I was raised in the Christian church. It is one of the great gifts of my life. The church is still my home.
As a boy I was persuaded a magical membrane encompassed a Christian church. As you passed through the membrane, it marked you with an essential truth. You were one of the God-people. Those who chose to reside outside the membrane could not claim this eternal privilege. I was taught to take great pride, seasoned with gratitude, that I existed among those inside the church.
I continue to serve in the church. My eyes continue to take in the sounds, the faces, the symbols. The chairs are arranged so that everyone is facing the altar of Christ. Every body is pointed at the One from whom we all receive life. The very shape of the sanctuary reinforces the membrane belief. Those outside shuffle to and fro, oriented every which way, toward the things of this world. But for those inside, our bodies are our compass, pointed at the cross.
There is only one problem.
While my body is oriented toward the altar, my soul so often is not. Many Sundays, when my eyes shift from the external—the stage, sermon, and sacraments—to the internal, I must admit that my heart is not on Christ.
I wonder what would happen if we re-arranged the chairs of the church to reflect the congregants’ true heart longings. How many chairs would still face the cross? How many would face some other place, a place far away? How interesting it would be to see the seating arranged according to the actual state of our hearts.
Then I wonder, what if we applied the same experiment to those beyond the membrane, giving a chair to every person in my neighborhood? How many would have chairs pointed at least partly toward the cross? Their conscious selves may not know that the gospel is the answer, but their longings would betray their desire for it. These people are the ones the Bible might call “the stranger.”
“The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his servants to those who had been invited to the banquet to tell them to come, but they refused. … Then he said to his servants, ‘The banquet is ready. So go to the street corners and invite to the banquet anyone you find.’ So the servants went out into the streets and gathered all the [strangers] they could find” (Matt. 22:2-3, 8-10).
Are we dazzled by our neighbors’ stories, full of their beliefs, hopes, wounds, and experiences?
How might that begin to look in today’s church?
Being dazzled
I live in a delightful neighborhood in Portland, Oregon. Portland has gained quite a reputation. It has often been called the least-churched city in North America. Whatever the reputation, my little faith community and I knew that we wanted to understand our neighbors better. We wanted to understand their lives of faith.
So, we decided to ask them. It was only a beginning, but we compiled a survey and interviewed 200 of our neighbors. We interviewed folks in coffee houses and schoolyards, at bus stops and in parks, on front porches and at street corners.
We asked about their perceptions of religion and their perceptions of themselves as religious/spiritual beings. It was fascinating. To our surprise everyone was more than willing to help us out. (It’s amazing how responsive people can be when we religious folk humbly ask for help.)
We asked, “What, if any, spiritual tradition do you currently claim or practice?”
We could not have predicted the responses.
One quarter of the respondents claimed one version of Christianity or another: Catholic, Presbyterian, etc. Another smattering represented a potpourri of other traditions: Buddhist, Muslim, Jewish, Unitarian, atheist, etc.
Now, here is the amazing part. More than half the respondents (people we were inconveniencing with our appeal for help) told us a story. Yes, not a label, a story! Their story was about their process of adopting a very individualized belief system, one that could not fit into any publicly recognized category.
Half! One hundred people gave us a story and in sharing it, gave us a piece of their life.
As a religious person, I am aware of my tendency to define people by which side of the “church membrane” they stand. The world is made up of two teams: Christians and everyone else. And if I am honest, I find myself wanting to dismiss those on the other team.
However, if we go back to the “chairs experiment,” I really have no idea of the ultimate direction another person’s life is heading.
To love someone is to be captivated by their story. That includes their experiences, yes, but also their beliefs, convictions, and hopes for themselves and the world.
If I love someone, I find her or him to be fascinating. Like a grandmother listening to her seven-year-old grandson talk about his personal zoo of stuffed animals. Like two lovers, lying on a lawn, faces inches apart, sharing dreams. Like best friends reunited after years apart.
Are we dazzled by our neighbors’ stories, full of their beliefs, hopes, wounds, and experiences? Are they captivating to us? Do we see them as eternally valuable and their perspectives a profound gift?
Our 200 surveys was only a start. We wanted to collect more stories, longer stories, deeper stories. We increased our volunteerism in local schools, neighborhood associations, and non-profits in order to meet our neighbors on “neutral turf.”
We also started a Sunday evening sacred meal in my dining room. For the last six years, we have hosted a weekly meal for any of our neighbors to attend. The meal includes good food and sacred readings from the Bible and historical prayers. Ten to eighteen people come each week. We have had Buddhists, ex-Christians, atheists, and searchers. It has been a table of beloved “strangers.” We sit and listen to each other’s sacred stories. Everyone knows there will be Jesus-words shared and prayed, but somehow that is part of the attraction.
Think in questions
I spent a few wonderful years as a volunteer chaplain at Reed College in Portland, Oregon. Some of the stories from my Reed years were chronicled in Donald Miller’s book, Blue Like Jazz.
Reed is a unique place. Princeton Review annually declares Reed College among the least religious colleges in America. It is the sort of place some pastors use in sermon illustrations, in the same way that they talk about North Korea. Some churches send small teams to Reed on spiritual safari to observe the wild pagans in their natural habitat.
But I assure you that what I experienced was quite the opposite. It was one of the great garden spots in my Christian story. It is true that most Reedies want nothing to do with organized religion, but I found them to be one of the most challenging (and encouraging) communities with whom to cultivate my faith.
When I first arrived, there were only a few students on campus who were willing to identify with the historical Jesus-faith. I wanted to find some ways to be an effective spiritual presence on campus, so I sought their advice.
Reed is built on a classical learning model. All the students study the great works of Western civilization, which includes the Bible. In fact Reedies read the Bible more than most Christians I know. I wanted to help them do more than treat it as just a historical document. I wanted them to believe it.
So I asked the students how best to proceed. I suggested a Bible study. I suggested a lecture series of great Christian scholars. I thought we could bring some answers. You see, I was stuck. I could only think in religious declarations.
Then those few Jesus-students shared with me some wisdom. They said, “Tony, if you want to move these students, stop talking in answers and start talking in questions. Trust the power of questions. Trust the power of God’s Spirit to show up when eternal questions are filling the room.”
So that is what we did. Every Thursday evening we would gather students, ask a question, and let the power of conversation, tickled by God’s Spirit, fill the room. Our questions went like this: What is God like? What does it mean to be human? What does it mean to be spiritually whole? Why is the world so screwed up? Why are we so screwed up? Why was Jesus such an influential person in human history? What is the meaning of the cross? What is the meaning of the resurrection? What does spiritual conversion look like? What does it mean to be good?
Our Thursday evening group started with just a handful of us. It was a place where every opinion was heard. Every person was a full participant in the process of discovery. We Jesus-folk would also share our ideas, inspired by the Scriptures. In just a few months the group grew to dozens. Some became inspired by Jesus. We all began to follow him in fresh ways.
Today, when I sit in a Portland coffeehouse, the topic of faith inevitably comes up. I honestly can’t help it. My unchurched and spiritually independent neighbors might notice what I am reading or ask me what I am thinking about. When they do, I try to answer them in questions. “This book is causing me to ask, ‘what is God like?'” Or “I’m thinking about why do I struggle so much to be a good person?” Or “Lately I’m inspired by the question, Does Jesus still have a place in our modern globalized world?”
That is when the conversation takes off. You see …
Religious declarations draw a line in the sand; questions open up relationship.
Religious declarations set up a monologue; questions reveal a desire for dialogue.
Religious declarations put people at odds; questions create camaraderie.
Religious declarations catalyze debate; questions catalyze exchange.
Religious declarations say, “I have arrived”; questions say, “I always have more to learn; I am on a journey.”
Chocolate Cake or Sunsets?
As a boy, I was taught it was essential to “share my faith.” But what does “share” mean? Words are like bowls, filled with meaning. Often the bowl contains an influential metaphor.
For me, in those formative years, the major metaphor was this: Sharing my faith is like sharing a chocolate cake. Chocolate cake is something that everybody wants. Who doesn’t like chocolate cake? As a Christian, I was one of the lucky ones. I had been entrusted with this wonderful thing. I get to enjoy the cake for sure, but if I was a loving Jesus-person, I would always look for opportunities to share my cake with others.
If we learn to talk in questions and not just religious declarations, we will be amazed by how much our faith is nurtured by these shared encounters.
It had been given to me (and to others who believed like I do). It was our possession. If other people wanted some, they had to come to us to get it. And cake only travels one direction: one person is the distributor and the other is the receiver. In “sharing,” the other person has the opportunity to receive my stories, my beliefs, my insights … my cake.
While the cake metaphor is commendable, it also has many limitations.
It’s a condescending exchange. It treats the gospel as a commodity. The cake metaphor assumes that one person has fully arrived and the other has nothing. It ignores the fact that I am also fighting to turn my chair toward the cross of Christ everyday.
Is there is another metaphor? A different way to think about “sharing”?
What if “sharing faith” is not like sharing a chocolate cake but more like sharing a sunset?
Imagine two people standing on a cliff over the Pacific Ocean, watching the sun slowly slip down the sky and dip into the distant water. When you share a sunset, you stand shoulder-to-shoulder, not face-to-face. Sharing a sunset draws people together.
When you share a sunset, both people are caught up in the beauty, the grandeur, the inspiration. When you share a sunset, everyone has equal opportunity to contribute thoughts. It is a remarkably shared experience.
One of those present may have more specifics to share about sunsets. One of the people may have studied and therefore has unique insights into photo-physics, atmospheric density, and the relationship of celestial objects. But the other person, even if they haven’t studied, may have unique perspectives on the creative power of color or the hope that beauty evokes.
Shoulder-to-shoulder the experience grows. Both are learners. Both are contributors.
The conversation has no set course. It takes on a life of its own as these two neighbors consider the awe of this everyday miracle, this mystery. Sometimes the best way to share is just to sit in silence. Sometimes it releases a sadness since clouds hide the sky. Often though, a truly shared exchange will produce unexpected laughter, profoundness, or even transformation.
Ultimately, no one owns a sunset. It releases awe. A sunset is clearly not painted by mere humans. It is not the product of our limited world. It leaves everyone wanting more.
It is something to be shared.
Our world is full of cliff tops to share with your neighbors. There are centers of common-good where people come inspired by meaning (volunteering at local schools, non-profits, or community centers). There are lingering spaces in every town (coffee shops, pubs, or parks). And there is always the opportunity to invite people to spaces of story exchange, like your dining room table.
The people we are with sense when we are truly dazzled by their stories. They will be inspired to hear that we are also souls on a journey. They will feel truly invited if we learn to talk in questions and not just religious declarations.
We will be amazed by how much our faith is nurtured by these shared encounters.
Tony “The Beat Poet” Kriz is author in residence at Warner Pacific College in Portland, Oregon. tonykriz.com
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