INVITATION and COMMUNION

In Tennessee spring comes early and it comes with a rush of green, a smattering of rain, and balmy air. And one warm day in late February, at our pentecostal university, in our capstone class full of doubters, our favorite literature professor extended an invitation to us that changed us all.

She, unlike the rest of the faculty who were mostly staple Pentecostals or Baptists, attended a small Episcopalian church a few blocks away. We all knew the church because we were not only students of literature, we were students of history and this small, stone chapel had more history on its front steps than most of the mega-churches had on their whole grounds. We smelled history just walking by it.

But that Wednesday afternoon, as the class was finishing, she was teaching on an excerpt from O'Connor or Greene, and there was a hush in our room, so quiet we could hear the birds outside the closed windows and the traffic down Ocoee street. I cannot remember what she said save for how she ended her exposition, "...so I'm inviting you all to come to church with me after this, come, eat the bread, share the wine, receive the ash on your forehead, speak the liturgy, rest in what is finished by Christ, but partaken by all of us, the fellowship of His sufferings."

I don't remember how many of us took her up on her offer, but I did, and a few others did and it was a silent group who walked those blocks to the Episcopalian stone church. We felt something holy in that classroom—it had felt so long since there was anything that felt holy in our lives so inundated by three chord songs, loud prophesies, and color coordinated worship teams.

We filed in slowly, quietly, sitting on hard, uncomfortable pews, with our knees held close and our minds alive.

I do not remember what was said in that sanctuary that day, but I know it was the first time that I tasted real wine at the communion table, the first time I knew that sharing in the sufferings of Christ was not sweet like grape juice, but bitter and stinging sometimes like wine.

It was the first time the wafer melted on my tongue, sitting there, unfamiliar in my mouth, unlike the chunks of bread I would hurriedly chew in every other communion experience.

And it might have been the first time that I understood that communion is communal and interdenominational. A shared experience with Christ and with one another.

Even though I had walked into my classroom with no thought for Lent or Ash Wednesday or Communion, I walked out of those wooden church doors heavy with responsibility and heavy with hope. I don't remember what I fasted from that first Lenten season, nor in subsequent ones, every year has been different. But I will never forget those holy moments, that quiet hope of resurrection, or those two professors of English who pushed a classroom of jaded doubters into seekers and finders.

Appalachian History Site

Continued from yesterday.

JARGON and FAITH

I went to a private university which means that my classes were mostly made up of rich, white kids, and—in my case—tongue-speaking, bible wielding kids. A few of them could sing okay.

I learned in my first week there, a transferred junior from the godless north, that Chattanooga was one of the belt buckles of the Bible belt. I still haven't figured out why a belt is the chosen metaphor for the churched area. To keep followers in line, perhaps, by the threat of twenty lashes? Or perhaps to squeeze them all back where they belonged on the ever fattening waistline of American Evangelicalism?

It was my first experience into Pentecostalism and probably my first in any sort of Baptist environment. We snobby northerners tend to group believers into sheep and goats: non-denominational or God's Frozen Few. There are no in-betweens. This is how we convince ourselves that every stranger will be converted through the power of apologetic or signs on street-corners—our methods aren't always the best.

The belt-buckle is no different, though, the jargon is nauseating and the songs tired. By my last semester in this town (curiously populated not only by churches, but also drug stores and banks—did no one else notice the abundance of all three and perhaps a telling correlation?), I was weary of pentecostal theology in word and in deed.

Jesus was not kidding when he said that some would prophesy in His name but never know Him. Aside from my small group of close friends and a few others in our English department, I wondered sometimes if anyone knew who Jesus was at all. Jesus, the man, not the concept.

Every graduate of our university had to take a capstone class in their field and I looked forward to mine from the day I began to study there. If our diploma was our ticket to the real world, the capstone class was our dues. In it we would study great works by Christians writers—we would dissect O'Connor for a final time, we would read Wilbur with confidence in his allusions, and we would wrestle through memoir by Beuchner and others.

Our capstone was taught by everyone's favorite professor of literature and joined by the famed staple of the department, who, after 50 years, was retiring after our class. This promised to be the capstone of the capstones.

It also helped that both professors whispered to us that we were one of their favorite classes ever. You can't keep a good man down and so we were a class of laughter, tears, camaraderie, and challenge—floating effortlessly by on the belief that we were believed in. And so we were.

I do not remember the content of what I learned in that class. Nothing.

This is what I do remember: we were a class of skeptics and thinkers, trained to analyze and criticize and characterize and generalize—and there are few better social constructs in which for this to happen but a private pentecostal university. By the end of four (or five) years of schooling ourselves with these methods, the church could not escape our microscopic minds.

We were a classroom full and brimming over with faltering faith.

Continued tomorrow 

THE MEASURE OF MISSION

If you're interested, I'm writing over at the Hope for North Texas blog today on the measure of mission: 

We are measuring out cups of flour, oil, bran, molasses and more, careful to follow the recipe exactly. We are keeping people alive, she tells me. This, her hands brush the tops of the measuring cups, will save lives. I am eight years old, living in a comfortable house in upper-class Bucks County Pennsylvania. The concept of lives needing to be saved is foreign... (Read the rest here)

you

Hey listen, you. You hiding behind your litany of projects and your mountain of responsibility. You, with your put together persona and your perfect bouts of transparency. You, who reveals little to everyone but lets the world unveil herself to you because you are perceived as trustworthy and wise. You who picks up the burdens and carries them to the next rest stop. You who goes about your duties, shirking love and fearing commitment because it means you are needed and being needed is grounds for running away.

Yeah you.

You're the one I'm talking to.

And I'm saying this: you can't hide.

You cannot hide.

Because you slip away, drive away, pull into a parking lot and put your head in your hands. You don't cry because crying doesn't help, but you sigh and you ask what's wrong with you? Why is it so hard to be needed? Be wanted? Be loved? And how can you be those things and still feel like none of them?

You tell yourself the lies and then you tell yourself they're lies and then you lie to yourself again and say it will be okay, that you'll try harder next time, that you'll say no next time, that you won't feel the weight of the world next time.

But you do.

You stub your toe on the "too close, too long, too much" line and you back away slowly, desperate to grab your favorites parts of you back. You're an introvert in an extrovert's kingdom. You feel upside down because you're called to decrease (which you like), but you're also called to preach and make disciples and be discipled (which you don't like). You feel inside out, like you're walking around with your insides out and no one points and stares, they just expect it from you. They feel that they know the real you.

Here's my heart, you say, it's on my sleeve.

Here's the only thing I have to say to you:

You cannot hide because I know where to find you, you're always near me, like a second skin, like my own breath, my own heart. You're like me.

And once, I was like you.

You cannot hide because I emptied myself for you, taking on your form, obeyed the sentence of death on my head, for you.

And you're not beyond me. Trust me. You, with your litany of projects and mountains of responsibility: you still need me.

something to talk about

If there is one aspect of God's character that surprises me the most (and shouldn't), it is the act of Him pursuing me.

He wants me! He pursues me! He actually cares about what I care about!

This astounds me.

There is nothing interesting about me, I am a sniveling child, a lazy servant, a half-hearted follower, a doubting learner, an arrogant leader. There is little about me worth pursuing.

But the fact remains, He pursues. He asks. He delves. He digs. He isn't interested in me staying where I am.

When we pursue a gospel-centered community, we must understand that we are the imago dei, the image of God. We represent Him to others. He doesn't need us to represent Him, but we get to. He lets us fools do that. I'm astounded.

Because we're representing Him, we communicate this aspect of His character by pursuing others. We find the wallflower and ask intentional questions, communicate that we are interested in their life. Not because we have to conjure up the interest, but because when we understand the gospel, we understand that there is nothing of interest about any of us on that very level playing field. We are no longer impressed by long resumes or disenchanted by short ones--because in God's kingdom we understand the last shall be first and, in fact, already is!

(pinterest)

This is difficult, because the same as the gospel reaches in and changes us (sometimes painfully so), building community is painful and sometimes requires doing difficult, dirty, discouraging things. It means not turning away from someone the moment they bore you at the party; it means praying for opportunity to have meaningful conversations in uncomfortable situations; it means going back, again and again, to a social situation where you may feel out of place or perhaps unwanted.

Jesus ate with tax-collectors and sinners.

I love that.

Jesus ate with with the rich and corrupt. He ate with the sick and morally fallen, with leaders and even those who would turn Him over to death.

He wasn't worried about a conversation topic keeping Him from building relationship.

He found something to talk about.

Go and do likewise.

I am by nature a preservationist. I think we all are. Oh, I don't mean that we save and horde and reuse. I mean when it comes to self, I am a master preservationist.

I pretend to be all open and honest, living life bare in front of you, and perhaps I have succeed in my ruse only. But deep down in, I preserve.

Living a life that invites is a challenge for me because...

Read the rest of this entry over at The Organic Bird.

Part I: On Reputations
Part II: On Small Talk and Public Hiding
Part III: The Open Door Policy

God doesn't do small talk.

He doesn't get around to the deep subjects eventually and He doesn't skirt around difficult issues. God always goes after the heart.

Sometimes it doesn't seem like this, like when He asked Adam where He was in the garden. "Adam, where are you?" (As though He didn't already know...) But in the heart of that question, He was holding a mirror to the deepest inclination of the natural man: to hide.

...continue reading over at The Organic Bird

Part I: On Reputations and the People We Pretend to Be:
Andrea Levendusky from The Organic Bird

"So, what brought you to Texas?"

This was the question that would send nerves in my knees shuddering into my throat. A harmless one, on the surface. But the kick of the anthill to my soul.

Inevitably, this was the first thing most people would ask me when I moved to Texas. When I ran from God. When I indulged in sin and found myself in a "foreign land". This question haunted me as I walked a long road, found redemption, and started the beautiful journey of restoration. At first, I didn't want people to know my "stuff" because it might mean they wouldn't accept me. And even after restoration, I was scared if people knew, they wouldn't accept me.

The question would come, I'd dodge it and internally want to shout, "I am not a colossal failure at life!" Questions in community come quickly — and if a girl is going to save face, she better be on her toes with quick and witty answers. Because saving face is what it's about...right?

*crickets*

I used to, and sometimes still, do this a lot. To old friends. Family. Strangers. New friends. My pastor's wife.

Something in me wants to defend my reputation, salvage what's left of her feeble frame. Prop her up with words and excuses, stories and claims. Dress up her skeleton and hide her macabre cry. Make her look less like what she actually is — me without Christ.

Here's the thing — in order for any of us to have the kind of relationships that actually serve their purpose (to build up, encourage, exhort), we're going to have to stop trying to preserve our reputation.

You are not better than me. I am not better than you.

I can't tell you how many conversations I've had with friends where I would say, "There is nothing you can tell me that will shock me." Because I had been there? Not necessarily, but maybe. Because I was ok with their sin? Nope, but Christ died for the sick, not the healthy.

But because we are all broken skeletons walking straight to the grave without Christ. No propping up or vain accolades needed.

Let's just be honest.

We all equally, desperately need Jesus. The thing that separates us from God is not how much sin we have committed. It's the existence of it. One stain separates us from him entirely. Christ's death covers us fully.

The most powerful, life-changing moments inside of a healthy community have been when people finally stop trying to impress everyone, or protect themselves. When those things stop, something real happens. We allow room for honesty. For love. Rivalry and conceit scatter into the shadows as humility and grace rush in. We allow truth to bleed, someone grabs a bandage, someone grabs the water and next thing you know, true community is turning from bone to flesh.

And that reputation you so desperately wanted to preserve? Let those bones crumble. Let Christ be what you're known for.

Almost ten years ago, in a small upstate New York town, on a cold snowy night, I met a girl in a green woolen hat.

As with any kindred soul you meet, you might not know upon meeting that they will change your life, and so I didn't then. Though the details are many, change my life she did. And she continues to. I am forever grateful for her, for the simple community we have in just each other, how she has taught me about redemption and faith and grace. How she sharpens me and soothes me and strengthens me. I'm so grateful to share Andrea Levendusky with you over the next week or so and I hope you'll meander on over to her blog as well to read the other half of this series!

Lo: When did you feel a real birthing in your heart for community?

Andrea: I can't say I've always really loved people. Community wasn't something we really experienced growing up, in a real, cross-centered way. In fact, I didn't really come to appreciate the value of community until I moved to Texas about 7 years ago. At first, I blamed the lure of it on southern hospitality. The believers I began to meet were so incredibly gentle, broken, honest and took me in like a long-lost friend. I started spending time with people who were so contagiously authentic and real. It was then I realized how amazing and dangerous (in a good way) community can be.

Lo: What have been the greatest challenges for you as you pursue community?

Andrea: Oh man. I have a long list for this one. First would probably be my pride. Community requires a certain level of discomfort. We, as people, so commonly want to put "the best foot forward." But a healthy community really requires that you don't do that. The goal is that God be glorified, not us. That the story of the cross be the pinnacle, not our own stories. That Christ is the hero, not myself. I still to this day find myself in situations where I want to defend my reputation. That might fly in casual relationships, but not with the people who I'm walking in life with. So secondly, would be embracing humility :) Tim Keller said "Humility is so shy. If you begin talking about it, it leaves." So see? I'm even failing now. *sigh*

Lo: What are a few good ideas to give our readers as they seek community?

Andrea: I would just start by saying that the best thing anyone can do is recognize that in Christ, we are all on the same page. You're good. You're covered. You don't need to prove anything to anyone. So that goes both ways. You don't need to be embarrassed about your past, and no one can boast in anything but the finished work of Christ.

Lo: What advice can you give someone who tends to be shy about finding or being community?

Andrea: This is hard, because the truth is, communities vary in character and language. So, I'll tell you this — there's a good chance it's going to take a few misses before you really find a community that you feel at home in. AND even then, that community might change in a matter of months. I would say, find a friend you trust or just one name of someone you can link an arm with, and start there. You don't need to be everyone's best friend. Even among Jesus' disciples, we hear about some a lot more than others. But they were all there, together. That's the key. God will give you grace, even to be bold.

Lo: How do you feel that the gospel is more clearly displayed when you live life in community?

Andrea: I think about some of the people I would consider a part of my "community." We have given each other a mutual responsibility to build one another up. To call each other out on sin when we're hiding it. Have those awkward conversations. To love unconditionally, by grace. To help keep our hearts soft before the Lord. To pray. Bear burdens. Celebrate. To lift each other's eyes back to the cross. Without them, I am prone to drop my vision back to myself and lose direction entirely. My community plays an active role in my "working out my salvation".

Lo: As you parent Maddie, what are some areas concerning community where you feel like you might be living contrary to normal standards for society?

Andrea: I always tell people that community is one of the most beautiful, inconvenient things you'll ever do. Sometimes, community supersedes my own wishes. Doorbells ringing at midnight. Empty fridge. Long phone calls. I always want my daughter to see that we are not living life just for ourselves. I think there is a large percentage of parents who want to control what their kids see, hear, etc. And for the most part, I agree with them. But when it comes to community, I have an opportunity to show my daughter, safely, that people are hurting. I don't want her growing up "shocked" at the state of the world and human brokenness. I don't want her hoarding her things. I pray for her salvation, and hope that she will see, with my arms around her, that everyone is in desperate need of Christ, including us.

Check back over the next 12 days as Andrea and I share about what living a gospel-centered community looks like in our lives, some practical tips, some stories, or just general encouragement to be living lives that communicate grace and life to others! And pop on over to her blog to see my answers to her intro questions.