When (If) We Gather Nov. 29, 2020 Dr. Roger Ray, pastor
This has to be said; so let it now be said. Whoever you are, whatever in other respects your life may be, my friend, by ceasing to take part in the public worship of God, as it now is, you have constantly one guilt the less, and that a great one: you do not take part in treating God as a fool . . .[1]
—SØREN KIERKEGAARD
Christian liturgy should intensify the “cognitive dissonance” between the community of faith and the world surrounding it.[2]
—RICHARD JOHN NEUHAUS
I had the opportunity to host Christine and Bishop John Shelby Spong for a dinner in my home a few years ago. The conversation got around, as it usually does among senior citizens, to talk about our children. We both remarked that our children were evidently sufficiently affected by growing up in the home of a pastor to choose to never go to church again. John shared with me that his daughter had explained to him, “The church has all of the answers to questions that no one is asking.”
Generally speaking, I couldn’t agree more! It was at about that time that I was becoming aware of the fact that people of the 21st century, especially progressive people, were just no longer interested in hearing any more about the Bible. John continued to write new books about the Bible, as have some of my other friends in the academia. But once we had convinced our liberal constituents that God didn’t write the Bible or any other so called “sacred” books and that scripture is a product of sometimes very sincere and often quite misguided ancient authors, then the obvious question becomes, why should anyone make knowing more about that a priority? A generation ago, most people would have at least believed that the content of the Bible was important but now, those tables have turned, and only the fraction of society that still goes to evangelical churches still pretend to care about scripture and, let’s be honest, it doesn’t seem to have a lot of influence on even them.
Once we are set free from the mental prison of traditional religions, we realize that both heaven and hell are creations of the church that have been used by the clergy to control their congregations. Fear of eternal punishment in hell and the desire for eternal retirement in heaven have served as the invisible carrot and stick to keep people coming to church, making offerings, and tolerating tedious sermons and enduring absolutely horrible music.
So, once you accept that heaven and hell are not real, that God is not a finger wagging puritanical parent in the clouds, and that not only is the Bible not a reliable repository of eternal truths but nothing else is either and it is up to us to figure out what is true, what is right, and what is good, then, if you are still inclined to get together with a bunch of like-minded people, what do you do when you gather? And here is the big challenge:
I believe that the number one thing that poisons modern communities of faith is nostalgia. Let me give you an illustration of what I mean: In 1997 the congregation of National City Christian Church in Washington, D.C. extended an invitation for me to come and be their senior minister. It was an amazing opportunity for a 40 year old preacher. I didn’t end up accepting the invitation for a laundry list of perfectly good personal and professional reasons but one of the issues that made me shy away from the opportunity was the list of expectations that I was going to inherit had I gone there.
The sanctuary building is a cathedral, immense and imposing in its architecture. The cathedral was flanked by an office building on one side and an education building on the other. In the 1950’s and 60’s, when Washington was largely populated by the people who worked in government, for the military, or in local businesses, the church had a thriving Sunday School program, replete with all of the youth groups, children’s choirs, and family centered activities that were a part of almost all churches of that time. But as Washington became either too expensive or too dangerous for people to raise their families there, and as life was being modernized by the new technologies of entertainment and communication, they found themselves with a much smaller congregation, only a remnant of a Sunday School program, and not even a hint of youth groups and children’s choirs.
Their remaining members commuted in from Maryland and Virginia, as did the staff. Some traveling a couple of hours each way. But, without saying it just this way, the leaders of the congregation wanted me to recreate what they remembered as being their halcyon days of the 1960’s. I wanted their pulpit. I wanted to be preaching blocks from the White House with an opportunity to have an impact on the elected officials on Capitol Hill, but I knew that there was no way to actually succeed in what they were asking me to do.
National City Christian Church was, at least in 1997, an extreme example of the way nostalgia is strangling the life out of most denominational churches. It is true in a corporate way, in that there is an institutional memory of a more vibrant and exciting church that they want to get back, and there are individual memories that make people cling to ancient liturgies and hymns that defined their childhood but which they would never choose to play in their car or their home because no one really likes that music, and more than merely not enjoying it, it no longer carries the theological meaning that it might have carried in decades past.
For nearly a century, educated clergy have been trying to make the church experience relevant again by gradually making their services more progressive. They redefine the meaning of religious terms. They toned down the fear and made nearly universal promises of eternal reward and they even tried to update the language of scripture and hymns to make them less gender and race biased.
To a certain degree, such changes have been helpful even if, in the end, only slightly more helpful than rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Look, people can change. People do change. But the sorry truth is that people don’t change very much and even then, they don’t do it very fast. When we started this progressive congregation in 2008, I think we had a firm grip on a modern and fairly academic view of theology. But when it came down to what we were going to do when we all got into a room together on Sunday mornings, our habits tended to have much more influence than our intellect.
We had preludes and postludes, candles and doxologies, prayers of intercession and communion and even an occasional baptism. We sang progressive hymns, written by intelligent liberals, that were largely set to what I can only describe as being absolutely unbearable music. Initially, at least, we even gave some homage to the common lectionary, increasingly ignoring the authority it once held over us.
I eventually all but ceased to wear vestments and I often found myself more ready to discard elements of the liturgy that were mere shadows of the supernatural theism of the churches we had all left behind, but I regularly found members of the church to be less eager to abandon these nostalgic ties to what made church meaningful to us in the past.
It is difficult to pinpoint but you will hear people saying that a particular service did or did not “feel” like church. It is akin to the smell of popcorn when you go to a movie theater. Most of us have not been in a movie theater since the Covid-19 pandemic began, but when we get to go back, whether you want to take off your mask and actually eat popcorn in the theater or not, the smell of it when you enter the theater is closely associated with seeing a movie. They might, for health reasons, stop serving concessions at movies and most of us would still go to see our favorite films on the big screen, but without the smells associated with the experience, it just wouldn’t feel the same.
Maybe the decade of transformation was necessary for us to begin to give more weight to function and less importance to form but now, at this writing, when churches that care about the lives of their members are not meeting in person, while we are a church in exile, appearing only on the internet to those who seek us out, we have to ask what we will do when the current health crisis is past?
Surely the advent of vaccines will eventually bring the current pandemic to an end but none of us are so naive as to believe that there will not be another pandemic in the near future on this over-crowded, stressed planet. We went from having a fairly formal though reformed service in our Sunday gatherings into a stripped down, made for internet live-stream service, that was comprised of a meditation, a wisdom lesson, a sermon, three secular songs performed by professional musicians, and a benediction/charge at the end.
After several months of this, we further reduced our online offering to just a sermon or speech. What will we do when we can invite our congregation to reassemble for an in-person service?
As a matter of health safety, I assume that we will no longer have a formal “passing of the peace” asking church members to shake hands and interact is just not smart. I further assume that there will be no more virus spreading congregational singing or unison readings. And I hope that we will take this forced break as a time to take final steps in ridding ourselves of the vestiges of the more magical elements of traditional faith. Even a reinterpreted ritual of communion cannot help but reinforce some of the supernatural theism and magical thinking of our more sacramental past.
Why do post-theistic people gather at all? Isn’t it to build community? Don’t we gather to give one another mutual encouragement, sometimes support in times of need or crisis, as well as organizing to be a positive force in a changing world? Don’t we try to educate, inform, and inspire one another in our times of gathering?
So, while I am not throwing down the gauntlet to rid the modern church of all rituals, I do want to emphasize that what is useful to our purposes as a community is music that lifts our spirits and informs our noble causes, sermons that inspire and teach, as well as meditations and wisdom lessons that both educate and emphasize the values we share in common.
I hope that progressive churches will economically survive the current pandemic and the inevitable pandemics that will follow. Most of what passes for spiritual education and inspiration will likely continue to migrate towards online formats but for those of us who find value in community, I hope that by summer of 2021, we will have a place to go. And even more, I hope that the church we go to will not be tethered to nostalgia and continually offering profound answers to questions no one is asking.
I hope that our churches will emerge as healing and empowering communities of faith that can bind up the wounds of the broken and make those in power nervous. I hope that our churches will be centers of education and activism, organizing intelligent people of good will to become advocates for the environment, for the poor, to fight racism and classism, to welcome immigrants, and provide safe space for those of different sexual orientations and races.
This time of pandemic church closures will end up killing off a lot of congregations. There is a part of me that isn’t even sad about that. As important as the church has been to me in the past, if churches are going to just reopen to try to reignite a passion for nostalgia, I would just as soon they stay closed. But if we can use this time to reinvent the church, so that we can emerge from our time in exile as a more meaningful, a more useful, a more prophetic church then I hope we come back from this sabbatical roaring like a lion. The world doesn’t need our dusty old texts and tedious hymns, but the world is in desperate need of real leadership. I never tire of that line in Bruce Cockburn’s song, “Lovers in a Dangerous Time,” where he reminds us that we have to keep kicking at the darkness until it bleeds daylight.
We have a lot of darkness in the world that still needs kickin, and, if I may appropriate the saying, “I just came here to do two things: chew gum and kick darkness, and I’m all out of gum.”