One of my first lessons on ecclesiology came not from a textbook or lecture, but from a conversation with a dear friend. Caldwell Manners was a first year student at the School of Theology back in 2004 when I was starting my freshman year at Anderson University. He was the first friendly face I met on campus. I had come knocking on Uncle Mac and Auntie Jean's home the day I arrived in Anderson. They weren't home, but this Indian kid came to the door. I didn't know what to make of it except that he was friendly, and I was awkward. By the time we had a second conversation, I knew we were going to be friends.
I don't remember how it started, but one evening, we found ourselves having a lengthy discussion about denominationalism. At the time, I had no interest in theological education because as far as I was concerned, theologians were either dead white men or nerds who buried themselves in books and didn't know how to interact with the real world. But Caldwell simply asked if I thought that God's ideal was for everyone to camp under the same church roof and sing Kumbaya (granted, those weren't his exact words). I felt like the right answer was to say, "Yes, of course that's God's ideal," but something in Caldwell's tone of voice hinted that he had expected something different.
And I don't remember how he explained it, but I remembered that conversation for a long time. It wasn't until years later that I understood that it was ok for us to claim Wesleyan, or Church of God, or Nazarene, or even Calvinist or Baptist--as long as we could leave each other on the common ground that we all love Jesus and each other. I began to understand that we are story-formed people, and that the variety of denominations created space for all stories to be embraced.
There are traditional churches with pipe-organs and sanctuary choirs, and there are the hipster churches with their cafes and praise bands.
There are country parishes with the pianos that accompany every hymn, and there are gospel choirs.
There are house churches and underground churches, and there are churches that meet on the streets.
These styles of "church" came into existence because story-formed people came together under different contexts, each bringing their own God-woven story and deciding to share them in a particular manner that was comfortable to them. And they all simply display the creativity of the God we worship.
The beauty of the Church of God theology I embrace is that there CAN be unity in all of the differences. We don't all have to interpret baptism the same way or use the same word to describe communion or the eucharist. But we all believe Jesus died for us, and wants us to choose life with God. And we all live under the "Love God, and love your neighbour as yourself" rule, which means we should all be able to work side by side for the Kingdom.
Over the past couple of weeks, I had the privilege to spend a significant amount of time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church in New Zealand. The thing I love about spending time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church is that I get to interact with the Pacific Island and Asian communities, and to hear songs and prayers in different languages. And we get to sit around the tables with our Nazarene and Salvationist brothers and sisters, talking and learning from each other.
One of the questions raised in our conversation was this: What impact does context have on our understanding of holiness? Should it have an impact?
The conversation around the table was lively, and I was intrigued by the question so I brought it back to our small group yesterday and asked the ladies the same question.
Let me just say, they blew my mind.
Sylvia began by saying, she wasn't exactly sure how or why yet, but she knew the answer had to be that context DOES impact our understanding of holiness. She went on to describe that those living on the fringes probably understand their need for holiness far better than those of us who have been living a good life. We often assume that because we have been good, we have also been holy. But holiness has nothing to do with being good as much as it has to do with realising our need for Jesus.
Nina talked about how holiness would mean something different to a Buddhist than to us, and how we don't touch the heads of Maori children because the head is tapu (holy/sacred). It made me realise that the question was actually really open-ended, but MY context as a Christian has already impacted my understanding of holiness in that I hadn't even considered how holiness might be understood by those who didn't follow Jesus.
(Seminerdian friends, I'm aware there's still a load of stuff to unpack from that question, but that isn't the point of this post.)
The point is this: We don't all have to love pipe-organs more than praise bands or ukeleles, and we don't all have to have a trim latte before church. We don't even have to understand holiness in exactly the same way, except in that holiness requires us to love God and love our neighbours as ourselves. And that is what brings unity.
And that. That is where we come from.
22 August 2013
17 August 2013
Tribal Stories: Sands
The winds were starting up again. The darkness of the night limited her ability to judge what the sands were going to do this time.
She had gotten quite used to life on the desert road so that whenever the winds started up, she would begin preparing for the sands that would come. Sometimes, they were just small gusts of dirt. Other times, the sands would blow so hard that even when she shielded her face, her eyes would still feel their sting.
As she readied herself for the sands, her mind drifted back to the encounter with the giant. The day came and went uneventfully, for which she was relieved, but also uneasy. At first she thought it was because she had gotten used to the perils of life during the war that an uneventful day was a nice change. But she couldn't shrug off the feeling of uneasiness. Were there to be unforeseen consequences because of an uneventful day?
But she knew her job on the desert road wasn't to worry about the giant. No, she was there to help prepare the land to produce crops for the desert people as she passed through on her way to the southern lands.
Tilling the land in the city had been easy because her mothers and grandmothers had taught her the way to work the dirt there. But her mothers and grandmothers had warned her the desert lands were a different task altogether. The climate was different, and the crops to be planted were also different. And she learnt the frustrating lesson that she could till and she could sow seeds, but then the winds would start up and the sands would come, and they would unearth all the work she had done. There had been nights where she would cry herself to sleep, frustrated with the winds and the sands. Was it even worth it? After all, she was just passing through. Why be concerned for the desert lands?
"We are simply to be faithful to our work. The forces that hold us together will bring fruit to the work we do in time," her tribespeople once said. She didn't understand, but their words haunted her frequently and would help ease frustration. Before long, the sands would come again, and she would lean into those words again.
She also knew her time in the desert was coming to an end. While she was relieved and looked forward with anticipation to the possibilities that the southern lands held, she had come to realise in the recent days how attached she had gotten to the work of the desert and the desert people. She had come to the desert alone, uncertain of her work. But in the time that she had spent working alongside the desert people, shielding each other from the sands and figuring out how to plant crops in their land, the desert people, too, had become a part of her tribe. The pain of leaving the city was only just starting to heal. She wasn't ready for another dose of pain when the time on the desert road ends.
She fingered the rocks she held in her hands for they had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer.
Looking to the heavens that night, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.
She had gotten quite used to life on the desert road so that whenever the winds started up, she would begin preparing for the sands that would come. Sometimes, they were just small gusts of dirt. Other times, the sands would blow so hard that even when she shielded her face, her eyes would still feel their sting.
As she readied herself for the sands, her mind drifted back to the encounter with the giant. The day came and went uneventfully, for which she was relieved, but also uneasy. At first she thought it was because she had gotten used to the perils of life during the war that an uneventful day was a nice change. But she couldn't shrug off the feeling of uneasiness. Were there to be unforeseen consequences because of an uneventful day?
But she knew her job on the desert road wasn't to worry about the giant. No, she was there to help prepare the land to produce crops for the desert people as she passed through on her way to the southern lands.
Tilling the land in the city had been easy because her mothers and grandmothers had taught her the way to work the dirt there. But her mothers and grandmothers had warned her the desert lands were a different task altogether. The climate was different, and the crops to be planted were also different. And she learnt the frustrating lesson that she could till and she could sow seeds, but then the winds would start up and the sands would come, and they would unearth all the work she had done. There had been nights where she would cry herself to sleep, frustrated with the winds and the sands. Was it even worth it? After all, she was just passing through. Why be concerned for the desert lands?
"We are simply to be faithful to our work. The forces that hold us together will bring fruit to the work we do in time," her tribespeople once said. She didn't understand, but their words haunted her frequently and would help ease frustration. Before long, the sands would come again, and she would lean into those words again.
She also knew her time in the desert was coming to an end. While she was relieved and looked forward with anticipation to the possibilities that the southern lands held, she had come to realise in the recent days how attached she had gotten to the work of the desert and the desert people. She had come to the desert alone, uncertain of her work. But in the time that she had spent working alongside the desert people, shielding each other from the sands and figuring out how to plant crops in their land, the desert people, too, had become a part of her tribe. The pain of leaving the city was only just starting to heal. She wasn't ready for another dose of pain when the time on the desert road ends.
She fingered the rocks she held in her hands for they had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer.
"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."She didn't have much, but she had the rocks. And she had her people whose stories she took with her as she continued on her journey.
"Love your neighbour as yourself."
Looking to the heavens that night, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.
08 August 2013
Tribal Stories: Held Together (Guest Post)
She sat in the field, watching the sunset. It had been a hard journey. She had been
home for nearly two fortnights, but she still didn’t feel completely restored from
her days in the prairie lands. Looking back, the time seemed to have been short,
compared to the time she had spent in other villages, but the difficulty of living
on the prairie had made the days seem long and endless. She was sustained with
the word that would come from the tribespeople and by the forces that held them
together. It had been often in these two fortnights that she had sat in these fields,
watching the maize and the wheat, giving thanks for these forces and for the
tribespeople who made those forces feel almost tangible at times. Tonight, she
thought of the wanderer of her people. The wanderer, who had become her sister.
Word had come from the southern desert lands where the wanderer labored and spoke the peace of their people. She knew of the troubles that had been swelling there in the desert heat. Her wanderer-sister was weary. It was difficult at times to simply trust the forces that held them all, to also hold so much together in that southern desert land. She reached for the rock that their sage had given them, the sage who had long gone on to live fully in the Kingdom: “He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” We are the people of peace, and Love is our story, she reminded herself. Those forces do not break, no matter how strong the troubles, no matter how great the war. He was holding her wanderer-sister together too.
She thought again of the long gone sage. It was this same sage who had commissioned the older tribespeople to their work, telling them, “You are to be about building villages on the edge of the kingdom. This is your task.” We are trying, she said aloud. Her hands still ached from the tent ropes she had wielded in the prairie lands, trying to build a small village there. She turned them over and over, noting how the rope burns were now fading. She had labored hard, but the tents she had set up were always whisked away by the violent winds and heavy rains that always seemed to come from out of nowhere. The work had been difficult to say the least, and she had become so used to the feel of rope in her hands. The ropes were useful in the work, to be sure, but her hands were not meant to pull rope; they were meant to hold stones. The wanderer had reminded her of that. She had learned that she had to let go of the rough, dry rope in order to feel the smoothness of the stones, for they wouldn’t both fit in her palms. When she would let herself remember this truth, the coolness of the stones would soothe the places where the work had done damage. She reached for the other two stones, and squeezed all three together in her rope-worn hands,
She would not be in the homeland for long. This, she knew for certain. There were villages to build on the edge of the kingdom in other lands. What was not certain was what was waiting ahead on the journey. Yet, this was true for all of the tribespeople. They were making a new way in the lands to which they had been scattered. This was their work, their task; this is what they must be about. The forces that pushed them forward also held them together and to one another, and for this confidence, in the face of so much uncertainty, she gave thanks.
The sun was setting, and the sky was still pink from the warmth it had left behind. She lifted her face to the stars that dotted the sun scorched sky and breathed blessings and thanks for her mothers, and grandmothers, and for the sages, and her dear tribespeople. She prayed for protection and strength of heart for her wanderersister. Especially, this night, she gave thanks for the One who is before all things in the journey and is holding all things together in even the most uncertain of times.
Word had come from the southern desert lands where the wanderer labored and spoke the peace of their people. She knew of the troubles that had been swelling there in the desert heat. Her wanderer-sister was weary. It was difficult at times to simply trust the forces that held them all, to also hold so much together in that southern desert land. She reached for the rock that their sage had given them, the sage who had long gone on to live fully in the Kingdom: “He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” We are the people of peace, and Love is our story, she reminded herself. Those forces do not break, no matter how strong the troubles, no matter how great the war. He was holding her wanderer-sister together too.
She thought again of the long gone sage. It was this same sage who had commissioned the older tribespeople to their work, telling them, “You are to be about building villages on the edge of the kingdom. This is your task.” We are trying, she said aloud. Her hands still ached from the tent ropes she had wielded in the prairie lands, trying to build a small village there. She turned them over and over, noting how the rope burns were now fading. She had labored hard, but the tents she had set up were always whisked away by the violent winds and heavy rains that always seemed to come from out of nowhere. The work had been difficult to say the least, and she had become so used to the feel of rope in her hands. The ropes were useful in the work, to be sure, but her hands were not meant to pull rope; they were meant to hold stones. The wanderer had reminded her of that. She had learned that she had to let go of the rough, dry rope in order to feel the smoothness of the stones, for they wouldn’t both fit in her palms. When she would let herself remember this truth, the coolness of the stones would soothe the places where the work had done damage. She reached for the other two stones, and squeezed all three together in her rope-worn hands,
"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbor as yourself."
“He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”
She would not be in the homeland for long. This, she knew for certain. There were villages to build on the edge of the kingdom in other lands. What was not certain was what was waiting ahead on the journey. Yet, this was true for all of the tribespeople. They were making a new way in the lands to which they had been scattered. This was their work, their task; this is what they must be about. The forces that pushed them forward also held them together and to one another, and for this confidence, in the face of so much uncertainty, she gave thanks.
The sun was setting, and the sky was still pink from the warmth it had left behind. She lifted her face to the stars that dotted the sun scorched sky and breathed blessings and thanks for her mothers, and grandmothers, and for the sages, and her dear tribespeople. She prayed for protection and strength of heart for her wanderersister. Especially, this night, she gave thanks for the One who is before all things in the journey and is holding all things together in even the most uncertain of times.
05 August 2013
Faith Crises
The earliest one I remember happened when I was about eight or nine. It was at our church camp, and Pastor Neivelle had shared the story of his life as an ex-con. I remember him saying that even if our lives are not as colourful as his, God still wants to use us. As an eight or nine year old, I struggled with that. I was the good kid that stayed out of trouble. How could God possibly use me if I didn't have a fascinating story to tell? Pastor Neivelle then said we could invite Jesus into our hearts and he would help us figure that out. So I did.
Only a few years later, another crisis season hit. My brother and I had been the stars of our Sunday School as the kids who had been a part of the worship team since we were eleven and thirteen. We were also the Sunday School teachers' dream because we knew Moses from Abraham and found great joy in acing Bible quizzes. But by the time I turned thirteen, all I could think of was that someone was eventually going to call me out as a fake. I did all the right church things and tried my best to believe in God, but I didn't know what any of that meant. I even knew the right answers to the questions in the grown-up Bible study, but my questions were starting to be bigger than just about righteous living. You didn't have to follow Jesus to be a good person. I had been a good person my whole life, but I somehow knew that still wasn't the same as following Jesus or worshipping God. Those were frustrating years, and since I couldn't find answers in Church, music became my life. It only worsened the guilt of pretending to be a good Christian, but I didn't care since being a band geek gave me a high.
The year I turned sixteen, Pastor Caleb sat me down while we were at another church camp. He listened to my questions and he prayed with me. He talked me through the role of music in my life and what it could look like. About a year later as I was getting ready to leave for Anderson, he gave me the words from Luke 5, "Go a little deeper". It became the theme verse for the next big wave of what I now call "all the crazies". I don't remember much of what else happened then, but I remembered thinking maybe that season of crisis was over.
I was at the Connect Rally last night sponsored by the Wesleyan Church in New Zealand and the athletic department from Indiana Wesleyan University. Several of the youth and athletes from both Auckland and Indiana shared parts of their life story. There was a common thread in all the stories: crisis moments. Sports athletes whose worlds revolved around the sport they played crashing out because of injury and finding God in those moments. Family crisis, bullying and the death of close friends.
The thing about crisis moments is that they are often pivotal points in our spiritual journey. We hit those low points and in the moments of darkness and wrestling comes a point where we make a choice whether we hold on to the things we have always believed in, or we let go and embrace something else.
As I sat listening to those stories last night, I couldn't help thinking about my own faith crises. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a wuss in my seasons of crises. I wrestled, but I was always too afraid to let go completely of all the things I've always believed in.
When Keren died, I found myself surprised that I never questioned God. I remembered feeling like my world was completely shaken, but it was more because I was realising these things do actually happen in real life than because I was questioning whether God existed. I wondered then if I was wallowing enough in the depravity.
When I started seminary, I was looking forward to that season of existential crisis that all my other seminary friends talked about. But even my season of existential crisis was short. There had been two deaths in the family within a month of my starting seminary, and only a year after Keren had passed. I found myself struggling with being far away from family in that time, and began wondering if my call was even real. It was around 3am one night and I was trying to finish writing a paper on sanctification when I began realising I couldn't talk about sanctification if I wasn't even sure at that point if God was real.
In that moment, I panicked. And this is where I sometimes feel like I had wussed out instead of completely diving off the deep end. I emailed Greg and told him about my crisis moment, and explained that I probably wouldn't be able to finish my sanctification paper while I wasn't sure if this God thing was real. Then I turned my computer off and went to bed. Even in those moments, I prayed and prayed that when I woke up in the morning, God better show up and prove that God was real. When there were no fireworks or handwriting on the wall the next morning, I panicked even more.
I told Paul the next day about the crisis moment, and he gave me the very annoying, "aww, how cute" smile. I wanted him to push me off the deep end, but instead all he said was, "Even if you don't believe, God is big enough to believe in you." I silently cursed him out inside.
When I eventually came around, it wasn't because I had done all the scientific research and digging to prove that God is real. No, it was because Paul and Jen and Amity amongst others kept doing the very annoying, "aww, how cute" thing of reminding me that my faith was bigger than that.
As I thought about all these moments last night, I found myself wishing again that I had been braver and dove off the deep end into the unknown and embracing the possibility of life without God or acknowledgement of a greater being. The truth was, in all those moments of faith crises, as small as they were, my biggest fear wasn't of the unknown. I've lived with enough unknowns to not be afraid. I was more afraid of what I would become if I didn't have hope and certainty in a being that is bigger than the limitations of my human mind. I was afraid that in that dark space, I would no longer have reason to live. And because I'm too much of a wuss to even inflict self-harm, I would just be trapped in this in-between space of neither living nor dying.
And for that reason, I will always have great admiration for those who have dove off the deep end and is continuing the search for Truth because I think they have greater courage than me. And I get to live vicariously through them in their search for Truth and asking bigger questions that I lack the courage to ask.
This weekend marks six years since Keren's passing. I daren't claim to have achieved much in the last six years, except to have learnt to turn the crisis moments into stories that perpetuate the hope that keeps me going. It's the only way I know to find resolution to all of these crises.
Only a few years later, another crisis season hit. My brother and I had been the stars of our Sunday School as the kids who had been a part of the worship team since we were eleven and thirteen. We were also the Sunday School teachers' dream because we knew Moses from Abraham and found great joy in acing Bible quizzes. But by the time I turned thirteen, all I could think of was that someone was eventually going to call me out as a fake. I did all the right church things and tried my best to believe in God, but I didn't know what any of that meant. I even knew the right answers to the questions in the grown-up Bible study, but my questions were starting to be bigger than just about righteous living. You didn't have to follow Jesus to be a good person. I had been a good person my whole life, but I somehow knew that still wasn't the same as following Jesus or worshipping God. Those were frustrating years, and since I couldn't find answers in Church, music became my life. It only worsened the guilt of pretending to be a good Christian, but I didn't care since being a band geek gave me a high.
The year I turned sixteen, Pastor Caleb sat me down while we were at another church camp. He listened to my questions and he prayed with me. He talked me through the role of music in my life and what it could look like. About a year later as I was getting ready to leave for Anderson, he gave me the words from Luke 5, "Go a little deeper". It became the theme verse for the next big wave of what I now call "all the crazies". I don't remember much of what else happened then, but I remembered thinking maybe that season of crisis was over.
I was at the Connect Rally last night sponsored by the Wesleyan Church in New Zealand and the athletic department from Indiana Wesleyan University. Several of the youth and athletes from both Auckland and Indiana shared parts of their life story. There was a common thread in all the stories: crisis moments. Sports athletes whose worlds revolved around the sport they played crashing out because of injury and finding God in those moments. Family crisis, bullying and the death of close friends.
The thing about crisis moments is that they are often pivotal points in our spiritual journey. We hit those low points and in the moments of darkness and wrestling comes a point where we make a choice whether we hold on to the things we have always believed in, or we let go and embrace something else.
As I sat listening to those stories last night, I couldn't help thinking about my own faith crises. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a wuss in my seasons of crises. I wrestled, but I was always too afraid to let go completely of all the things I've always believed in.
When Keren died, I found myself surprised that I never questioned God. I remembered feeling like my world was completely shaken, but it was more because I was realising these things do actually happen in real life than because I was questioning whether God existed. I wondered then if I was wallowing enough in the depravity.
When I started seminary, I was looking forward to that season of existential crisis that all my other seminary friends talked about. But even my season of existential crisis was short. There had been two deaths in the family within a month of my starting seminary, and only a year after Keren had passed. I found myself struggling with being far away from family in that time, and began wondering if my call was even real. It was around 3am one night and I was trying to finish writing a paper on sanctification when I began realising I couldn't talk about sanctification if I wasn't even sure at that point if God was real.
In that moment, I panicked. And this is where I sometimes feel like I had wussed out instead of completely diving off the deep end. I emailed Greg and told him about my crisis moment, and explained that I probably wouldn't be able to finish my sanctification paper while I wasn't sure if this God thing was real. Then I turned my computer off and went to bed. Even in those moments, I prayed and prayed that when I woke up in the morning, God better show up and prove that God was real. When there were no fireworks or handwriting on the wall the next morning, I panicked even more.
I told Paul the next day about the crisis moment, and he gave me the very annoying, "aww, how cute" smile. I wanted him to push me off the deep end, but instead all he said was, "Even if you don't believe, God is big enough to believe in you." I silently cursed him out inside.
When I eventually came around, it wasn't because I had done all the scientific research and digging to prove that God is real. No, it was because Paul and Jen and Amity amongst others kept doing the very annoying, "aww, how cute" thing of reminding me that my faith was bigger than that.
As I thought about all these moments last night, I found myself wishing again that I had been braver and dove off the deep end into the unknown and embracing the possibility of life without God or acknowledgement of a greater being. The truth was, in all those moments of faith crises, as small as they were, my biggest fear wasn't of the unknown. I've lived with enough unknowns to not be afraid. I was more afraid of what I would become if I didn't have hope and certainty in a being that is bigger than the limitations of my human mind. I was afraid that in that dark space, I would no longer have reason to live. And because I'm too much of a wuss to even inflict self-harm, I would just be trapped in this in-between space of neither living nor dying.
And for that reason, I will always have great admiration for those who have dove off the deep end and is continuing the search for Truth because I think they have greater courage than me. And I get to live vicariously through them in their search for Truth and asking bigger questions that I lack the courage to ask.
This weekend marks six years since Keren's passing. I daren't claim to have achieved much in the last six years, except to have learnt to turn the crisis moments into stories that perpetuate the hope that keeps me going. It's the only way I know to find resolution to all of these crises.
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