Classic iMonk Post

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1. State briefly what you believe about the Bible.

The whole counsel of God, concerning all things necessary for his own glory, man’s salvation, faith, and life, is set down in Scripture, or may be deduced from Scripture. In scripture, God revealed what he wanted us to know about himself, ourselves and his Son. The Bible is inspired, true and the final authority for the Christian. Most importantly, the Bible is God’s revelation of his Son, Jesus Christ, and his Gospel.

2. How is the Bible inspired?

God inspired all things that in any way affected the production of the writings that make up the Bible in order to say what he desired to say in language. That inspiration contains supernatural events, but the production of the writing itself is natural in process, and it is unique, God-breathed and God caused. Human beings wrote Scripture, but the ultimate message of the Bible is because of the authorship of the Holy Spirit. The focus of the inspiration of the Bible is Jesus Christ and the gospel. Discerning inspiration is a matter of discerning the relationship of Jesus Christ to what was written.

3. So is the book of Judges inspired, or only the Gospels?

The inspiration of the book of Judges is the same as the inspiration of the Gospels, but they occupy different places in the trajectory toward the Bible’s message. Judges shows our need for a savior and previews human pictures of that savior. The Gospels tell us of that savior explicitly. If a person considers the book of Judges apart from Jesus, however, it has no importance as Christian scripture.

4. How is the Bible authoritative?

It conveys the person, work, words, accomplishment, story and meaning of the person of Jesus Christ to the church in the way God chose to express that story. There is no other source of authority in the church. The relationship of the Bible and the church is a relation where one does not exist without the other, but the Church submits to the authority of God mediated through Jesus Christ in holy scripture.

5. Is the Bible a human book?

The Bible was written by human beings. It did not drop out of heaven i.e. Joseph Smith. It is not written in a magical, miraculous way i.e. the Koran. The production of the Bible was a human process. The supervision of the Holy Spirit in NO WAY took away that human element at any point. But the inspiration of the Holy Spirit insures that what was written is not MERELY human, but is what God himself desired to say.

Some seem to feel that this statement negates Biblical prophecy and explicit passages where God spoke or appeared, etc. I am not saying there is no divine element in the Bible or divine action in history (how silly.) I am saying the production of the Bible was a human process. Whatever happened in the mind or experience of the author, the actual WRITING of the scripture was a human process, even when the author was told exactly what to write.

6. Are there aspects of the Bible that are not divine?

None of the Bible is purely divine in the sense that, for example, an angel took up the pen and wrote. It is a collection of human writings that exist because God the Holy Spirit supervised their creation. In portions of Holy Scripture, the “human” element is unmistakable, but this has nothing to do with the inspiration of the Bible. That the author of Psalm 137 wished for babies brains to be bashed in does not negate the ultimate purpose of that Psalm to introduce us to Jesus and the Gospel.

7. Why do you call the Bible a conversation?

Because I read it.

Read Deuteronomy’s strict covenantal conditionalism; read Proverb’s oberservational wisdom, then read the entire book of Job. Tell me there isn’t a conversation going on between Job and his friends over God’s justice.

There is a Biblical conversation about matters ranging from the wisdom of having a King, to the nature of the afterlife, to the justice of God, to the nature of the Messiah, to the relationship of faith and works.

That this conversation exists doesn’t mean that the Bible doesn’t teach a doctrinal or confessional truth on these things. It does mean we need to discern the various threads of the conversation that exist in the Bible, and not misrepresent the simplicity of an issue.

8. What do you believe about canonization?

The church did it, by listening to what writings said and discerning what writings were the revelation of God regarding his Son Jesus and his Gospel. While Christians believe canonization was a work of providence, they do not believe it is a work of the inspiration of the Spirit like the creation of scripture. The church, in various ways, discerned the nature of scripture over time and set aside those writings it believes are inspired. It is their relation to Jesus Christ, and not some magical process, that discerns the nature of the canonical books.

9. Do you reject the inspiration of some books?

No. What I do is make an attempt to focus on the Christ-related aspect of any portion of scripture, and that means I do not place as much importance or influence on some passages as other Christians. I am less interested in books apart from Christ than other Christians. For example, Proverbs as a course on parenting doesn’t interest me. Proverbs as related to Jesus does. Genesis as creation science doesn’t interest me. Genesis about Jesus and the Gospel does.

10. Anything else you want to say?

Yes. WCF 1 says that scripture says what God wants it to say. Barth says that the Holy Spirit takes the Bible and makes it the Word of God to you. I know there is some distance between Barth and the WCF, but I also think it is worth considering that the Holy Spirit is active in many ways with scripture, both in its production and in its proclamation/illumination. Making the “inspiration” of the Bible a matter of affirming one or two of the “right words” and ignoring what the Spirit does in all of scripture to make Christ real to those who hear the Word is foolish. And I am not a heretic for saying so.

11. is your theology “inconsistent?”

Probably. First, if someone thinks their “consistency” captures God in a theological zoo, then have a nice day. Yahweh isn’t in captivity in anyone’s theological game preserve. Second, I am in the emerging corner when it comes to theology as a “package.” I am tired of being told that believing the Bible = accepting modernistic inerrancy = Five point Calvinism = Limited atonement = like all the same theologians = read all the same books = despise and ridicule all the same people = the whole culture war = whatever is next. I completely reject that mentality. Give me inconsistency, post-evangelicalism and the crew that sails all the seas.

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UPDATE: If “inerrancy,” a term that doesn’t appear in any major confession or creed, equals “being a Christian” to you, then let me encourage you to stop worrying about the effect of this blog. I’m happy to have you here, but if a non-Biblical word is the essence of defining my relationship to God through Jesus and the center of your ability to accept me, then don’t wait around for me to change my mind. Move on.

I am an observer of the church in America from the standpoint of watching trends that would make good topics for books (written by ghostwriters like me for “big names”) and finding the next up-and-coming talented teacher/preacher. And in these years of observing, I have come to a conclusion. The emperor called “evangelicalism” has no clothes. Yet we in the crowd continue to stand and applaud and talk about how pleasant the emperor looks. I was among this crowd, though I hid in the back because I could see his nakedness and emptiness. I thought I must be wrong somehow—there must be something wrong with my vision. Certainly all of my elders and peers who were clamoring aboard the Evangelical Circus Train couldn’t be wrong.

I came to faith in a Baptist church in the time of the Charismatic renewal of the 70s. We got much teaching of Scripture as well as the experience of the Holy Spirit. But we were also trained to believe anyone who went to any church other than ours was probably not even saved. And Catholics? Oh my. They were a cult, just like Jehovah Witnesses, only worse. Rules and regulations were firmly in place. Liturgy was evil. Secular was evil. This whole world, outside of perhaps our church, was evil.

When I went off to college, I met many there who came from different backgrounds. Methodist. Episcopal. Assembly of God. And, yes, even Catholic. I was at first amazed at the fact there were really Christians who didn’t believe exactly as I believed.  I had professors who hadn’t swallowed the latest Kool-Aid. I was stretching my beliefs, but each night I still huddled safely in evangelicalism. It was easy to do. I had clear-cut rules to follow, things I should say (“Oh, praise God, brother!”) and things I shouldn’t say (“Well, that certainly sucks!). Things I could and could not do. I did all that I was supposed to do in order to be accepted under the circus tent.

Many of those I was in school with were aiming for a career in “ministry,” with a variety of definitions for “ministry.” I majored in broadcasting, so those I was in class with were wanting to go into Christian broadcasting ministry. To go “secular” was a compromise, if not backsliding. I fell into this thinking, and became more deeply enmeshed in the Christian ghetto. I worked at a Christian radio station. I listened to Christian music. I only read Christian books. I was in church Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night. And yet for years—decades, really—there was a gnawing emptiness in my spirit.

At some point I had to admit what I had pushed down in my mind for so long: the evangelical world was an empty shell. There was nothing to it. It was all hat and no cattle. The writer of Hebrews encouraged readers of that epistle to grow up, to begin eating solid food instead of just drinking mother’s milk. This evangelical world didn’t even offer me milk. It was all sugar. And increasingly I was bombarded by messages telling me why this preacher’s sugar was sweeter than any other preacher’s. Why their circus was the best circus around.

Thirty years later I was tired of all of the clowns, barking dogs, trained and tamed lions. Now (thirty-eight years after Jesus invaded my life) I will stand—alone, if need be—and say this loud and clear.

The Evangelical Emperor has no clothes. A scheming tailor made him think he did, and he has been proudly parading naked for many years, with the crowd cheering wildly with their eyes wide shut. In reality, the emperor is butt naked, with no substance other than his pride in himself. I am no longer going to be silent. Many evangelical churches in our nation are as shallow as a puddle, as empty as crushed Coke can.

What good does it do for this unknown writer in Oklahoma to say this? Well, for one, I can finally stop pretending that maybe, perhaps, some of these celebrity naked preachers have something to good to offer if we just dig hard enough. I can say outloud what I have felt for so long: A steady diet of cotton candy does not satisfy. As a matter of fact, it leaves me sick to my stomach.

Listen to me. I live in the bucket of evangelicalism here in Tulsa. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting two churches and a “ministry” of some kind. The number of shepherds who care for their sheep is far outdone by those who want to “build a ministry.” I hear it all day long. The object of the game is to get as many people into their church as possible by offering the latest gimmick or fad. I have people come into my store everyday who are wearing rubber bracelets with the name of their church on them. The purpose is to get others to say, “What’s on your bracelet?” so they can then invite the other to their church. Once there, they get to hear and see the preacher on video piped in from some other location. Let’s get as many people as we can under the Big Tent. Then it’s time for the trapeze artists and the guy to get shot from a cannon to entertain the crowd.

No more for me, please. And I am no longer going to just smile and say, “Well, that’s good for you, but it’s not my style.” My style has nothing to do with it. We are here to bring glory to God by receiving his grace and mercy for our sins. Period. I hate to break it to you, but this life is not about you or me. God is the creator of this universe, and it is all for his glory alone.

So for the next few days I want to talk about the naked emperor. There are three things I want to explore that has led to this empty shell we’ve been living in for too long.

• The Americanization of God
• The marketing of the church
• Our penchent for safety

Along the way I will no doubt step on many toes. I make no apologies for that. If you were wearing good shoes, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Far too many, however, are going around barefoot. It matches the rest of their outfit.

This reminded me of one of my favorite poems of all. This is not a good technical poem. Jimmy Stewart was no George Herbert. But it touches my heart every time I hear him read it, even more so after I put my border collie down last year.

Take time to listen and reflect. After all, what’s your hurry?

Here is one of my favorite classic essays by Michael Spencer. I, too, grew up as a believer in the “tent revival” atmosphere. I, too, was taught that liturgy equaled deadness and man-made religion. Now I am looking for liturgy. Now I’m looking for music that is all about God, and not about how I feel. And one reason I’m looking for this is due to Michael’s essay, Dr. StrangeLiturgy. Read thoughtfully and prayerfully.  JD

The humor of me standing in front of a Presbyterian Church, wearing a robe, saying the Apostle’s Creed and leading congregational confessions, is still not lost on me. If only Hall Street Baptist Church could see me now. They wouldn’t be laughing.

I grew up fearing any church that didn’t resemble a tent revival. The first time I went to a Roman Catholic worship service, I was so scared and confused that I walked out. When everyone headed up front for the mass, I thought it was the invitation, and it seemed a good time to duck out. The stress of trying to figure out kneelers was too much for me.

Even Methodist churches frightened me. I simply didn’t understand what was going on in the simplest liturgies, and I assumed it was bad for real Christians to be around it. “Good” was evangelistic revivalism, and all the efforts expended to get people down to the altar, or even better, up there “testifying’” of how they got saved. (My Episcopal friend was just as confused by our Baptist services, but he handled it far better than me. I never found the courage to even visit his church.)

Today, revivalism scares me to death, and the comfortable predictability of the common liturgy is home for me and my family. When ministers start “winging it” and talking about what has God laid on their hearts, I want to go out the back door. The 1928 Book of Common Prayer ought to be the law of the land as far as I am concerned.

My friends often talk about liturgical churches as if they were dens of open Satanism. There dead, phony Christians, bound in Papist chains of tradition and quenching the Spirit at every opportunity, sit frozen, worshiping God in a box and considering themselves the only real Christians. Meanwhile, down at the Free Pentecostal Last-Days Assembly and Revival Center, real Christians, free in the Spirit, get high on Jesus, get saved every Sunday and see God working miracles at every service. Shambala-shingi.

I’ve quit trying to explain myself to these people. Having “been there, done that” as a naive Charismatic during my high school years, I know how convinced these folks are that liturgical churches are wrong, and that anything genuine must be extemporaneous. But I think I need to go on the record with what I’ve found in the liturgical tradition, and why I’ve taken my children away from revivalism and helped them find their way into a church that purposely avoids the very things I valued most for years as a Baptist.

The cause of it all

A boy can’t be too careful what he reads. I have no idea where I picked up Robert Webber’s overlooked book, The Majestic Tapestry, but somehow it found itself in my hands, and I read it. Several times, and to my everlasting  benefit. It was this little book that cost me a promising career as a Southern Baptist revivalist.

Robert Webber is a professor of church history and theology who has devoted his career to the encouragement of evangelicals in deepening their appreciation of the larger traditions of Christian worship. Majestic Tapestry was my introduction to a Christian tradition I had never heard of before. (The extent of my ignorance defies measurement. I had no truthful ideas about any Christianity beyond my own fundamentalism and what I had been told about Catholics. And most of what I believed about my bunch was wrong.)

Here was the Christian year, the great themes of redemption outlined in the liturgy. Here was the church militant and triumphant, and a depth of appreciation for the Bible as a worship source that I did not find in my corner of the faith. Here were the Psalms, the Collects, the Responses and other voices of simple, Biblical worship. Here were the bonds that held Christians together across history and denominations; the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church. Here were the saints, the confessions, the creeds, the saints, the martyrs and, yes, the liturgy of Christianity. And it was apparently all mine, even though I was in a church that though most of these people were roasting in hell.

I was captivated. Webber predicted that the wider Christian tradition has particular appeal for boomers who dislike denominationalism. I had grown up in the hothouse of denominationalism, but many of my significant Christian friendships were with non-Southern Baptists. I knew these brothers were Christians, and I sensed that they were part of a larger Christian family to which I belonged, but did not know it.

Webber focused on the theme of Christus Victor (Christ Victorious), and showed me how the worship of the church re-enacts this theme each time it gathers to worship. Here were Guilt, Grace and Gratitude as the great themes of worship. Here was the Lord’s Supper as a great table of communion and a preview of the eschatological banquet at the end of time. Here was baptism into the body of Christ, not just “our church.” Here was an acceptance of other Christians in the great tradition, rather than an exclusion of all other Christians over matters that were clearly trivial or even false.

The effect of Webber’s book upon me was profound–and it continues to this day, as I come more and more to value the great tradition of faith flowing from the Old Covenant into the New and through the Church of all times and places.

Out in Left Field

In 1982, we moved to Louisville so I could attend seminary. I had worked as a full time Associate Pastor for youth for three years before coming back to school, and I was not really interested in any more youth ministry positions. I wanted to pastor, and refused to apply for several youth ministry openings in the Louisville area.

One day, however, I was contacted by Highland Baptist Church, a church near the seminary in the Cherokee Triangle area of Louisville. Highland was not my uncle’s kind of Southern Baptist church. For one thing, the church was extremely “high church” compared to the typical SBC congregation in Kentucky, to say the least. Most SBC pastors would have felt they’d wandered into a moderately high Presbyterian church. Worship was liturgical. Scripture was read in three lessons. Corporate prayers, responses and confessions were common. Music, though occasionally aware and appreciative of its revivalist roots, was polished, serious and classical. The pastor, Paul Duke, was a young preacher whose fine sermons were filling the church up with professionals and the seminary community. He preached from the lectionary and was more Fosdick and Craddock than Criswell or Vines. The beautiful stone sanctuary was full of liturgical colors and the Christian year.

I tried to not act like Jethro Bodine, but the fact is, I was wowed. This was “high cotton” for a kid from the revivalistic backwaters of Western Kentucky. No, they weren’t wearing robes or using incense, and yes, they had invitations, but this was a church intentionally plugged into the tradition that Webber was writing about. In my two years as youth minister at Highland, I did a passable job with the students. But I learned enough about the church to change me for a lifetime. I never again felt entirely comfortable in a typical Southern Baptist Church.

Seminary underlined much of what I was learning at Highland. I came to understand the tradition of the church, and to see the value in allowing that great tradition to replace denominationalism. At the same time, I saw some of the possibilities for integrating this tradition into the mission of the church; the many ways that scripture and tradition, rather than modernity and pragmatism, could shape evangelism and ministry.

In church history I studied this tradition, and in theology I saw its development and influence. For the first time, I saw how my fundamentalistic Baptist roots related to that great tradition. I realized that even in the sawdust trails of revivalism, there were the echoes of liturgical worship and the Book of Common Prayer. I noted that our 1956 Baptist Hymnal, when examined closely, was full of texts that were not written recently in Nashville. Some were translations of ancient Latin texts. Catholic lyrics? In my hymnal? It was only one way my eyes were opened to the overarching influence of the Christian tradition.

What I Love

What do I love about liturgical worship?

I love the Christian year. When I was working on church staff, we were told to organize the church year around the various offerings and denominational emphases from the Southern Baptist Convention. Other than Christmas or Easter, there was no vestige of the Christian year. It was the program of the church that held together our worship and proclamation. I remember how this never really struck me as odd until I had children. Then it became obvious that the Christian year was a primary way of teaching our children–and the whole congregation– the story of the Gospel.

Today the Christian year is one of my passions. Advent, Lent, Holy Week, Epiphany, Trinity Sunday, Christ the King, Ascension, Annunciation, Holy Baptism–all of these days teach us the story of Jesus and preach the Gospel to us. Why would we want to neglect this great heritage? Why can’t all Christians see the value in the visual and artistic celebration of the Gospel that is made possible using the Christian year?

One of the saddest mistakes of fundamentalism is in assuming that if something is “catholic” it is Roman Catholic, and therefore poison. The Christian year is the property of all Christians, and I can only rejoice that more and more evangelicals of every kind are discovering Advent and Lent. Hopefully, soon we will see the Christian year reclaimed in all churches, and a great unity of worship created as a result.

I love the lectionary. Three scripture passages read in a worship service! In my revivalistic roots, you could wave the Bible around, you could slam it on the pulpit, tear pages out for an illustration, talk about what it said and quote isolated verses, but you couldn’t actually read from it much except in Sunday School. Three scripture readings in church would have been a special Christmas program, or maybe January Bible study run amuck.

Of course, there is the irony. In liturgical churches, the Bible is read all the time and shows up in every part of worship. It’s been said before that even if the sermon is repeatedly terrible, one can still get the Gospel and a good deal of solid teaching in just the liturgy and prayers of the liturgical churches.

In addition, lectionary preaching is a wonderful alternative to the “whatever text strikes Brother Billy this week” method. Lectionaries bring Christians together, as many different churches read the same lessons and hear sermons from the same Gospel or Epistle passages. Lectionary resources allow preachers to share their ideas on how they will approach the text. And, of course, the lectionary keeps the scriptures front and center. You can’t just chase the issue of the day when the lectionary does its job.

I was in an Episcopal church the week before the big vote on ordaining Bishop Robinson. The text of the week, of course, had nothing to do with the issue of the day. The rector, who felt his congregation needed to hear about the controversial issue, made the text work for his purpose, but still had to come back and talk about the Gospel for more than half the sermon. I thought that this was a good example of how the lectionary resists our own agendas, and keeps us in the scriptures, preaching Christ.

I love the creeds, confessions and responses of liturgical worship. Nothing seems to agitate the non-liturgical Christian more than the twin sins of 1) saying things together and 2) saying something every week. Why is this so irritating? Apparently, these folks think they don’t do it.

Uhh…what? Ever heard of singing? Most Protestant Churches spend a large amount of worship time saying/singing the same things together with as much gusto as they can work up, but when you take away the instruments and the tune, suddenly it’s a march over the cliffs of Romanism. Isn’t that silly?

Further, last time I checked in at my home church, the spontaneous prayers and comments this week sound remarkably like last week. Take such weekly boomerangs as the offertory prayer offered by Deacon Smith: “Lord, just bless this offering, bless those who give. Bless the sick and be with our pastor. If there be anyone here today who is not saved, may they come to Christ before it is eternally too late. In Jesus name, Amen.” Sound vaguely familiar to anyone? This makes the weekly Collect a regular oasis of innovation.

One of my favorite times in the worship service is the congregational confession. Standing together, saying in unity the words that agree we are all failures and all in need of grace, I really feel at home. It’s the same with the Apostle’s and Nicene Creeds, the Lord’s Prayer, questions from the catechisms and our weekly responsive Psalms. Together, as one body, no one showing off, we confess our sins, announce our faith and talk to God in the words He has given us.

I love the fact that liturgical worship isn’t every worshiper doing whatever he or she wants to do. I’m not one to criticize the particular behaviors of any group of worshipers, but I would like to suggest that there is something really wrong with a service where people are given permission to try and outdo one another in participation and enthusiasm. Now many of my friends call this being “free” in worship, but this sort of freedom seems to have certain predictable consequences.

Showoffs and people who want attention really get into the act. People who want a life on the stage and screen feel invited to make that big impression on…..the rest of us? (When will the endless numbers of young people claiming to be called into “Christian music ministry” end?) Distractions are the norm, and the poor guy who just sits there gets bombed with guilt and constant admonitions to “get free” and “Shout/clap/jump/stomp/holler/dance for/to the Lord.”

Liturgical worship says if we can’t all do it, we probably won’t do it. It’s that simple. Oh sure, some people kneel and others don’t. Some sing louder than others. There are always ways for human nature to come through, but the idea here is to worship as a congregation, and the freedom to worship God comes along with a freedom from the domineering reign of the human ego and the demands to be recognizable to the culture.

I’ll say it plainly: some churches have turned worship into an embarrassing chaos that has no resemblance to the “decently and in order” command of the Apostle. We are fallen human beings. When you take off the restraints and tell us to be “free in God,” don’t be surprised at all if you get someone running around acting drunk or who knows what. Yes, that is a worse case scenario, but it is rapidly becoming too true to ignore. Thank God for the sanity of liturgical churches.

In fact, I may be most grateful of all that liturgy feels no need to impress the world by being like the world. It is the most un-contemporary, un-seeker friendly thing I know of in the church. It is the church’s own way of hearing and speaking, and so far, the world has made very little successful progress in turning the liturgy into a commercial for the spirit of the age. That is not to say that some liberals and innovators haven’t fallen for the temptation, and done violence to the Book of Common Prayer tradition in the name of something modern. But go to any liturgical church–anywhere–and marvel at how much of Christianity has survived even the onslaught of the blasphemers.

I love the fact that most of what is said outside of the sermon is scripted. In other words, I love it that I don’t have to listen to brother Billy Bob carry on about what God has laid on his heart THIS WEEK!!

I once had a long conversation with a thoughtful young man who couldn’t–absolutely couldn’t–come to grips with my preference for liturgical worship. I asked him if he ever got tired of hearing preachers talk. Just constantly talking to fill the hour. Especially, didn’t he weary of the banter and the cute comments and the unnecessary asides? Didn’t he sometimes wish he could come to church and hear the Bible, good words of encouragement, short, to-the-point prayers and a minimum of happy talk? He admitted that I was right, but no amount of preacherly imitation of Jay Leno would convince him to go where they were reading the service.

I understand his feelings, but once you are inside a good liturgical church working at making worship meaningful, that “scripted” feeling gives way to an appreciation of EVERY WORD that is spoken in the service. The value placed on every sentence and every small prayer or response is one of the richest treasures of the liturgy. Words ought not be thrown out as if they really didn’t matter, and they shouldn’t be used to manipulate in the way the world uses words to sell and corrupt.

Evangelicalism has become a cult of celebrities. Leading pastors are superstars, even cult-like figures of adoration and near-worship. Most evangelical worship encourages this imitation of the entertainer. Musicians, preachers, worship leaders all take their cues in style, dress and manner from the entertainment idolatry of our culture. Liturgical worship does not encourage this, and actually works against it by restraining the minister within the liturgy. The minister is the servant of the Word. He is ordained for the ministry of Word and sacrament, and his personality must become his servant that the Word might be heard and seen.

Whatever comes out of the preacher’s mouth are…the words of a man. A fallen man just like me. I know that the liturgy is also the words of fallen men, but there is something about the common service of worship in a high church that shows what can happen when human personality is harnessed to words selected precisely to give glory to God and not man. The liturgy has been “purified” like few human creations are, to bring the words of  men into subjection to the Holy Word of God. I like the result, and I believe it has done me good.

I love a lot of other things. I love the use of art and architecture to glorify God. I love the hymns. I love the sense of history. I love the humility at the heart of Liturgy. I love the constant return to the language of the Bible. I love the voices of people from across the ages becoming the voices of worshipers in my little church. I love the centrality of the Sacraments, especially of that neglected celebration around the Lord’s Table. I love the theologically driven message of liturgical worship, where God matters more than the audience.

What’s not to love?

Liturgical worship can be every bad thing the critics say. It can be empty, frozen, repetitive, insincere, and elitist. It certainly can go over the heads of some kinds of people. Like any human worship expression, the use of ritual can allow our fallenness to make words about God into merely background noise for the wandering human mind. It is more demanding than other kinds of worship, and you have to practice to be good at it. It is not friendly to the lazy or the easily bored.

Yet it appears to me that the answer to deadness in worship is not sheer innovation. It is not rejecting the liturgy that brings to us the Christian tradition in the very words of scripture itself.  The judgments of modern worship consumers on liturgy are not reliable. It will survive, and if we value it, it will thrive now and in the future. It will outlast polls and market studies, because it has outlasted every trend it has ever faced, and yet it continues to serve the church.

Reviving liturgy, bringing new worship expressions into old forms, new music, new approaches to congregational worship–all of these are important tasks for those of us who value liturgy, and believe that it must grow stronger and survive these times to once again bear witness to Christ when the innovations of the seeker-sensitive mega-church era have become yesterday’s abandoned fads.

Webber believes that the generations behind the boomers will be more open to liturgy than their parents, because they will be tired of the cynical attempts to lure them with flash. The language of liturgy has rich possibilities for reaching those who are weary of television and Powerpoint, and long for symbolism and substance to merge into something deep and genuine. Even Pentecostal/Charismatic churches have shown openness to looking at their own worship and reacquainting themselves with their liturgical, classically Christian roots. There is an exhaustion out there in the modern worship crowd, and liturgy is the oasis many will find in their staleness and dread.

I am glad to have found a home in liturgical worship and in an appreciation for the greater Christian tradition. I hope that my remaining years will give me opportunities to share this true renewal of Biblical worship with many of my evangelical friends. This is a treasure worth finding, and passing on, for with each new congregation that discovers the worship of the ancient church, the treasure of Christian tradition itself is made richer.

The retreat was in a monastery where I was invited to pray the offices with the monks who live and work there. I gladly went to most of the offices held in the church on their property. When you first enter the church you find six rows of chairs set out for the lay people, with a small, decorative wall separating this area from the monks’ carols. My first impression was how small and narrow the church is. There is a low ceiling where I sat (a balcony is above), and the whole section might only seat 40 or so people. Very small indeed.

Following the morning office of Lauds is the Eucharist, or Mass. And it’s at that time the gate in the small wall was opened so I and the other retreatants could go to the front of the church. We walked past the carols to a section where there were more chairs set out and … and there I saw just how wrong I was. This church wasn’t small. It was huge. The height and width and depth was far greater than I could have imagined from the spot in the back where I had been sitting.

The only time I could be in this largeness, though, was by coming forward for the Eucharist, the body and blood of Jesus. And that is when I realized this was not just a truth about this particular church. God had been inviting me to experience his bigness all along. If I have thought him to be small and narrow, it is only because I had been hanging back, not approaching him as he calls me to come. And he only calls in one way: through his body and through his blood.

It is the same call today that Jesus issued to those following him after the feeding of the 5,000. “Eat my flesh and drink my blood.” And it has the same effect today: Most, on hearing this, turn back.  Most would rather ask, “What shall we do, so that we may work the works of God?” That sounds so good, but who is really God in that case? Those doing the works become their own god. And Jesus was having none of that.

Come, eat my flesh. Drink my blood. This is the only door to the bigness of God. If we insist on doing the works ourselves, we will remain in the small, narrow confines of the back of the church. But if we do decide to go forward, no matter how large the front is, there is no room for our own accomplishments, our own efforts, our own will. There is room for one thing only: the dead Christ, on whom we are called to dine.

The dead Christ, on whom we are called to dine.

Does that offend you? It offended most of those who heard Jesus first say it. I mean, getting handed free bread and free fish is one thing. But all this talk about eating flesh and drinking blood? Now this so-called Messiah was just getting weird. The crowds left to find a more respectable teacher, one who would tell them what they could do, someone to outline the works of God for them. Hard work is good for the soul, right? Cannibalism is morbid and weird.

Then Jesus turned to the twelve disciples and asked, “Do you also want to leave?” That’s the question for you and me now. Do we want to leave? Faith is hard. Trusting Jesus is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. It is so much easier to sit in the back and do the works that please God. Yet by taking of Jesus’ body and blood I find that God is so much bigger than I ever imagined. And he is big without my help. He doesn’t need me to do anything in order for him to be much larger than I will ever need.

John Wilkinson talks about the absurdity of faith in his new book, No Argument for God: Going Beyond Reason in Conversations About Faith. In it he writes,

“Faith is difficult; it is hard to believe and requires risk and effort to grasp. Faith is wild and demands a lot from us as rational beings. Faith takes us on a crazy journey. By trying to make sense of things we bend the absurdities of faith to logic and make the way smooth. It is easy to believe in a faith that has been explained, but how likely are we to believe in a faith that violates everything we think we know about truth and reason?” (p. 35)

The key to the bigness of God is there for us all. It is the faith that the broken bread and the cup of wine is all we need. All are invited to dine, but most turn away without ever tasting of God as he truly is. Most prefer to be their own respectable god. I was that way for oh so many years. Now I have chosen to enter into the bigness of God through the death of his only son. I know it sounds like something a good Christian should have done a long time ago. I just seemed so, I don’t know, easy. Too easy. And yet once I went to the front of the church and saw how big God is and how I have to believe and not work, I was still faced with the question: “Do you also want to leave?” This time I said No, I would like to stay if I may. And he let me stay and dine with him.

For me, a Protestant, the partaking of the elements of the Eucharist was not permitted at this monastery, and I respect that. So, crossing my arms over my chest, I received a prayer of blessing from the priest instead. Yet I could still taste the bread and the wine somehow. Somehow Jesus still looked at me and said, Well done. Enter into the bigness of God.

I left as I entered–in silence. But in another way I left a totally different person. And the silence itself was now music in my soul. How can one ever be the same after encountering the Very Big God?

“I’ll take Life As We Know It Is Over for two hundred, Alex.”

“Answer: He just beat two former champions, but can’t spend any of the winnings.”

[Beep Beep] “Who is Watson?”

“Correct.”

Did you watch the Grammy Awards last week? If so, you probably noticed many of the artists thanking God for helping with their careers. God should have picked up some sort of award, don’t you think? This Wall Street Journal article says that “believing that God wants you to be famous actually improves your chances of being famous.” Really now, is that all it takes? Well, after watching some of the performers, talent certainly doesn’t come into the mix.

And what about God’s will vs. Man’s will? Is it ever possible that what we perceive as God’s will is not really his will, and what we desire in our hearts, even though it may not seem to be right, really is God’s will for us? This is the theme explored in the new Matt Damon movie, The Adjustment Bureau, based on a Philip K. Dick short story. It sounds intriguing.

You may have read that the Borders bookstore chain filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection this week, and plans to close at least 200 stores. Al Mohler writes why bookstores still matter. And for once, I totally agree with him.

The Bible is so much more complex than we allow it to be at times. Timothy Beal makes a good case for the comlexity of the creation story alone. Why is it that we try to get the Bible to fit into our way of thinking, instead of letting our way of thinking fit into the Bible? Or is that too complex of a question for a Saturday?

Great. First they win the Superb Owl, now they have the Virgin Mary. It’s enough to get me to give up cheese and bratwursts…

Have we mentioned how much we love reading Mark Galli? Here he is teaching evangelicals how to count.

I suppose I shouldn’t let this bother me. After all, aren’t we supposed to be influential in the marketplace? But somehow, it still does. I’m not quite ready to become Amish and unplug everything, but I’m getting there.

A tip o’ the Rambler’s birthday cap this last week to General Omar Bradley; Lorne Greene; Bill Russell; Woody Hayes; Tennessee Ernie Ford; Peter Tork; Jerry Springer; Mel Allen; Jimmy Hoffa; Florence Henderson; Edgar Bergen; Sonny Bono; Walter “Red” Barber; Michael Jordan; and Chaim Potok.

This week major league pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training in Arizona and Florida. All is once again well in the world. To celebrate the start of baseball season, let’s visit one of the funniest routines of all time. Who is on first? Right.

Classic iMonk Post

My list of must-read books for post-evangelicals is short. Newly added at the top of the list: Evangelicals and Tradition: The Formative Influence of the Early Church (Evangelical Ressourcement: Ancient Sources for the Church’s Future) by Baylor University professor of patristics and Baptist minister D. H. Williams (Ph.d, University of Toronto.).

Reviews of D.H. Williams’ work on the need for evangelicals and free churchers to recover the catholic tradition are everywhere on the web. (By both Roman Catholics and by leading Evangelicals.) Williams’ previous book, Retrieving the Tradition and Renewing Evangelicalism: A Primer for Suspicious Protestants, is universally acclaimed and I would predict similar accolades for his more recent work on the formative influence of the early church.

I have simply devoured Williams’ book. Seldom have I underlined and noted so much in one book. As a post-evangelical in spirit, I still have much to learn about the early church and the role of tradition. My own seminary training included absolutely zero specific courses on the first five centuries of Christian history, and no discussion at all of the place of tradition in regard to my own denominational heritage. So Williams has been both a revelation and a feast.

Williams knows what evangelicals (and some Roman Catholics) will be saying at his introduction and proclamation of the essential role of tradition and he is not shy about taking on those objections to build his own case. He demonstrates that tradition was essential for the vital work of the early church during its first centuries. He shows that this use of tradition is not hostile to any evangelical use of scripture, but the proper place of tradition will clarify the relationship of scripture in the development of creeds, baptismal language, catechisms, hymns, commentaries and works of theology.

He clarifies what is meant and not meant in sola scriptura, and corrects the misunderstandings common among both evangelicals and Roman Catholics. He takes a critical and helpful approach to the insistence and claims of evangelicals on specific theories of inerrancy. He shows how the reformers used tradition and how the later heirs of the reformers often bought into mythology in attempts to portray themselves as the recovery of the pure and ancient faith. Williams even takes on some of the current discussion of justification and imputation, showing how the early church fathers approached these subjects.

Williams, like Craig Allerd and as pointed out in reviews of his previous book, does not spend any ink responding to the specific Roman Catholic uses of traditions that are most troublesome to Protestants. He is clearly persuaded that a strong view of tradition does not bring anyone into a position where Roman Catholicism becomes a default option. I, and many others, are still waiting for Williams and his scholarly cohorts to specifically address the uses of tradition that create substantial differences between Christian communions whom he wants to share the heritage of the early church tradition.

Works like Evangelicals and Tradition are vital reading for young evangelicals seeking to find their way in the post-evangelical wilderness. With several centuries of Protestant propaganda in our heads and a resurgent evangelical Catholicism asserting itself, many of us want to claim the treasures of the early Christian tradition and apply them to the questions confronting evangelicalism today. Williams’ book is must reading for those who appreciate the vision of post-evangelicalism that is gaining influence today. Here is solid, documented, scholarly help for what many of us were never told and an antidote to the mythology and distortions that we wound up believing instead.

I cannot recommend Evangelicals and Tradition enough. Acquire this book and you will find, as I did, a rich return for your investment. Look for future reviews of books in the Evangelical Ressourcement series Williams is editing for Brazos Press.

N. T. Wright will retire as Bishop of Durham (England) this summer to take a position at St. Andrews in Scotland. Wright served as bishop for the past seven years before making what he calls the “hardest decision of my life.” St. Andrews is the oldest university in Scotland and the third oldest in the English-speaking world, having been founded in 1413. Wright will be a chair in New Testament and Early Christianity studies.

A four-year study is underway at Florida State University to try and determine if free will actually exists and, if so, how it works. Using a $4 million grant from the Templeton Foundation, scientists, philosophers and theologians are seeking to understand why we do the things we do. Thus far, Flip Wilson has not been asked to participate, presumably because everyone already knows his answer. (And also because he died in 1998. But his “teaching” lives on, thanks to YouTube.)

Noah’s Ark may have been found in Turkey. Members of Noah’s Ark Ministries International held a press conference in Hong Kong this week to announce they are “99.9 percent sure” that they have found the remains of the boat that carried Noah and his animal entourage through the Great Flood. Others believe it is just one more hoax among many. The question remains: Does it really matter if it is ever discovered? Would it be better for our exercise of faith if it never is really found? Michael Spencer wrote about Ark hunters here.

St. Andrew United Methodist Church in Toledo, Ohio will begin a new series starting this weekend: “The Gospel According To Johnny Cash.” Basing the series on the Man in Black’s final album, American VI: Ain’t No Grave, the church will present four messages titled Love, God, Murder and Life. The pastor, Loran Miracle, will even dress in black for the series. Parishioners, no doubt, expect their pastor to walk the line.

Meanwhile, Baptist church planter George Hill, attempting to start a church in Utah among primarily Mormon communities, had his funding withdrawn after he allegedly drank half a pint of beer during the “Beer and Bible” group he had started. Hill and his family must now either move or find other funding. “It’s troubling,” Hill told The Christian Post. “We’re out here trying to reach people as Jesus would.”

Over the Rhine, the husband and wife musical group from Ohio, is planning its first studio album in more than three years, teaming with veteran producer Joe Henry. Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist are taking a different path to the production of this record. Instead of signing with a major label, and having the label pay up front for the album’s production in exchange for up to 90 percent of the proceeds, OtR is asking its fans to help contribute the up-front money in exchange for everything from an early copy of the new record to an in-home concert. If you have not heard OtR, you are missing out on deep lyrics set to soul-stirring music.

And in a story that has been leftover for two weeks now, our friends at Out of Ur have come up with some of the latest “hip” church names and their meanings. Do not be upset if you find the name of your church on this list. Just laugh like the rest of us.

Birthdays from this past week include Atlanta Braves’ third baseman Chipper Jones; Doug Clifford (drums) and Stu Cooke (bass) from Creedence Clearwater Revival; the funniest woman alive, Carol Burnett; Al Pacino; Coretta Scott King; Casey Kasem; Eve Plumb (Jan on the Brady Bunch, pictured here both as Jan and today); Jay Leno; Dale Earnhardt; Cloris Leachman; Willie Nelson; and my father—Richard Dunn.

We are still looking to connect with authors who have something to say to followers of Jesus. eMoon wants to help get you published. Email myself (jeff@emoonpublishing.com) or our trade book publisher, Laree Lindburg (laree@emoonpublishing.com) this week.

Finally, Chaplain Mike and I are talking about having a day at the ballpark in honor of Michael Spencer. It would involve a weekend Cincinnati Reds game and dinner together, but we need to judge your interest, and we need to do it quickly. We will keep the cost reasonable, with proceeds going toward helping Denise Spencer with her ongoing needs. Let us know if you are interested in the comments or through email.

The series will resume on Monday, May 3.

Thanks for understanding.

Thanks to Steve and Eric for making it a fun time.