One final mountain to climb

When Moses was old and full of years, and his legs were no longer as fast as they once had been, God called him up the mountain.

The prophet climbed for most of the day, until the sweat on his face had turned dry and his skin was pulled taut like the papyrus scrolls he had held and read as a boy in pharaoh's court. His hair was matted to his head, and his eye had begun to twitch in time with the strange pulsing noise that came from the sun. His head was light but his arms were heavy, and God spoke to him as he had many years ago.

"Moses," the voice said. "Look down on the land below."

The prophet looked, and it was a beautiful thing to see. A river flowed through the land, and watered trees and fields alike. The prophet could almost taste the figs and the dates growing on the trees, he could almost smell the honey the bees kept in their hives, and his tired throat could feel clean water coursing through it.

It was a good land, he thought. "Flowing with milk and honey," as they used to say.

"Moses," God told him. "Lie down."

So Moses lay down, and the grass atop the mountain was soft and soothing on all the places where he ached. It was a nicer bed than he had lain in for forty years as he had led his people through the desert. It carried him back to his younger days in Midian with his wife; or further still, to the luxury he'd known in the royal court. It was odd to think that all this time such comfort had awaited him up here in a mountaintop meadow.

"Moses," God said. "You can no longer feel your legs."

And it was true. He couldn't. They had been bothering Moses for days beyond reckoning, and the climb up the mountain had brought aches to places he'd never felt before. But now they were relaxed and it seemed as though his legs had drifted away.

"Moses." He'd heard the voice of God thunder between the mountains when he'd climbed Sinai, but now the voice of the Almighty was little more than a whisper and he had to strain to hear it. "You can no longer feel your arms."

It was such a relief. He had carried such heavy loads with those arms, but they were fading away.

"Moses. Close your eyes."

The sky disappeared. The evening sun and the clouds vanished from view. There was no sky, there were no birds. All the prophet could hear was a steady drumbeat that filled his chest, his ears, his whole head.

And then -- "Moses. You're dead."

And there was silence on Mount Nebo. 

 

Copyright ©2022 by David Learn

Going, going, going, gone

 After 16 years, my church and I appear to have reached a parting of the ways. As the old saying goes, "It's not me, it's you."

It's a bittersweet thing, this parting of the ways. Because a church is a community built around a shared religious identity, it can be the foundation for deeply meaningful relationships; work of great psycho-emotional, spiritual and social labor; and a source of stability that anchors us amid difficult days. But it can also be deeply alienating, a source of heartache and frustration, and the cause of contention both internally and with others.

The split has its catalyst in the recent departure of our lead teaching and founding pastor. Tim and his wife came here about 17 years ago with a team of church planters. About two months ago, they announced they were leaving in order to be closer to their aging parents.

It caught us off-guard, as a church. There was no succession plan, and while a church can survive on its own momentum, that will only carry it so far. So the elders decided to form a transition team to keep the church going while it looks for a new pastor.

Good plan. Who's on the team?

Well, the elders appointed themselves, the worship leader, the children's ministry leader, the two hospitality leaders, and the two outreach leaders to the transition team. That's it, and that's the problem.
It's not the individuals chosen for the team, per se. I genuinely like and respect most of them.  It's how it was done, and what wasn't done at all.

The elders, who are not elected by the congregation but appointed by sitting elders to what apparently is a lifetime position, simply picked the transition team, and that was it. No congregational say in who handles the search, and not even an invitation to anyone who might be interested in being a part of the search to join the time.

That's it. A team that is essentially accountable to no one, consisting of three married couples and three other people.
To their credit, they're letting us know what they've decided to do and where things stand. And they "welcome input," which practically speaking means if you have an idea they'll politely listen to it, but if they don't see it themselves, they won't advocate for it, and it quickly will be forgotten.

But I'm patient and don't want to be unduly cynical, so I send in a list of questions I have about the process.

And wait for a response.

And wait.

While I'm waiting, I approach one of the elders and explain that I'm interested in being a a part of this effort. I point out that while I was on the school board I three times was part of the team that looked for a new director, and the third time I led the search myself. This is a school with an $8 million budget and over 50 employees. Hiring someone to do a search like this could cost a few thousand dollars, but I'd give my professional skills to the church for free.

And I delicately point out that it's a good idea for the search to solicit involvement from all the active stakeholders in the congregation: ministry team, elders, parents, youth.

I get told, no, they're not bringing anyone else in.

Then two weeks after I sent in my questions. I get told "I'm sorry you feel frustrated by the lack of response," but still no answers to half my questions.

So yeah, part of me is feeling the pain of rejection, because I wanted to have an active part in this search. I've been a part of this church for sixteen years, and have always lent a hand when asked. But when I've asked to help out in some bigger capacity -- lead a Bible study, be a part of church leadership, engage in mercy ministry or social justice projects, run a drama ministry, preach a Sunday service once in a while -- I never get a response, even though these are all things I've done in the past.

Not "no," just .... nothing. No reason, no explanation. Nothing.

Sixteen years I've been here, and nothing of myself that I value is worth anything to this church. Not even the part that generally believes a no is almost as easy to accept as yes, especially when someone takes the time to share a coherent reason, even if the reason is stupid.

I stuck around as long as I did because the previous pastor guy was a close, personal friend of mine, and as we were friends I knew he listened to me. I had his ear.

Now I've got nothing but "I'm sorry you're bothered by bothersome behavior" and "Sorry, we have no use for you. Go sit down and be happy while we make decisions for you."

That's too authoritarian for me.

I told my friend once while he was pastor, "The elders can appoint to run ministries or lead a Bible study whom they want. It's their choice, and I respect that, even if the answer makes no sense. And if I really don't like it, I know where the door is."

That I do.

And I'm walking through it.

On Believing in the Bible

 I got asked Wednesday if I believe in the Bible. As God is my witness, I have no idea how to answer.

Believe in the Bible? How could I not? The 66 books that comprise it -- 73 if you're Catholic, and 81 if you're Orthodox -- express the foundations of the Christian faith. It's all there, from the Fall of Humanity, right through the Crucifixion, and all the way to the end. Heaven descends to earth and God's fondest wish comes true as he walks among us. The Bible says that, and I believe it.

But it sounds so cheap to put it that way. I'm amazed when people actually read their Bibles. But believe in it? What does that even mean?

The Bible talks about a dome that's placed over the earth to keep the land dry. When it's time for it to rain, God has to open floodgates in the dome to let the water through. The Bible also talks about warehouses filled with snow, and it mentions talking donkeys and snakes with legs. It names people who lived for 900 years, women who gave birth when they were 90, and men who had children when they were even older than that. With its left hand the Bible tells you to roast the sacrificial meat and not to boil it, and with its right hand it says of that same sacrifice that you should boil the meat and not roast it.

The Bible tells us that Jesus celebrated the first night of Passover with his disciples, and then it tells us that he was crucified on the first night of Passover at the time they were sacrificing the lambs.

Believe in the Bible? Is this a statement of faith, or a declaration of identity? "Stand back, for we are the people who believe in the Bible."

I remember when I believed in the Bible like that. It gave me such a headache. There are a handful of places in Scripture that appear to say women have no business being in ministry. They're mostly in letters Paul wrote, and they read like someone spilled fresh pizza on a nice new rug and couldn't get the stains out no matter how hard they tried. There are a half-dozen other passages that read like someone butchered a pig on fresh linen. They're called clobber passages, and people use them to justify throwing children out of the house for being gay.

"You have to read Scripture the way it is," I often was told. After all, we believe in the Bible.

But the Bible's an old book, and not even one book. It's a library, a collection of mythology, legends, folk tales, law, history, poetry, philosophy and folk wisdom, genealogy, census records and polemic. It includes personal correspondence and letters to whole communities, and a couple books written in a style so rare today that it's hard to tell if the author wrote it in code or just after he found some colorful mushrooms to snack on. The Bible was written between 3,000 and 2,000 years ago on the other side of the planet in Hebrew. Aramaic and Greek, by a group of people who didn't even wear pants. Anyone can read it, but to understand it properly is going to take work.

The Bible is the record of a conversation, a long one, among a people who were trying to get to know God while he was trying to get to know them. Because it's a conversation, there are a lot of voices and they don't always agree. Some are harsh and xenophobic, like Ezra. He saw his people marrying Gentile women and said "You're polluting the holy race! Get rid of them." Others are as  warm and welcoming as a plate of fresh cookies and a glass of milk, like the book of Ruth, which welcomes and praises the very women whose presence drove Ezra crazy.

They were all included for a reason, but they're not equal in value. Jesus' favorite book was probably Isaiah, and like a good Jew, he knew the Torah well. You know what he didn't quote? The book of Judges.

Who believes in the Bible? The one who reads a clobber passage and decides, "Yup, gays are sick and in rebellion against God," or the one who tries to reconcile what he's been told the passage means with the sister who was there for him when he desperately needed someone? The one who listens when he's told what the Bible says, and accepts it; or the one who listens, thinks about it, and studies for years to understand the people and society that produced the Bible, so she can understand it in its original context?

Do I believe in the Bible? It takes a lot of hard work, but I'm doing my best.


Copyright © 2022 by David Learn. Used with permission.

A heavenly choir of voices

 In the book of Revelation, St. John the Divine describes a moment when he was swept up into a heavenly worship of service.

There before the throne of the Lamb, John reported seeing a choir of the saints, gathered from every tribe, nation and language singing the song of the Lamb. If you’ve ever attended a multilingual service, you’ll have to agree. It is an experience as tremendous as it is unforgettable.

One Sunday morning a million years ago when I was a middle school teacher living in the Lehigh Valley, I got up early one morning. got in a car with two co-workers and someone I’d never met before, and made the trip to 51st Street. There we visited Dave Wilkerson’s Times Square Church, a church that without question reflected the demographics of its city. If there is any church with representatives from every tribe, nation and language, this was it.

How do you lead a church like that? One could say “You’re in America, learn English,” but this church didn’t do that. The sermon was in English, with running translation provided into a babel of language. When it came to worship, though, they did the only sensible thing. They took turns.

This particular week, worship was led by Filipino members of the congregation. In Tagalog.

The Tagalog choir took their spots on stage, and they began to sing. Don’t know Tagalog? No problem! The songs were in play at a lot of churches, songs like “He is Exalted” and “Lord I Lift Your Name on High,” so they were easy enough for congregants to sing along with in their own language.

And they did. While my companions and I sang in English, people around us sang in French, Spanish, Bangladeshi, Kreyol or whatever other language they preferred, or they tried to read the words on the screen and sing along in Tagalog. It was an amazing experience. It wasn’t Babel; it was Pentecost.

A multiethnic church in my own city does this as well, on a smaller scale. When I visited a few years ago, worship was conducted in three languages, as lyrics in Korean, Spanish and English wove in and out in a groundswell of praise.

I don’t know exactly why Times Square Church took the approach to worship that it did. Maybe it was the path of least resistance, maybe they saw in it a fast track to growth that English-only services wouldn’t provide. Maybe Wilkerson just loved the sound of Romanian in the morning and knew he could get it in rotation this way.

What I do know is that little decisions like that go a long way to deciding what an organization will look like when it grows up. Give the hungry a plate of food and give the thirsty a cup of cold water, and people will sit and talk with you. Celebrate their language, their culture and their heritage — give them a place at the table as grand as your own — and you’re setting them up to be partners and friends for the long haul, ready to give all they have for the mission.

That kind of relationship isn’t something you just find in a church. That’s a piece of heaven.

Copyright 2022 by David A. Learn. Used with permission.