I am going to spend a little time talking about what I see in the evangelical world. I believe I can write about this from a well-informed viewpoint. For thirty-some years now I have been involved in mass media in one form or another, with much of that time involved in Christian radio, TV, and publishing. I know many of those who head the largest churches in the country. Think of those with the largest radio and TV presence, and I worked with many of them. I have represented many of these church leaders in book deals. I have even written some of their books myself. So I’m not just a casual observer whining and complaining. I’m an informed observer whining and complaining.
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.
Now his parents went to Jerusalem every year at the Feast of the Passover. And when he was twelve years old, they went up according to custom. And when the feast was ended, as they were returning, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem. His parents did not know it, but supposing him to be in the group they went a day’s journey, but then they began to search for him among their relatives and acquaintances, and when they did not find him, they returned to Jerusalem, searching for him. After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers. And when his parents saw him, they were astonished. And his mother said to him, “Son, why have you treated us so? Behold, your father and I have been searching for you in great distress.” And he said to them, “Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” And they did not understand the saying that he spoke to them. And he went down with them and came to Nazareth and was submissive to them. And his mother treasured up all these things in her heart.
And Jesus increased in wisdom and in stature (Luke 2: 41-52).
If you ever needed any evidence that the Holy Family was like other families in their day-to-day lives, you have it here. They all go up to the Big City for the annual pilgrimage, an extremely important occasion as it is for Passover. Like most country and small-town groups, they make a holiday of it and everyone goes together in family parties. And we can see that the grown-ups stick together and the kids run around in gangs, and since it’s a festival time, things are more relaxed. So when the boy Jesus isn’t with Mom and Dad, they naturally assume He’s taking advantage of being away from home to have fun with the other kids, and if He’s not here, He must be with Cousin Cleopas or Cousin Alphaeus or Cousin Salome and He’s okay, they’ll feed Him and give Him a bed for the night, He’s a big kid now, you can’t keep Him tied to your apron strings.
Then they find out that He’s nowhere to be found, and after what you can imagine must have been an unmerciful bout of “I thought He was with you!” running around and hair-pulling, they head back for Jerusalem in what must have been a fairly desperate hope that He was there and safe (a twelve year old boy on his own in the big city for three days? Even back then, bad things happened in just those circumstances). I’m not a parent myself, but I’ve heard plenty of stories about people coming back from the shops, unpacking and putting away the groceries, and having a vague notion they’re forgetting something – until they realise they’ve left the baby strapped in the carseat outside. Consternation!
You will, no doubt, be saddened to hear that I have, at long last, given up my lifelong dream of becoming an amateur ventriloquist. Perhaps I’d best explain.
You see, one year when I was a child my parents gave my sister and me a pair of ventriloquist dummies. They were “Danny O’Day” models and came with instructions on how to do ventriloquism. I promptly renamed mine “Denny” to cut down on any confusion that might result from having two talking dolls with the same moniker.
I don’t know if I had asked for this gift or not, but I was certainly excited to receive it. I remember trying to get the hang of it, practicing in front of a mirror to watch for telltale moving lips. I still recall a few of the techniques. I rehearsed until I could do it reasonably well, though I always had trouble with those tricky consonants like “B,” “M” and “P.” Still, I had high hopes.
There were a couple of difficulties, however. For starters, I was incredibly shy. Too shy, in fact, to perform a ventriloquism routine for my grandparents, much less a real crowd. Besides that, knowing ventriloquism is only half the battle. You have to be able to entertain. There must be a routine, complete with dialogue and jokes. But I wasn’t funny. I couldn’t make up witty conversations with puns and put-downs. Forget making up jokes; I was unable to even remember the ones other people made up. To top it all off, I could never decide who Denny was. He had to have a personality. Was he a dummy in brains as well as body, or could he outsmart me every time? Should he be shy and sweet, or a wooden wise guy?
You will, no doubt, be saddened to hear that I have, at long last, given up my lifelong dream of becoming an amateur ventriloquist. Perhaps I’d best explain.
You see, one year when I was a child my parents gave my sister and me a pair of ventriloquist dummies. They were “Danny O’Day” models and came with instructions on how to do ventriloquism. I promptly renamed mine “Denny” to cut down on any confusion that might result from having two talking dolls with the same moniker.
I don’t know if I had asked for this gift or not, but I was certainly excited to receive it. I remember trying to get the hang of it, practicing in front of a mirror to watch for telltale moving lips. I still recall a few of the techniques. I rehearsed until I could do it reasonably well, though I always had trouble with those tricky consonants like “B,” “M” and “P.” Still, I had high hopes.
There were a couple of difficulties, however. For starters, I was incredibly shy. Too shy, in fact, to perform a ventriloquism routine for my grandparents, much less a real crowd. Besides that, knowing ventriloquism is only half the battle. You have to be able to entertain. There must be a routine, complete with dialogue and jokes. But I wasn’t funny. I couldn’t make up witty conversations with puns and put-downs. Forget making up jokes; I was unable to even remember the ones other people made up. To top it all off, I could never decide who Denny was. He had to have a personality. Was he a dummy in brains as well as body, or could he outsmart me every time? Should he be shy and sweet, or a wooden wise guy?
And so the years rolled by. Instead of becoming the hit of the youth group retreat, the church Valentine banquet or the school talent show, poor Denny languished in his little cardboard suitcase. I lost my “How To Be A Ventriloquist” book somewhere along the way, and Denny’s case was moved to the top of a messy closet, out of sight and out of mind. Every now and then I would remember him and think, “Maybe someday…”
Then I moved for the first time in 19 years. I was downsizing and if I didn’t really, truly need it, then it had to go. I ran across Denny on closet cleaning day. I had never completely forgotten him, and I was tempted to put him in the “keep” pile. How much trouble could he be? He lived in a suitcase that took up only slightly more space than my laptop. But I had to face the truth: I’m 54 years old. If I were ever going to become an amateur ventriloquist, I’d have done it by now. So with a sad sigh I packed up Denny and toted him off to our used clothing (and etc.) store.
The experience got me to thinking about giving up on a dream. We always talk of going for goals, setting high standards, dreaming big. But is that always best? Is there ever a time to put a dream in a little cardboard suitcase and give it away? I’ve decided the answer to that is “yes” and I invite you to explore some possible scenarios with me.
For starters, perhaps the goal was unreasonable in the first place. Sometimes I hear teachers talking about how many of their students say they are going to become professional athletes. That may be a worthy goal, but let’s face it—for most of them it isn’t going to happen. These teachers shake their heads because they know the students are not ready or willing to invest incredible amounts of time, energy and plain hard work. They simply think they are truly that athletically gifted. What they need is not a pep talk, but a healthy dose of reality.
We may begin with a reasonable plan, but life gets in the way. Ever see “It’s a Wonderful Life”? George’s dream is to see the world. But somewhere between his father’s death and a run on the bank he loses both his opportunity and his money. In the end he sees that his life truly is wonderful, but we assume he never does get to travel the world. Circumstances and choices all along the way have taken his life in a very different direction than he had first hoped.
Perhaps we tried what we thought we wanted but it didn’t work out. Plenty of people have gone off to college, only to discover that it’s not for them. Others switch majors in midstream. Still others change careers in midlife, sometimes doing something completely different than what they began with. Exchanging textbooks for a trade or swapping philosophy for physical therapy could be just what we need.
Maybe somewhere along the desired path we decided it wasn’t worth the effort after all. As a college freshman I signed up for an elective course in music theory. I had taken piano lessons since the fourth grade; I figured that should certainly give me a leg up. I knew studying theory could only make me a better pianist. And if it proved to be more difficult than I’d planned, my roommate was a music major. Surely Patty would lend a helping hand. As it turned out, pretty much everyone in the class was a music major except me. It wasn’t just hard; it was crazy hard. By the end of the first week I knew I was in way over my head. Could I have stuck with it? Of course. Would I have pulled a “C?” Maybe, but only with a lot of help from Patty. The bottom line was that I decided as a nursing major I didn’t need to jeopardize my chemistry and biology grades because I was staying up all night trying to write a sonata. Music theory simply wasn’t worth the effort, and I dropped the class without shame. (OK. With a little shame.)
So what do we reap from the ground wherein our dreams lie buried?
For one thing, we can exchange frustration for peace of mind. As long as we’re struggling to achieve a goal that probably shouldn’t be ours in the first place, we will be unhappy and feel like a failure. Once we adopt a more reasonable standard, we can come much closer to finding contentment. If we’re going to spend time and effort on attaining something, shouldn’t it be something we can actually achieve?
For another, in being flexible we can follow what God is doing in our lives. A word we would do well to remember is “Providence.” We can have our lives all mapped out, but God might have other plans. He may allow what seem like detours but are actually the best roads to take us to his destination.
And as we accept our limitations we can discover our true gifts. Once our young sports superstar wannabes admit they actually don’t have enough raw talent to propel them to the pinnacle of success, their real abilities may surface. Instead of becoming a basketball all-star, Johnny might turn brain surgeon…or carpenter. Either way, he can put his mind and hands to doing the tasks he is most skilled to perform.
Lastly, sometimes in bidding a dream farewell we clear the way for other people.I told you I took Denny O’Day to our used clothing store. That was the last I saw of him. Someone took him home, perhaps a young boy who will grow up to be the next Jeff Dunham. He will always remember the day he opened an old cardboard suitcase in a thrift store and discovered a little dummy just waiting to be set free.
So what about you? Have you ever waved goodbye to a goal? Did the death of your dream lead you to a new adventure? How did you know it was time to call it quits?
Beautiful day here in Tulsa yesterday. Sunny, not too windy, in the mid-70s, it was about as perfect a fall day as you will find.
I thought it the perfect day to ride in an ambulance.
I’ve been feeling very not well for several months now. It’s a general weakness, accompanied by dizziness and a faint-like feeling. All in all, not painful, but not really conducive to dancing and singing now, is it? There have been days when I could not stand up, let alone walk around and greet guests at my Target. I hate missing work. I hate letting others down and having them have to do my job for me. (Yes, it’s all part of the “I’m in charge of my own life” syndrome I was born with. We can deal with that another day.)
Yesterday I was patrolling the aisles of my electronics department, helping people find things, feeling fine. Then … here it came again. I found myself using shelves to be able to stand upright as I walked. I was having trouble focusing my eyes. I could hear people speak to me loud and clear, it just sounded like it was really, really far away. My face and lips went numb. Not one of my better days. I found my boss who took the keys to the kingdom of Target electronics from me and sent me home.
One of my favorite hymns, I Heard The Voice Of Jesus Say by Horatius Bonar, outlines beautifully the process of the Christian life in three stanzas.
The first stanza begins with my most pressing need: rest. I am “weary and worn and sad,” battered by the world, by work, by relationships, by senselessness and violence and misunderstanding. The struggle seems never ending.
I heard the voice of Jesus say, “Come unto Me and rest; Lay down, thou weary one, lay down thy head upon My breast.” I came to Jesus as I was, weary and worn and sad; I found in Him a resting place, and He has made me glad.
It’s telling that the rest offered is to lean on Jesus. In my case at least, the exhausting struggle that seems never ending is the struggle of my will against God’s will. I tell myself that my exhaustion comes from the exigencies of the outside world, and some of it does, certainly; but most of it is the result of my insistence on my own way and refusal to accept God’s peace when it is offered. What I need is death to myself. And death is the ultimate rest.
I’ve just heard yet another sermon that never mentioned Jesus anywhere or in any way. No, no, it’s not an oddity or anywhere close to the first time. I’ll estimate that in the last five years I’ve heard at least fifty sermons that totally omitted any mention of Jesus, and many more where there was no real reason for Jesus to be included. Sermons that could have been preached by Jews, Mormons, even Muslims in some cases, without any real changes. Sermons preached by ordained, and often, educated, Baptist ministers.
What’s up with this? Is this another “Internet Monk Straw Man Award”, or is this really happening, right in front of us?
At first, I thought it was the occasional oversight. Anyone can have a bad sermon. I’ve had volumes of them. Then I wrote it off to a focus on the Older Testament. Some preachers love the Old Testament and can easily, in their enthusiasm for the text, neglect connecting their message to the new covenant. Lately, I’ve considered the possibility there was a method to the madness. Maybe the idea was to NOT talk about Jesus, and then pull him out for the big answer to all the questions you’ve raised. Or something like that. All these theories, were, ultimately, wrong.
Now I’ve concluded that Jesus just didn’t make the cut. It wasn’t an accident or a mistake or trying to be sly with all those pesky post-moderns. It was worse than I thought: Jesus wasn’t needed, so he didn’t make an appearance. It was Christless preaching on purpose.
What is going on? And why is it happening? Let’s start with observing the kinds of sermons I’m discussing, and how Jesus is a no-show.
Greatings, iMonks, to the weekly ritual where we clean up the messes left around the iMonastery. Hey—you can’t make a ham-and cheese omelet without cracking a few eggs, grilling up some ham and grating some cheese. Writing all of that has made me hungry. So while y’all are perusing the eggs we’ve cracked for this morning’s Ramblings, I’ll be sitting down to an omelet. Or maybe just a bowl of Grape Nuts. Either way, let’s ramble.
Let’s start this week off with some good news. The United States now has an official site where Mary has said to have appeared. A Belgian immigrant, Adele Brise, is said to have seen Mary three times at this spot in 1859. Now, hundreds flock to the site each day to visit and to pray. Where is the blessed place? Just outside of Champion, Wisconsin. Let’s see, the Green Bay Packers and the Wisconsin Badgers are both undefeated, and the Milwaukee Brewers made the playoffs this year. I think I’m beginning to see why …
In news I wish I didn’t have to report, “Bishop” Eddie Long is being suedby members of his Atlanta congregation for allegedly encouraging them to invest in what turned out to be a Ponzi scheme. But Long said the man doing the investing followed the word of God. Isn’t that good enough?
Commenter Jack Heron always brings well-thought-out ideas to the table here at the iMonastery. He has now stepped up with a very good look at the topic of dogma. Read carefully and comment accordingly, iMonks. JD
by Jack Heron
Having a dogma is a tricky thing. It’s irregularly conjugated, for a start:
My dogma irresistibly conveys the divine truth.
Your dogma is a well-meaning attempt to bring unity to the faith.
His dogma is a despotic weapon of the Thought Police.
As Christians, we are in the middle of a period of great religious change. New religious movements – Christian, non-Christian and debatably Christian – are springing up all over the place. At the same time the faith itself can seem under attack from secular, atheist and heterodox opinions. What, in this modern world, are we to do with our dogmata?
If we listen to some of the voices of Progressive Christianity, the answer is to throw them all out and enter a happy, peaceful world in which everyone follows their heart and nobody tells anyone else what to think or professes an absolute dogma. Alternatively, we might listen to more conservative voices that announce our beliefs will never need to be reconsidered and we should defiantly remain in the Good Old Days when men were real men (and women were real women, and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri).
I am going to spend a little time talking about what I see in the evangelical world. I believe I can write about this from a well-informed viewpoint. For thirty-some years now I have been involved in mass media in one form or another, with much of that time involved in Christian radio, TV, and publishing. I know many of those who head the largest churches in the country. Think of those with the largest radio and TV presence, and I worked with many of them. I have represented many of these church leaders in book deals. I have even written some of their books myself. So I’m not just a casual observer whining and complaining. I’m an informed observer whining and complaining.
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