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The Bible Said So

My interpretation of Scripture is not the same as the interpretation of Scripture. Sometimes it is (I certainly hope). Sometime it isn’t (and no, I don’t know where – if I did, I’d change).

Recently, Irving Bible Church made what was for them a monumental decision. After eighteen months of prayer, theological discussions and consultations with three theologians from various perspectives on the issues of a woman’s service in the church, the church elders invited a woman to preach on a Sunday to the entire congregation. This was a pretty big deal, given their historic alignment with a movement that has long held rigid lines on such issues.

Personally, I applaud their decision. However, that is not why I write. Really, it isn’t. I mention this story because it touched on one of my growing concerns about the way the game gets played in many of these theological squabbles. Rather than making a commitment to thinking clearly with or acting charitably toward those differing from us, we often make rash judgments and illogical leaps. We do not really listen. We do not trust that the truth can stand on its own two feet, with no need for our knee-jerk and emotive rhetoric or our appeal to fear (particularly of the “slippery slope” kind). And when we come with that unhealthy posture, when we think we must defend our position at all costs, we say things that simply don’t hold water.

One example was the response of a well-known pastor in an interview with the Dallas Morning News: “If the Bible is not true and authoritative on the roles of men and women, then maybe the Bible will not be finally true on premarital sex, the homosexual issue, adultery or any other moral issue.”

Did you catch that? If the Bible is not true and authoritative… The accusation (and assumption) here is that this church has gone into the heretical territory of distrust in the Bible’s authority. Why? On what basis? Reading the offending church’s story, the elders’ never asked whether or not the Bible was “true and authoritative.” Rather, driven by their conviction in Scripture’s authority, they felt compelled to ask whether or not they had gotten Scripture right. However, the ideologue among us simply can not conceive of such a possibility: if you go against my interpretation (what I clearly understand the Bible to say), then obviously you are going against the Bible.

Such a posture is untrue, spurious and unchristian. We ought know better.

I know the church the pastor who made this accusation leads. There are many places where they have interpreted various passages to mean something other than what their most literal reading would suggest. This church does not demand women to wear head coverings in worship, even though the plainest reading of Paul suggests it is necessary. The church does not believe the communion bread and wine literally is Jesus’ body and blood (even though Jesus said, “This is my body. This is my blood.”) However, when another church wrestles with the text and interprets some of the restrictions on women to be related to context (like head coverings) or in need of wider Scriptural reflection (like the eucharist elements), then suddenly they do not believe in the authority of the Bible. Nonsense.

Again, my point is not about this particular issue of women’s service in the church. One can piece together strong textual arguments for both sides. I simply hope that in our disagreements we can remember at least these two things:

[1] the Bible and my interpretation of the Bible are not inherently the same thing

[2] we should listen well and live charitably with our brothers and sisters – that might actually stun our neighbors who have grown accustomed to Christian dogfights being played out around every theological battleground

We can debate and disagree and even get irritated when things get a little fiery. We can have strong convictions (and should on those things we deeply care about). But the truth resides best in those who don’t feel the need to defend it by means unworthy of the Jesus who is the truth.

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Miller Time

Even though Donald Miller has sold more books than me (and when I say more, I really mean more, by like maybe 300:1 – but who’s counting?) and even though Don and I apparently hit a similar theme (that will go unmentioned) at a similar time and now everyone thinks I’m the copycat and even though Don was an unwholesome influence on my wife Miska in her innocent high school years, goading her (at least the way I see it) into an altercation with the Colorado Springs Mall crack security force, I still think that every gifted, artful voice can use all the promotion they can get.

And, anyway, this is one of the funniest things I’ve read in a very long time.

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All Shall Be Well

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. {Julian of Norwich}

Tonight, Miska quoted this line from Julian of Norwich, these words we have both come to love. As she spoke it, tears came. Oh, I do love her tears. Our recent weeks have been full of upheaval and chaos. And there is more to come. That is the way of things when you are finding your way in a new city, a new home.

I dropped Wyatt off for his first day of first grade on Wednesday. He was nervous, but he was a trooper. He’s always been keenly sensitive to transition and change – and well, there’s been loads of both for him here lately. And that day asked a lot from him. There Wyatt stood among a line of kids he didn’t know with a teacher he didn’t know at a school he didn’t know on a street he didn’t know in a city he didn’t know. The whole thing overwhelmed me – and he’s only six. When Wyatt turned to wave his final goodbye, I cried. You have to let go, though. You have to remember: all shall be well.

Here, I’ve been struck with the overwhelming sense of what it is to be the outsider. I’m the outsider in my neighborhood. I’m the outsider in the bookstore and coffee shop, at the neighborhood park, as I tool around town. The outsider in most conversations, in almost every social situation I encounter. Truthfully, this is good for me. I want to always remember the loneliness of not being known, of there being no one in the room who can honestly say, “I know who you are – and I believe in it.” Right now, the aloneness is thick, but this I believe: all shall be well.

As I sit in our house tonight, I have no idea how our next few years will take shape. I don’t know what kind of community we will come to give ourselves to. I don’t know the places that will tug at our hearts or the sadness we will encounter or the fresh hope that will touch our soul. However, I do believe that God is generous and kind and is bent on the ultimate restoration of all things. So, this is why I agree so zealously with Julian. Not because of some self-help mumbo jumbo insisting that smiley faces will win the day – not at all. I simply believe that in the end, after all the tears and the pain and loneliness and the disillusionment and the chaos – in the end, when the final pages of our lives are written (whenever and however that will be done), we will truly be able to say with rested and joyful hearts: and all manner of things shall be well.

Peace.

(and as my new friend Ed, who reads tarot cards most days on C’ville’s downtown mall, answered when I offered him the same salutation: and peace on us all)

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From Compulsion and Toward Freedom

Whatever form it takes, the movement of the soul and God is always finding its way toward freedom. In prayer as in the rest of life, it is a movement toward freedom from willfulness, from the compulsion to be in charge and the fear of loss of control. {Gerald May}

Toward freedom. Away from the addictive compulsion to hold on tightly and manhandle our environment, our relationships, our future. Manhandle God. Away from the fear of losing control.

Well, lose control, I say. Let lose of that sucker and let it run free. Control is mostly a mirage anyway. And when I exert such energy toward control, I miss the subtle activity of God all around me. I miss God in the faces I meet. I miss God in the smells and the sounds and the hopes and the longings, in the places of mystery and silence and laughter.

And in the tears. When I am bent toward keeping my life in check, then I will always miss God in the tears – because when we are addicted to composure, tears are always viewed as an enemy, never as a friend. And, of course, that lie has killed far too many a heart.

These words emerge from where I find myself today. I can not (must not) attempt to manipulate the many uncertainties of our new life. That will be death. I must be open for surprised, curious as to where and when God might reveal himself. Open. Free. Curious. Losing control.

{I reflect on this a little more and from a different angle – and tell an embarrassing bike story from last Tuesday on the Relevant blog}

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John Blase On Holy Curiosity

John Blase is an editor for a publishing house and a fine writer. You can catch him most days on his blog. He recently wrote some kind words about Holy Curiosity.

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As an editor in Christian publishing, I read a lot of manuscripts every week. Some are handsome, some are plain, as we are. But a few, every once in a while, are good. I’d like to go on public record and say that Holy Curiosity by Winn Collier is good.

E.B. White described that pig-lovin’ spider this way: “It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.” One gets that feel when reading Winn’s new book.

I could go on at length about this book, but I won’t. I’m an editor. I’ve got standards to maintain. So, here’s the approach of “where 2 or 3 are gathered”:

Number 1 – What I felt throughout Winn’s book was “spaciousness, room to grow.” In this age and day of books, most of them tell me what to think or not to think, what to feel or not to feel. Winn’s words allowed me room to ponder; such as he practices, he gives to us. There was no rush to get to the point or make sure I “get it” – no, these pages achieved an unforced rhythm. Permission to think/doubt/and wrestle with angels granted.

Number 2 – Winn quotes his wife and sons just as much, if not more, than he quotes Augustine, C.S. Lewis, or Bruner. Let me raise a glass to that modus operandi and declare HERE! HERE! A thread throughout this book is the necessity to keep on going; not a worship of the future, but an awareness of that’s where we’re headed. By paying attention (a form of prayer) to those voices closest to him, Winn demonstrates the ability to be formed by the past but not live there. No, he’s living with Mrs. Collier and their two sons, now, in the present. You may not think much of this point, but I read authors every day who cram quotes from dead folks in their books like teenagers from the 60s in phone booths. It’s kinda impressive at first and then it’s just weird. Thanks, Winn, for resisting that temptation.

Number 3 – A transparency exudes this book. Winn uses words like “exude” – so hang on. But, it’s a transparency that’s not exhibitionist. Winn doesn’t strip down to the buff, but he does tell us he used to part his hair down the middle and wear pink oxfords. And in the economy of holy curiosity, sometimes that’s enough to satisfy.

O.k. One last word – I was also struck by the belief that this author really loves Jesus. And that is not a slight thing. In fact, it may be the thing.

Thanks, Winn.

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Tell Me it Isn’t So…

A note for all my Clemson com padres:

Come on, people, hold it together! We’re not even gone for a week and this happens?!? I mean, you can still smell the fumes on 123 from our behemoth Penske truck – and the whole shebang is already falling apart???

Next, you’re going to tell me that Ancheauxs took the Black Jack off the menu. Or Clemson is canceling football season in favor of lacrosse. Or Stuart Hayes bought a new Bible and carries it under his arm instead of in the back of his pants.

This truly is a tragic day. If I were there, I would mourn with you. I mourn in spirit.

In lieu of a eulogy, I will simply and fondly remember my favorite Astro memory: watching Nacho Liebre in those incredibly uncomfortable red seats, trying to peel my feet from that sticky floor and enjoying Nathan Elmore’s deep belly laughter throughout.

Here’s to you, Astro.

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Urbanite

I’ve gone urban. Sort of.

Last Friday, we moved to Charlottesville, Virginia – and this town has it goin’ on. Like a true urbanite, this week I’ve commuted to UVA via bike twice and on foot to downtown three times. I’ve snagged the transit schedule (a bus stop is half a block from our house) and lugged two pieces of IKEA furniture up multiple flights of stairs into our abode. If that doesn’t make me a city dweller, I don’t know what would.

I am so enamored with biking to work that I now greedily eye the saddle bags of every biker I see on the road. I’m getting me some, if I can just figure out what I actually need and how to find them cheap. Craigslist has been no help, but good news: Performance Bike is in town with their 10% off Tuesdays.

Now Cville is no urban metropolis, I will admit. The DCF diaspora has sent friends to Denver, Nashville, Richmond, Charleston, Seattle – admittedly, all more urban than our new home. But this town has a very legit funky vibe. I mean, two friends went to see B.B. King downtown tonight for crying out loud. This city has already captured me. Much more to come.

Walking down 5th Street the other day, I saw an elderly man with this caption across his t-shirt: “Step back and let Jesus do what he do.” What’s not to love?

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Last Sunday and a Letter

Today was such a strange mixture of joy and sadness. We said goodbye to our church community, DCF. The whole morning was full of tears and hope, gratitude and remembering. Seth summed up his emotions Friday when he told me, “Daddy, I don’t mind going. I just don’t want to leave.” That’s says it about right.

This morning was my last time to teach @ DCF. I didn’t want to dig in to a text, didn’t have it in me. So, I shared a pastoral letter for the church I love. If you are interested, you can read it here.

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Among a Row of Houses

Book Club Update: Our life is in upheaval this month, as we move from Clemson to Charlottesville, VA. Thus, the book club will resume next month. Sorry (again) for the delay on Peterson’s The Jesus Way.

I’m aware that I have written little here of the seismic shift that we are about to experience: uprooting our family and life from the people and the spiritual community we love in Clemson to set off on the adventure of rooting ourselves in a new place, with people we will grow to love in Charlottesville, Virginia. I’m not sure why all the quiet. Perhaps, in part, a desire to stay present here and now, making the most of the short time we have had. Perhaps, in part, a result of the emotional complexity of the whole affair, unsure how to give justice to two competing truths (we deeply love this community and we know deep in our bones that we must move into another community) without it sounding like some hollow junior high breakup (Let’s just be friends…).

Well, here is the God-honest truth: we do deeply love this community, and we know deep in our bones that God has another mission for us, another community where we are to give ourselves away.

Tonight, our church gave us the gift of gathering at the Hayes’ home, everyone bringing food, and all of us sitting around the room as various people shared their well-wishes for Miska, me, and Nathan (my pastor-partner @ dcf who is also moving away) and Amie. It was beautiful. There were tears. There was laughter (mostly at my expense, but I hold no grudges : )

The evening reminded me of the rich truth that love (true love) never exists in abstraction. Love is not an ideal or an ideology; it is an action. Love shares another’s pain. Love hurts when another faces sorrow. Love laughs and cries and hopes and believes (I think St. Paul said something similar). Love shares meals and watches kids. Loves gives money and time and dreams. Love hugs and pushes. Sometimes, love hurts. But love does not – ever – simply theorize. Love acts. Love moves. Love lives.

Recently, a friend passed along a New Yorker article (which I was happy to receive because my subscription ran out) by literary critic Adam Gopnik. In the piece, Gopnik sifted through the “troubling genius of G.K. Chesterton,” on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of The Man who was Thursday. Explaining G.K.’s intense reaction to homogenization (particularly the modernistic and industrial sort) and strong passion for localism, Gopnik commented on some of Chesterton’s pithy lines to draw this conclusion:

[Chesterton believed that] we cannot have a clear picture in white light of abstraction, but only of a row of houses at a certain time of day…

A certain place. On a certain street. In a certain moment. These particularities are required to yield the clear vision. But we have to sit and wait and watch. We have to give ourselves. And we have to give ourselves time. And we have to give ourselves this time with others, listening and laughing and working and dreaming, all in the way and in the name of love.

So, in Clemson and in dcf, we have (at least partially, I hope) lived among a row of houses at certain times of the day. And oh, how I will miss this street and these sunsets, these coffees and conversations and walks and prayers. And I hope and pray that we will again live among a row of houses, different though they will be — because one row never replaces another.

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