Spiritual Chapter

My spiritual story is defined by vulnerability. It is a story of vulnerability.

My spiritual story is not a closed remnant of the past. It is a living rough draft: edited in each moment; re-layered by each new experience; reshaped by new people, old friends, and anonymous strangers; re-reflected, re-remembered, and re-lived; endlessly rewritten, reworked, and rediscovered.

This is one chapter in a spiritual story of vulnerability. My story of vulnerability is translated through the peculiar and important voices of each chapter, and it is in this particular chapter that I found the virtuous voice of humility. Against such a backdrop I recall moments of becoming, theological re-birthing, and religious reorientation.

Becoming

I am vulnerable. But I haven't always been aware of my vulnerability.
As a youngster growing up in Oregon I clung closely to my religious upbringing and “moral center.” A member of the Nazarene Church, my religiosity, faith, and morality grounded my confidence and motivated my movements. I didn't swear, I didn't run in church, I didn't celebrate Halloween, I always played nice (okay not always), and I learned from the bible through Sunday school, bible quizzing, memory verses, children's church, and family devotionals.

Just as “learning the bible” was important, so was learning. I was a good kid, and I did what good kids do: excel in school. Of course, as I found out, the whole learning process is not limited to absorbing the “facts” of the external world. The learning process may move us to engage ourselves, and to become, self-consciously, the subject of our own understanding. As my learning turned inward, my vulnerability emerged: What if the religion I practice, the faith I affirm, and the world as I understand it could be otherwise? My first answer: it can't be otherwise, so find reasons why everything is as you see it.

As a “high schooler” in Kentucky I was constantly in pursuit of justification for the Christian (specifically my Christian) way of life, way of thinking, and way of reading the bible. I felt that “knowing God” meant knowing God. I thought that reading the NIV student bible, through a few selected New Testament passages, was the only correct way to read the bible. And thus, from my proper reading of the bible, I recognized, logically, that there was a very limited way to correctly live. In all this, there was an underlying desire for total assurance to guarantee that my faith was not delusional, stupid, or ridiculous. I embarked on a Cartesian-like quest for spiritual validity. I wanted a firm, solid, tremorless ground for my faith to build a life.

It was in looking for a tremorless ground that I experienced an earthquake. College presented all kinds of challenges to my thinking, both religiously and otherwise. Hearing new theological perspectives, engaging alternative readings of the biblical text, and, most importantly, questioning the very assumptions which grounded my faith, denominational affiliation, and life proved—at least for a time—to be a faith crisis.

I was immersed in a chaotic course of questioning which drew me deeper into unsettling insecurity about the contingencies of my existence, choices, and cultural location. I began to sense that I might have been wrong, that I might not have it all together, and that maybe, just maybe, there were other ways of thinking, reading, and doing which carried purpose, meaning, and truth. At the core of my crisis dwelt the most problematic thought: What if the God I've “known”, the God I've enjoyed, the God I've lived for does not exist as I've understood it? What if God doesn't exist at all? What if Christianity is an invalid, abusive system of corruption and greed which inculcates blind followers toward meaningless existence? This was a bad thing: an earth-shaking, ground-rocking crisis. This was my crisis of faith.

If the world isn't just as I've thought it to be, just as I've known it to be, just as securely in my grasp as I've secretly wanted it to be, then what is this world and this “God”? What if the religion I practice, the faith I affirm, and the world as I understand it could be otherwise? My second answer: it must be otherwise.

I entertained thoughts of atheism, and, for a while, felt numb enough to consider myself “okay” with the world around me. But my vulnerability wasn't solved. I still had reasons to think God could exist, or that my now old “faith” might have had some valid grounding. It was amidst this endless questioning and reconsidering that I came to a sudden and transformative realization. Maybe my problem is not with the content of my questions or doubts, but with questioning and doubting itself.

Up until that point, I hadn't really admitted the possibility of being wrong. Sure, we all say “yeah, I could be wrong” but I hadn't really admitted it. I may have admitted being wrong at particular instances in the past. But I definitely hadn't admitted the possibility that in everything I do, think, or say, I might be wrong. I hadn't admitted my vulnerability. I hadn't entertained the possibility of fallibility authentically, truthfully... existentially.

Theological Re-birthing

I am vulnerable. But I haven't always been aware of its life-affirming power.
In a moment of authenticity and truthfulness, my vulnerability transformed itself into humility. The insecurity and insufficiency of my life became the groundwork for the meaning and direction which I applied to life's events. Christianity, religion, and faith no longer concerned me in terms of absolute epistemic justification. Instead, my faith became a transparent resting place before God. As a finite, limited, unsure person I knelt before the alter of sufficiency and declared my own lack thereof.

I finally admitted that I could be wrong about my faith, my religion, and my encounter with the world, but despite that admission I affirmed my faith, my Christian heritage, and my interaction with the world nonetheless. I found the courage to affirm myself—to live—in spite of my insecurity, vulnerability, and limitedness.

The result was a humble faith, ever aware of fallibility and insufficiency, but willing to push forward in spite of such difficult circumstances. This new courage was powerful. And my life took on renewed purpose as a Christian living with uncertainty.

Religious Re-orientation

I am vulnerable. And I must live that way.

He has told you, O man, what is good;
And what does the LORD require of you
But to do justice, and to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God?
--Micah 6:8

Through a succession of strange events I came across a Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) congregation where, eventually, I would be asked to pastor. Knowing full well that they recognized my lack of training, absence of previous experience, and young age, I agreed. In the most humbling experience of my life, I discovered the beauty of sharing my vulnerability with others. My vulnerability was not something I ran from, but something I embraced with others. It was in our vulnerability, admitted before each other, that I was able to connect and commune with a congregation of faithful men and women in such a way as I had never experienced before. It was in this communion that I truly shared myself, in all my weakness, with those around me. In so doing, I walked alongside a woman going through a traumatic divorce, a middle-aged man battling a life of drug-abuse and family hardship, a young girl leaving behind her family to chase academic pursuits, and a family concerned for the life-decisions of their daughter. It was only out of my humility, vulnerability, and weakness that I could approach these people, their concerns, and struggle with them to search for answers.

It was in this community of faith that I discovered a desire to pursue ministry: not out of strength but out of weakness. Out of my humility came a direction and path that I had previously never considered for myself but which made itself readily apparent to me. And it is here, pursuing that path, that I find myself reflecting, reconsidering, and remembering a life that resisted vulnerability only to find peace within it. My hope is that this vulnerability, manifested as humility in all my pursuits, would be a source of courage and strength as I continue to live out my spiritual story, chapter by chapter.

Faith, Justice, and Hands

Luke 18: 1 – 8

I don't have many opportunities to watch movies much these days, but I made some time recently to watch “Hotel Rwanda.” Several people had recommended this particular movie to me, and in my days at Centre College I overheard the conversation of a student, from Rwanda, who had experienced and survived the genocidal war that killed hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children. So, being ignorant of that conflict, I thought this movie might provide a little more than a night's worth of entertainment; it did.

There was one specific moment in the movie when I felt a flood of emotions cascading upon me: anger, frustration, shame, fear, and yet, through it all, hope.

It was a moment when the main character, played by Don Cheadle, thanks a television journalist for shooting footage of the atrocities afflicting the Rwandan people; images recording piles of bodies, machete massacres, and bloodied children:

Paul Rusesabagina: I am glad that you have shot this footage and that the world will see it. It is the only way we have a chance that people might intervene.
Jack: Yeah and if no one intervenes, is it still a good thing to show?
Paul Rusesabagina: How can they not intervene when they witness such atrocities?
Jack: I think if people see this footage they'll say, "oh my God that's horrible," and then go on eating their dinners.

I've been that person, casually acknowledging the injustices, brutalities, and afflictions that fill the world around me. I've been that person. I've ignored the calls for help and the shouts for mercy. I've been that person who went on eating dinner, satisfied and comfortable with my life, paying little to no attention toward the people who are suffering around me. I've been that person. Maybe, this morning, you have been that person too.

Or, maybe, you have been a person afflicted and crying out for help. Maybe you have been the recipient of the injustice in our world and cried out for God's mercy. This morning, I want to suggest that our scripture speaks both to the “comfortable” and the “uncomfortable”; to the afflicted and to those who can meet their cry for help. And through this I ask that we look for a dimension of our faith we may have forgotten, lost, or not yet discovered.

In our scripture today Jesus offers us a parable, which has already been contextualized for us: “Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not lose heart.” From the very beginning we are given a lens by which to understand this story. It is a way to see ourselves, to find encouragement, and to embrace hope.

Jesus continues with a parable about a marginalized member of society: a widow. With no husband for support and no right to inherit the husband's estate, widows were vulnerable, needy members of society. And it is no coincidence that Luke's gospel continuously references the plight and circumstances of widows, or that the early church ministered specifically to widows. I suggest to you this morning that our widow stands in place of the marginalized, the vulnerable, the needy, the forgotten members of our society, of any society.

In our parable, Jesus narrates the endless requests of a widow demanding justice from a judge. Our judge had no reverence for God, nor any respect for people (v. 2). This judge, characterized as anything but impartial, does not grant the request of the widow. Maybe he was waiting for a bribe. Maybe he was wanting to consider the power and status of the unnamed opponent. Regardless, this judge would not hear her cry for justice. And yet, our widow persists. She does not give up, she does not cease. And, finally, the unjust judge relents (v. 5). The unjust judge who eventually hears the cry of justice and submits to it is immediately contrasted with God: the swift benefactor of justice (v.8). We are made aware that God, unlike the unjust judge, acts quickly and establishes justice for the afflicted. Seen in light of verse 1 of Luke's 18th chapter, we recognize the importance of continual, ceaseless prayer, ever-hopeful for the justice of God.

And yet, this is not the whole story; it is not a simple reminder for the afflicted to pray, for the tormented to cry out to God. The final words of our parable this morning ask us a poignant question: “when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” Well, would he? Would the Son of Man find a faith where the afflicted take hope in God's justice and never stop crying out in prayer? Would the Son of Man find a faith which seeks out those prayers, which listens to the voices crying out?

In our parable this morning, I want to suggest that many of us may have been the widow, marginalized and afflicted, tormented and forgotten. But I also want to suggest that we are the justice of God, the physical hands of God's divine justice liberating the oppressed, welcoming the marginalized, comforting the afflicted, remembering the forgotten.

Our parable this morning speaks to the “comfortable” because it calls us out of our comfort toward action; toward service; specifically, toward justice.

I'm reminded of Chapter 8 verse 6 of Micah which asks: “And what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (6:8)

Our parable this morning speaks to the “uncomfortable” because it reminds us to be persistent in our prayer, persistent in our crying out, persistent in our hope for the justice of God and God's comforting presence.

Our parable this morning speaks to us all because it not only encourages us to be persistent in our prayers and seek after God's comfort in our lives, but it also informs our faith. It informs our faith of the uncomfortable call to live out God's justice, to be the hands of God's justice.

I'm reminded of the hands of a southern farmer who was a tireless member of my last congregation. He was a man whose hands were rugged and tough, dirtied and soiled. He was a man whose hands told a story about his life; a man whose hands revealed his hard-working, laborsome efforts to provide food for his family, help for his neighbors, and services for his church. A man whose hands never quit.

When the Son of Man returns will he find faith on earth? I believe he will. Because I believe in the “hands of working people”... in the crusted, scarred, filthy, calloused hands of God's people, God's servants. I believe in your hands, I believe in my hands. And although our hands may not be perfect, I believe our hands can be God's justice.

I hope that when we see the atrocities of the world around us, that we will not haphazardly take note of yet another “terrible thing” and then, turning our back, go on with dinner, go on with our comfortable lives. I hope that tragedy effects us. That God's justice infects us. To borrow a phrase from David Vargas, the Disciple's President of the Department of Overseas Ministry, I hope that we are “contaminated with a passion” for God's mission, purpose and justice in our immediate world, and the world at large. I must admit that in doing this, there is not one “cookie-cutter” answer. We have the freedom to live out our passion, our “infection”, our “contamination” creatively, faithfully, uniquely. We can find a ministry in this church, in the regional church, or in the national church. Or, we can search for a ministry outside this church.

But I encourage you to find the place where your passion and God's passion converge. I believe that in doing this, in becoming and being the hands of God to the world around us, that we also receive God's healing hands upon our own lives.

I think the lyrics of the following song speak profoundly (hold paper):

I guess silence is not an option at this stage
I've been comfortable too long now, turn the page
I see shadows all around meBut to me it's proof of Your light

Show yourself to me, so I can show you to them
Give me what it takes to let me go
There's a world out there that's dyin'

Father please forgive them
For they know not what they do
Father won't You show me how
To have working man hands

You said if you love me you'll obey me, I've wondered why
You gave Your life for those around me, so should I
God forbid that I should stand before
YouOn that day, with unblemished hands

O God...
May our hands be Your hands of Justice.
May our hands be clasped in ceaseless prayer.
Amen.