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My Camp, Your Camp, and Virtual Shunning

June 19, 2013

A few months ago I wrote an article that caused a bit of a firestorm among some of my writing compadres. Perhaps I gave it a provocative title, but I maintain its truth: Mark Driscoll is Not My Pastor.

Amongst the backlash of that article there was also a curious phenomenon on the twitter chat: the affirmation of the virtual church.

What was being espoused by person after person was the reality that they considered their online friends their church. “Twitter is my church” and “You guys are my church and my pastors” were among some of the statements I read. The definition of virtual is “Existing or resulting in essence or effect though not in actual fact, form, or name.”

Hear me out, one of the ministries to which God has called me is of the online variety. This blog and other publications I write for take a good amount of mental and spiritual energy. You are my ministry. But you are not my local church.

More and more I read articles lumping authors into clear and present camps. You have the Jesus feminists, the red letter Christians, the social justice-cause driven, the reformed, the story-tellers, the orthodox. There are these hard and fast lines boxing authors to a particular movement or theological framework, and once they have been flagged as such, they are blacklisted or embraced. There is little room for grace in this world because if I confess I agree with Rob Bell in this one area, that is a blight on my character to those who disagree with him. If I confess I agree with John Piper in this area, well, count me out of an entire sector of the blogosphere.

If we are in an age of the virtual church, then we are also in an age of virtual shunning.

You won’t ever hear me disavow the importance of the global Church. That I can consider someone who lives thousands of miles from me one of my closest friends—that is the power of the bond we have in Christ.

But love for the global Church does not negate the biblical importance of the local church. Too often I hear great passion in my brothers and sisters for the health of the Church, without seeing evidence that they value it at its most local level. I see bloggers calling men and women to task, and shunning those who associate with them, without seeing any accountability to authority in their own lives. I see much concern for orthodoxy and discipleship and brotherly love, without seeing evidence of those things in their lives.

I am not saying those things are not happening, what I am saying is that I don’t see it.

I don’t see it because they are not my local church and I do not know them in the way I know the people alongside whom I walk. I don’t see it because I am not privy to the conversations they have with their pastors (if they have pastors) or elders. I don’t see it because I don’t see them taking meals to new moms or visiting the sick or weeping with those who weep. Seeing those things is reserved for those who are not virtual, but real life, flesh and blood.

I’m writing this because too often the assumption is made that the virtual groups with whom I am associated are somehow the people to whom I am submitted. The assumption is we ascribe to the same set of theological ideals, we have discussions behind closed doors, spit-shake on how we’ll handle certain situations, administer church discipline and the sacraments together. And it’s simply not the truth.

I have pastors and a local church. I write for publications, enjoy friendships, but they are not my local church or my elders. Simply because a publication for which I write or a group of online acquaintances embrace a certain stance or ideal, does not mean I agree with them.

A year ago I had a conversation with one of my pastors. I met with him to discuss an opportunity put before me to participate in a publication where I would share the platform with some diametrically opposing authors. Should I do it? was my question. Yes, was his answer. Why? Because every opportunity we have to proclaim the gospel is good and we should prayerfully consider taking it. Some of the places I write, I write because I do disagree with their stance on certain issues. I write because it is my prayer that the gospel would go forth. My name doesn’t matter, but Christ’s does.

We proclaim Christ best by loving what He loves. What Christ loves best is the glory of His Father, and the Father is glorified when we are his disciples, when we love one another—at the most difficult, personal, beautiful level: right here, locally.

Love the Church, friends, but start by loving the church.

In balance, church, community, Deeper Church Posts, gospel, Project TGM, spiritual growth, The Gospel Coalition, theology, Uncategorized, Women and Theology, writing
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He-Man Woman Haters

June 17, 2013

Can we talk about He-Man for a sec?

I don’t actually know anything about He-Man, except that he was among the repertoire of cartoons banned from our house growing up. My only context for him was a “club” my older brother and his friends started, “The He-Man Woman Haters,” of which I was an honorary member. Blame it on my brother’s hand-me-downs, worn flannel shirts and jeans with holes in the knees. You don’t grow up in a houseful of boys without your inner tomboy making an early entrance. I could keep up with the best of them, run faster, spit farther, and climb higher. Among the women the He-Men hated, I was not counted. We spit-shook on it.

When people find out I grew up with seven brothers they assume I was the protected, doted-upon, princess of the lot. The story above, though, testifies just a bit of how that was not the case. I did not grow up feeling protected; if anything, I grew up feeling fiercely protective. My parents’ deep work ethic was ingrained in us from a young age: we worked hard and were worked hard. Nothing was worth doing half-way and everything was worth doing. “Try, try again” was oft quoted and failure was only one practice session on the way to perfection. There were no traces of feminism in our home, but there was and is a deep sense of independence in each of us.

In the face of secular feminism, there has been a return to gentility among men in the church. They are encouraged to protect and serve their sisters, leading boldly amidst admonishments to “be a man!” It’s been a great privilege to learn how to let men lead me, to refrain from mental spitting contests if they serve to do nothing more than assert my position among the guys around me. As a 31 year old unmarried woman with multiple degrees, a great job, and seeming success in multiple areas, it can be tempting to shrug off the efforts of my brothers to care for me. The reality is, I don’t need them to take care of me (nor do I think the Bible instructs them specifically to do so.).

“Treat younger women as sisters,” is the go-to verse for headstrong Timothys busting at the seams to swoop in and fix what they perceive to be broken. Many of them perceive many young women as broken and in need of their protection. Yet the absurdity of a young woman being under the protection of every young man resembles a page from a Where’s Waldo book. Women trying to figure out who exactly they’re supposed to seek for protection, and men running everywhere to put women everywhere under the proverbial umbrella. It’s madness and chaotic—not the sort of thing an orderly God would ordain.

Here are three thoughts that have helped me think through this relationally:

1. Protection is not the same as headship.

There have been several times when young men in my life have stepped up and offered to “take care of a guy” for me—this doesn’t, however, give them headship over me. There are other times when I have turned to my brothers and warned them to steer clear of unhealthy situations with girls.

We need leadership, yes, but we should not seek it in every willing body. There are two or three pastors at my church who hold that position for me: they are my protectors and my safe place, they keep watch over my soul.

2. If you are a young woman who feels unprotected, there is nothing wrong with you.

If you are a young woman who does not feel the immediate need of protection, there is also nothing wrong with you. God knit us together in unique and beautiful ways; some women are naturally wired to be capable and strong; some women are naturally wired to be mild and quiet. Both women, however, can learn from their sisters. And both women can learn from their brothers. I will always gravitate toward strong leadership because I am a strong leader. However, I am also fairly gentle and slow to speak up for myself, so I have had to learn that it is sometimes necessary for someone to speak up on my behalf.

If you’re a single girl and a brother shows obvious partiality and protection toward you, ask him to make intentions clear. That is true protection, for you and for him. He needs to know it isn’t his role to protect you. If he finds himself wanting to lead and guide you, see point three.

3. If you are a young man who finds yourself drawn to lead or be protective toward one young women more than others, consider that might be the nudging of the Holy Spirit.

Don’t dismiss those “brotherly” feelings as simply that. If, however, you have checked your heart and are certain she is not the one for you, make it clear you are just looking out for a sister and do not show partiality. We women may be the weaker vessel, but no worries, we can spot a cad a mile away. Don’t show partiality toward her unless you are interested in the possibility of showing partiality to her until death do you part. Feeling protective? Ask her out for coffee and tell her; see where it goes.

Reminders, not rules

Protection is not a male to female action, it is a sighted person leading a blind person to safety. It is the one who knows how to swim giving the drowning an arm. It is removing yourself or others from a dangerous situation. And sometimes it is simply looking at the facts and being honest with yourself and others about the implications. It is recognizing a capable person does not mean a perfect person.

This has nothing to do with headship or hierarchal relationships—this is christian brotherhood, loving and caring for the health of the sheep. These actions merely reinforce the reality that God protects His sheep, it’s a physical reality of a spiritual truth. It is a reminder and not a rule.

In Uncategorized
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Coffee Shop Confessional

June 13, 2013

We are lifting the tea bags heavy with Earl Grey loose leaf tea, setting them on the saucer between us, liquid spooling around them. I ask her if it ever stops—the assumption of being known. “You know,” she says, her brown eyes lower, “I don’t know if it ever does. Or if it should. Jesus hid,” she says. She lifts her mug to take a sip, pursing her lips and blowing into the cup, the tea swirls and slows. I wait for her to finish.

“I don’t know if we’re meant to hide when we’re in public,” she says, “I think there are times for hiding and those need to be intentional. But don’t you think that Jesus felt everyone knew Him when even His disciples were wrong? Peter!” She laughs. “The most right he ever was was when he said, ‘To whom else would we go?’ No. I think we are meant to be only ever partially known. I think Jesus knew we wouldn’t have the treasure of being truly known outside of heaven.”

“I think it was CS Lewis,” I say to her, “who said the only place outside of heaven where we can be safe from the dangers of love is hell.” Now I’m the one blowing whirlpools of cool air into my tea.

“I wonder the same thing goes for being safe from being truly known,” she says. “I wonder if all the dangers that come from being partially known, people’s assumptions about us, if those are only gone in Heaven—or hell. In heaven or hell we know who you are. You’re either saved or unsaved. It’s across the board; no differentiation.”

“This is what makes us all such fools here on earth,” I say. “It’s that we are so set on hierarchies and systems and compartmentalizing and celebrity. We can’t keep ourselves from categorizing the whole world from blue collars to white collars to blue-blood to white trash—we can’t keep our grimy fists off the identities of everyone else. Jesus knew though.” I set my tea down and flip the pages in my bible til it lands on Luke 23, “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.”

“He knew we were a bunch of fools, all laid out, splayed out, played out fools. Bare and ignorant, all of us. He leveled it for us right there. Forgive them, Father, the whole lot of ‘em.”

We shake our heads and laugh. I catch her eye and we both glance down quickly. To know a person is a difficult thing indeed. We hide, even in public places, across steaming cups of Earl Grey tea in busy coffee shops where tables are confessionals and the table between us is flat and equal.

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In abiding, balance, identity, Uncategorized
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A Life Full of Sabbaths

June 10, 2013

It’s Wendell Berry all this month. I drink in his essays, turning words over and over in my mouth. I read him aloud, even when no one is listening. Last night as she spreads cornmeal on wooden boards, I read her three paragraphs to give context to the quote written on the chalkboard: Though they have no Sundays, their days are full of Sabbaths.

He speaks of the cedar waxwings eating grapes in November. But he penned the poem The Peace of the Wild Things nearby then and poetry is meant to speak of the mysterious in the mundane and so he speaks of us, or the hoped-for us.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This morning I read in Mark of Jesus healing on the Sabbath, the pharisees outrage, and the calm response of the Lord of the Sabbath: “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”

How we have forgotten that. How have we forgotten that?

She is leaving to get bread flour to bake round loaves in the brick-oven. Do you want to come with, she asks, dropping her prepositional phrase and picking up her purse. I am drinking coffee on the side porch and nothing could bid me leave the wild rushing of the river in front of me and the song of the orioles above me. This is my sabbath and I am made for it, I think.

The last time I was home was a year ago, in May, and I have waited a year for these few days. They are not exactly as I imagined in my mind, other duties and events capped its full breadth, but it is a few days at least of quiet and still. I was made for this week, I think. The coals burned hot in the brick-oven the other night and faces gathered around the tables, children everywhere, laughter lingering. A phone call from Malaysia from a globe-trotting brother: you always sound so happy when you’re home, he said, and it is true, except when it hasn’t been.

I have lived this year holding my breath, it seems, waiting for the mornings when I could sleep past 4:30 or when I at least didn’t have to hit the ground running, literally, as soon as I woke. I have lived this year waiting for Sabbath, guarding it with a fervor I didn’t know I had. If anyone came near it, I would square my jaw and shake my head: it’s mine!

I preened myself for my Sabbaths.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Whenever I rest and really rest, empty my head of expectations (yours and mine), listen, really listen, I remember there is nothing of my doing in salvation; that salvation is one long rest in the same direction. There is work too, obedience and sanctification, moments of weakness and moments of strength. But at its core and its very marrow, the work of salvation is rest, Sabbath. It is to say, again and again and again, I rest in You, Lord of Rest. I find my Sabbath in you, Lord of the Sabbath.

The work of salvation is to live a life full to Sabbaths, even when there is no margin and little space, when there is demand from every outside element and every inside emotion. This is to trust that a God who rested when His work was not done—even when it was good—to set an example for His people: You are not done, children, no, but it is still good. And so rest. You are not made for Sabbath, the Sabbath was made for you.

workofsalvation

 

In abiding, balance, beauty, gospel, nature, peace, rest
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All of Us Strangers Sitting on a Footstool

June 5, 2013

threeSomewhere along the way I forgot I had a story.

It is more accurate to say somewhere along the way I forgot I was living a story.

There’s so much noise these days and I don’t know how to shut it out and down and over and out. Our home is a quiet place, filled with simple things, but it is a small place, and there is no hiding from life’s noise. The coming and going, the phone calls with family, the boyfriends, the dishes piling, and the laundry. Some have said the single life is simple, but I dare anyone to say that to me who has had 32 roommates in a dozen years. As soon as I learn the rhythms and graces of one, she marries or moves and I plunge into another lesson with another girl. I cannot complain and do not: these girls have been family to me, each one of them slipping into her new life while I mourn her leaving, she has been family to me.

One and I are walking yesterday and the sun is setting, “You’re going to move with me?” I ask her, because we will close up shop on this house soon I think. She tells me she doesn’t know how to process the invitation that I would want her to meld her life with mine. I feel a sense of Naomi in that moment and she my Ruth: where you go, I’ll go; only I am the one saying to her: where I go, you come. (Ruth 1:16)

It is foreign to us both, the togethering that happens with strange people in a strange land. And we are all strangers, I think, we just haven’t awakened to its reality yet. Or life has been kinder to you than to me. Or perhaps, after all, it has been kinder to me than to you. We shouldn’t bother ourselves with such things.

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I am scrubbing the laundry room floor tonight and I know I ought to feel at home in this place, but it feels more a placeholder to me, a dog-eared page, a bookmark: Don’t Forget What God Has Done Here. And I don’t know if He means this house or Texas or this world, but it could be any and is all. We are all so enamored with making a place for ourselves when it is He who has made a place for all of us. His thumbnail is the sliver of moon, heaven is His home, the earth is His footstool, dare we even imagine we could build a place for Him? (Isaiah 66:1)

The air catches beneath the tablecloth as it settles centered, dust particles float, and I put the broom in the corner. The dishwasher and the washer both run, their steady hum sounding steady with the air-conditioner. It smells like lemon furniture polish and maybe the grapefruit in the bowl on the table. We have made a home here, placed ourselves in the center of our story. The doors revolve around us, the world revolves around us, and I wonder sometimes how little idea we have of His grandness and this home a vapor, our lives a breath, our whole story His.

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In abiding, beauty, Family, heaven, home, identity, peace, seasons, time, Uncategorized
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