, music–what do they have to do with the true and living Christ? For that matter, what does feeding and sheltering the homeless have to do with Christ? Are these the ongoing expressions of His love in the world or merely the evangelical’s current cause celebre?
I don’t mean to suggest that any church activity I’ve mentioned is unworthy or trivial. As far as I’m concerned, at least, all these are important. I’m only asking if we ever pause to ask whether and what these things have to do with Jesus?
Paul wrote, “We take every thought captive to make it obedient to Christ” (2 Corinthians 10:5)–not captive to the culture, to statistics, or to the tenor of the times. We harness church worship and activity neither to old tradition nor the youth market, but to Lord. What compass are we using? Do we pause to check our bearings now and then? Is all submitted to the scrutiny of the One who walks among the golden lampstands, ala Revelation, the Lord of both Church and churches?
If not, why not? Perhaps we’re afraid we’ll see how cluttered and encumbered we are, how much we groan and strain, not beneath the yoke of Christ, but in the chains of consumerism–or competition or copycat Christianity.
I’m realistic enough to realize that no church, including mine, can be completely free of culture. We are in the world, not Heaven. We will always struggle and we will always make mistakes. So it must always be in the space between between the Now and the Not Yet.
But the challenge for your church and mine remains–to be in the world but not of the world. It seems to me that, if we wish to pick up that gauntlet, we start by asking…
WDTHTDWJ?
The Problem with The Crowd
In Eugene Peterson’s new book, The Pastor, he tells about his life in a vocation he neither desired nor sought. But God apparently wanted him to shepherd a flock, and so he did. Decades before church-planting became all the rage in America, Peterson started a new congregation in Maryland. He led that church for nearly thirty years.
Somewhere along the way, Peterson began meeting with a group of fellow pastors. They called themselves “the Company of Pastors.” I’ve been part of minister’s groups before. My impression of them was a group of hurried, harrassed men subtly trying to one-up each other: “How’s it going? How many are you running these days? What new programs are you starting?” Peterson’s group wasn’t like that at all. These people met regularly simply to talk about what it meant to be a pastor and how to stay true to the calling.
One fellow, who was with them for a few years, decided to leave his church for one three times bigger. He said he needed a new challenge, an opportunity to use his gifts in a bigger, better way. This bothered Peterson. He wrote his friend a letter, a portion of which I reproduce below:
I certainly understand the appeal and feel it myself frequently. But I am also suspicious of the appeal and believe that gratifying it is destructive both to the gospel and the pastoral vocation. It is the kind of thing America specialize in, and one of the consequences is that American religion and the pastoral vocation are in a shabby state.
It is also the kind of thing for which we have abundant documentation through twenty centuries now, of debilitating both congregation and pastor. In general terms it is the devil’s temptation to Jesus to throw himself from the pinnacle of the temple. Every time the church’s leaders depersonalize, even a little, the worshipping/loving community, the gospel is weakened. And size is the great depersonalizer. Kierkegaard’s criticism is still cogent: “the more people, the less truth.
Peterson goes on to say that human being often seek transcendence in three misguided ways: drugs and alcohol, recreational sex, and the ecstasy of crowds. Church leaders often warn against the first two, but almost never against the third.
Peterson’s statements hit me like a brick. For years, I’ve heard pastors talk out of both sides of their mouth on the subject, piously dampening the appeal of the Crowd–”Numbers don’t mean anything in themselves”–only to turn around and say things like, “Those who run numbers down usually aren’t running them up.” But, until I read Peterson’s book, I’d never seen a minister take a smooth stone, put it in a sling, and send it dead-shot into the face of the giant. I’d never heard a preacher say, “Not only do we not need a crowd; we shouldn’t have a crowd.”
Instantly, I saw my own tendency to equate the Crowd with success. With a little more effort, I dug deeper, examining the roots of that tendency–my own desire that my preaching be heard by more people. I confess to sinful pride. I own it; it’s mine.
Honestly, though, I’m not just worried about how many come to hear me. I’m worried about our church itself. I currently serve a congregation that’s aging, maybe even dying. We have few young families. In a town of 25,000 with a church on every corner (some of which are large and offer many programs), with new churches being planted here every other year, our slice of the pie continues to shrink. Many of our people are sick and infirm. Almost weekly, it seems, the phone rings with news of a medical crisis, a turn for the worse, a death. The last couple years we’ve been hit again and again by the four “Ds”: divorce, disease, discontent, death. For every new member we take in, we lose two. Each day, I can hear the clock ticking. It seems to be growing louder.
The temptation to leave for greener pastures is strong. Another confession: one thing that keeps me from doing so is my own age. A man in his mid-fifties doesn’t get on the short list of candidates for younger, growing congregations. As an unemployed preacher friend of mine put it, “Churches want a forty-year-old with thirty years of experience.”
So Peterson’s letter, and his book, comes at a critical juncture in my career. It forces me to ask myself what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. If the Pastor is a shepherd, then he can’t simply leave his flock, can he? Not if he cares about the sheep. Naturally, if it’s mere wooly mammals we’re talking about, then there might be half-dozen legitimate reasons to leave them–a bigger, better opportunity elsewhere, more money, even sheer boredom. But people aren’t animals to be tolerated; they’re souls to be cared for.
Struck as I was by the force of Peterson’s statements, I can’t find it in my heart to fault large, even mega-churches per se. I’ve been privileged to know a few men who led large churches. Maybe they were more evangelists than pastors. Maybe their churches are a mile wide and an inch deep. I don’t know. All I really know is the men themselves, and no godlier have I found. Even Peterson’s church grew to 500 or so before he retired–what some might call “mini-mega.” I therefore take his comments in this regard with just a grain of salt.
Nevertheless, I’m not a big church man. My gifts, conviction, and calling seem to go the other direction. If only I could be settled about it in my own heart. I covet your prayers.
Superman Meets Samuel
DC’s reboot of Superman continues in Action Comics #5. Writer Grant Morrison retells the old, old story so dear to the hearts of us Superman fans–the destruction of Krypton and the launching of baby Kal-El to earth. The basic elements are there–the prototype ship, Lara’s declaration that her place is at her husband’s side, a young farm couple finding the infant. But that’s where the similarities stop and the twists begin.
Writer Grant Morrison revisits the Phantom Zone, the dreadful “antiverse” in which Krypton’s worst criminals were imprisoned. Jor-El and Lara briefly consider saving themselves by entering the Zone–only to be threatened by General Zod who, in a heart-stopping scene, reaches through the supposedly impenetrable barrier with one clawed, robotic hand. Remember Superman’s little white dog, Krypto? He’s onhand too, but this dog is large and a bit frightening himself. Finally, the spaceship into which the babe is placed, the lifeboat, the interstellar cradle for Krypton’s last son, receives a personality all its own. In fact, it tells the story from its point of view or, more correctly, from the point of view of the ”Brainiac A.I.” computer which powers the craft.
Perhaps the most interesting, and amusing, scene takes place shortly after the Kents find the babe wrapped in swaddling cape (a red S-shield cloak worn by Jor-El’s father), lying in its Kryptonian manger–”on a cold winter’s night that was so deep” yet! Alerted to the presence of the alien craft, the military closes in. How will Jonathan keep the soldiers from finding the orphan? His solution (hinted at in issue #2) is, shall we say, unique.
All this is illustrated in compelling, heroic style by Andy Kubert.
So far, so good. The remaining pages of the story, however, are marred by by a muddy and complicated narrative introducing new events and characters but not explaining anything. Hopefully, that will be rectified in issue #6.
I liked the first five pages of the lead story. I liked every page of the back-up tale. Sholly Fisch (who’s doing a great job with the more kid-friendly Batman: The Brave and The Bold) has written a little gem in which he explores the Kents’ childlessness. I was particularly taken with the young couple’s visit to a minister–presumably their own pastor–for counsel. It was gratifying to hear the man quote from 1 Samuel about the childless Hannah. Later, after searching to no avail for a way to cure their childless-condition, Jonathan good-naturedly quotes Hannah’s husband, Elkanah: “Am I not worth more to you than ten sons?” The minister has told them, however, that something wonderful is coming their way and, of course, we all know that it’s true.
It seems we can’t get away from the spiritual dimension of this red-cloaked savior from the heavens. The myth of Superman is the dream of destiny, of mighty purpose, of power and glory. It’s the dream we all have, funnybook fans or not. The gospel therein is crude, but, after seventy years, still going strong. That’s because Superman’s story is a shadowy reflection of the One True Tale, the story of redemption.
As, indeed, are all the great stories.
Eileen Hughes: 1923-2012
The following are excerpts from the eulogy I gave at the funeral for Eileen Hughes. The first few paragraphs were punctuated by hearty laughter from the audience. Obviously, they were remembering the same woman I was.
She was quite verbal, with a quick tongue and a quicker wit. I don’t think she set out to be that way; she just was. She used to write little notes on the attendance pad at church. Where her name was supposed to be, she’d write, “Same old trouble and strife” and things like that.
You never knew sometimes what she would do or say. Just ask the ladies of NS who’ll tell you about the time she came to the pool in a bathing suit…made of Saran Wrap. She wore rooster shoes and sent funny greeting cards.
She was childlike in her spontaneity. And, like a child, she could also be stubborn. She held strong opinions—which nobody could talk her out of. I know. I tried.
For example, we once met her and Al in Frisch’s one day after worship. I greeted her and soon found myself in a debate over the Lord’s Supper. I got down on one knee and talked to her about it. (Actually, I argued with her about it.) I finally had to withdraw from the fray. People were tripping over my leg in the aisle!
…………..
The last time I saw her was three days before Christmas. We were out caroling. We went to Al and Eileen’s house. She sat on the piano bench near the door so she could see everyone. Al stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder. They both sang along with us. I remember the sheer delight in her face. I’m glad that’s my last memory of her. She seems ageless in that memory, frail in body but with the wonder and delight of a child in her face.
In the resurrection what kind of a body will we have? Nobody’s sure what, exactly, it will be, but we can be sure what it won’t be. Not frail, not humiliating, not frustrating. I remember Eileen out with a leaf blower, so tottery on her feet, but determined nevertheless. The power to move came from her own iron will.
But, one day, in the resurrection, her power will flow from God himself and never stop. Her beauty will be restored, as she reflects the image of the Christ she served. Her childlike faith will be rewarded with new tasks, new adventures, new pleasures in a new creation bought and paid for with Christ’s own blood. Her tears, which sometimes flowed when we prayed together, will at last be wiped away.
And so will ours, if we have the faith of a child of God.
A Pure Church?
My article, “A Pure Church,” is posted at http://www.breakpoint.org/features-columns/articles/entry/12/18453
Pray for The Impressed
On the day after Christmas, I’m thinking about the Impressed.
The shepherds have completed their mission. They’ve been to Bethlehem and found the place where the child lay. On the way back to the flock, Luke says, they told people about what they’d seen and heard (Luke 2:17). The New International Version says all who heard it were amazed. Another version says they were impressed. I wonder if anybody asked them where the baby and his parents were. I wonder if anybody took the shepherds at their word and went to see for themselves. If they did, Luke doesn’t say.
I tend to think that some of these people were amazed and impressed like I’m amazed and impressed by the stories I see in newspapers:
$50,000 of Margarine Still Missing but Stolen Truck Found.
Man Accused of Driving Over Tombstones with Truck.
‘Bored’ Man Guilty of Burying Fiancée Alive.
Teacher Investigated After Allegedly Writing “Stupid” on Student’s Face.
Is there really much difference between those headlines and the story the sheepherders were telling:
Son of God Born in Barn, Shepherds Say: Heralds Return of Stable Families.
Really, if somebody told you such a thing, what would you do? You’d laugh. You’d shake your head. You’d go on with your day. The truth is we hear stories like this all the time, stuff that defies belief. We might be impressed, but we’re not going to do anything about it. It’s not going to change our lives.
Some come to church and they’re impressed. The people were friendly, the music was lively, the sermon was good. They were touched, moved. But they’re not going to come to Christ any more than they’re going to go to Bethlehem. They’re not going to become Christ-seekers or Christ-followers. They’re going to move on, unchanged.
I’ve been in their homes. I’ve poured my heart out to them. They’re impressed that I came; they appreciate my concern. That’s as far as it goes. And I don’t know what to else to do but pray for them.
Please join me in praying for the Impressed.
Faith
We watched Miracle On Thirty-Fourth Street again and found it enjoyable as ever. I think we saw it last time in black-and-white. This was the colorized version. Here, I’m reminded of the last words of Orson Welles, talking about Citizen Kane: “Keep Ted Turner and his Crayolas away from my movie.” Thank goodness, that’s all they’ve done with Miracle, the only concession to modernity in it.
I think the film works a bit better in black-and-white because its strength is its subtlety. If it had been made in recent years, Santa would’ve displayed his magic in various computer-generated ways. As it is, aside from an amazing ability to speak fluent Dutch to an orphaned girl, we never see Edmund Gwynn’s Santa (one of the best performances in the role) do anything out of the ordinary–except rile the Powers That Be. Unlike Tim Allen’s or Paul Giamatt’s St. Nick, he doesn’t live in a fabulous workshop at the North Pole, but in a home for the elderly. The movie therefore forces the viewer to think: Is this really Santa Claus–or just a well-meaning but delusional old fellow? The tension heightens the suspense.
The theme of the film is Faith. Without so much as a glimpse of a church, we’re subtly maneuvered into thinking about what we believe and why. Being a preacher, I quickly took the bait. I couldn’t help but compare belief in Santa to belief in God and Christ. Why should any of us believe in the Father? Where is the evidence of the Son’s lordship?
When Kris Kringle is forced into a sanity hearing, personal testimonies on his behalf abound. But the court demands an authoritative body to clinch the deal. That body appears in the form of the U.S. Postal Service, the minons of which dump thousands of letters to Santa on the judge’s desk. It’s one of the movie’s most delightful scenes.
But to what broadly accepted authority do Christians turn to win their day in court? A myriad of personal testimonies wouldn’t qualify as authoritative. These days, the Church itself, however defined, isn’t considered a real authority on anything. How about the Bible? Regardless of how many swear by it, that’s still just their opinion. For believers, the Faith remains a matter of personal faith.
Despite Santa’s’ victory in court, Miracle maintains its ambiguity. The ending is joyful, but the mystery remains. Did Kris Kringle really provide the gift the little girl wanted so badly or not? The same question continues to fuel atheist’s fervor and haunt the minds of even the devout. But, then, that’s why they call it faith, isn’t it?
Remember the words of Jesus: “Blessed are those who haven’t seen and yet believe.” Remember also the more recent saying, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
Merry Christmas!
Movies for Grown-Ups
The following are the last few paragraphs of Peggy Noonan’s latest column. After lauding Meryl Streep’s performance as Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady, Peggy writes:
“We are at a point in our culture when we actually have to pull for grown-up movies, when we must try to encourage them and laud them when they come by. David Lean wouldn’t be allowed to make movies today, John Ford would be forced to turn John Wayne into a 30-something failure-to-launch hipster whose big moment is missing the toilet in the vomit scene in Hangover Ten. Our movie culture has descended into immaturity, deep and inhuman violence, a pervasive and flattened sexuality. It is an embarrassment.
In Iraq this year I asked an Iraqi military officer doing joint training at an American base what was the big thing he’d come to believe about Americans in the years they’d been there. He thought. “You are a better people than your movies say.” He had judged us by our exports. He had seen the low slag heap of our culture and assumed it was a true expression of who we are.
And so he’d assumed we were disgusting.
Credit, then, to those who make movies for grown-ups.”
’nuff said.
War, Christmas, and the Kingdom of God
To quote Roger Ebert, “The trench warfare of World War I was a species of hell unlike the agonies of any other war, before or after. The enemies were dug in within earshot of each other, and troops were periodically ordered over the top so that most of them could be mowed down by machinegun fire. They were being ordered to stand up, run forward and be shot to death. And they did it. An additional novelty was the introduction of poison gas.”
Into this hell, on Christmas Eve of 1914, a strange and heavenly peace entered. History records a spontaneous ceasefire between the allied French and British and the Germans. It began with the simple singing of carols between the trenches. Eventually, heads were raised up into what had only recently been the line of fire. Troops that had been trying to kill each other began to climb out of their trenches and greet one another. Some exchanged food and souvenirs. There were even joint burial ceremonies. For a while, the attitude of ”live-and-let-live” reigned.
The movie based on this remarkable event, Joyeux Noel (“Merry Christmas”), takes some liberties with history, to the point of inserting a beautiful soprano who’s followed her German lover into the trenches. The fact that, elsewhere on the front, fierce fighting continued on through the holiday is never mentioned. But the fierce reprimand given the commanders who’d allowed such fraternizing is an important part of both the film and history.
I found one scene particularly heart-wrenching. A bishop scolds his erring priest for daring to celebrate the mass in No Man’s Land. The bishop then preaches a sermon to motivate his audience of new recruits to kill the evil Germans in the name of Christ. His text is Matthew 10:34: “Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace but a sword.”
The scene reminds me of Mark Twain’s powerful short story, The War Prayer, in which an aged stranger enters a jingoistic church meeting to utter a savage prayer of his own: “…blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!”
I am not, by nature or conviction, a pacifist. I love my country and believe in her military defense. Further, I am a realist. War happens. That being said, it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take our own sweet time going there. As Winston Churchill, no stranger to bloody battle, said, “Better jaw, jaw, jaw, than war, war, war.” But what frightens and repulses me even more than armed conflict is using scripture to justify, if not glorify, our fleshly desires.
Every time a Christian preacher blurs the distinction between God and country, he preaches idolatry and not Christ. I’ve seen preachers get their congregations up in the midst of the sermon to repeat the pledge of alliegance to the flag. Their justification? They’ll tell you it’s because kids don’t do it in public schools anymore. They’ll say its on account of a threat to the phrase “one nation under God.” They’ll point to America’s slide away from God.
I appreciate their concerns. It troubles me that America has lost her Christian consensus. In fact, I am convinced that many of the evils in our land today are the direct result of the loss of that faith. On the other hand, the idea that America, or any nation, is the Kingdom of God is simply anti-scriptural. If I understand the Bible correctly, God doesn’t need America, or any nation, in order to prevail in his ultimate purpose. ”Upon this rock I will build my church and the gates of hades will not prevail against it” (Matthew 16:18). The kingdom of God comes not by flag-waving or force of arms, but by faith in the the Son of God.
For a moment, there, on a barb-wire strung field strewn with bodies; for a moment, there, in 1914, on Christmas Eve, that great truth blazed up in the night. And then the world went back to business. How sad.
But one day, beloved, one bright and blessed day, the world will have no choice but to lay down its arms and surrender forever. Every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.
Joyeux noel.
