In Defense of Worship as a Concert

By on Jul 2, 2015

“Worship should not be a concert.” It’s a common sentiment in many of the circles I run in, and in many ways I couldn’t agree more. The loud music, the blinding lights, the seamless transitions, and, God help us, the smoke machines. It can be a bit ridiculous, and not just as a matter of good taste, but as a matter of good theology. It feeds the ideology of the market and the religion of the consumer. It can condition people to be observers of a show instead of participants in worship of the triune God. None of this is good. Many churches that were once on the cutting edge of modern church worship have realized this and are moving back toward more measured and intentionally liturgical expressions of worship. And to all of this I say, Amen! However…I would like to speak a few words in defense of worship as a concert. A few days ago I went to see U2 in Chicago. I love U2. I think they’re the greatest band in the world. I think there are two types of people in this world: people who love U2 and people who suck. Our tickets were in the pit, because while observing a U2 concert from a seat is special, experiencing a U2 concert in the pit is a riot. We had a riot. Singing “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and “Pride (In the Name of Love)” and “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” with 30,000 other people at the top of your lungs. It is sacramental stuff. Not too long ago, I went to another concert and the experience was, well, different. For whatever reason, the band decided they wouldn’t play any of their best songs but would instead play a whole set full of obscure stuff no one knew. They also failed miserably to bring the audience into the concert. Some bands know how to do it and some don’t. Which brings me back to worship as a concert. It seems to me that worship doesn’t need to be less like a concert so much as it needs to be less like a bad concert and more like a good one. Because if you think people don’t participate in concerts, I suspect you’ve never been to a great concert. At a great concert you get immersed, you lose yourself, you feel connected to the people around you, you feel alive. It’s like you’ve stepped into a different world. And that’s what worship is too: an excursion into God’s real world of revelry, peace, and joy; an excursion that reminds us that behind the veil of things, God’s real world is always at hand. I think there are all sorts of ways to do worship right. I can dig the high liturgy of my Catholic and Episcopal friends and I try to learn from it and incorporate it into the worship at my church. I grew up in a church with a huge, traditional choir and love hearing the swell of voices unaided by instruments. I have deep concerns with the worship of churches that barrage people with thoughtless light shows and smoke machines. But when it is done with scrupulous intention and generous accessibility, I think worship could do much worse than being like a concert. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that many would benefit greatly if our worship was more like a great concert instead of less like one....

Nepal and the Eyes of Easter

By on May 6, 2015

A month ago I was in Nepal. Here is something I wrote the day of the earthquake. ————————————————————————————————— “Another earthquake will probably happen soon.”   I didn’t think too much about it when he said it to me. I was exhausted after a hike to Shivapuri—a beautiful peak in the hills surrounding the Kathmandu Valley—and could barely keep my eyes open on the bumpy journey back into town.   I was fond of our guide. He was quiet but friendly and we chatted for a good portion of our 15-mile hike. It started when I asked if he’d ever seen a tiger in the wild. He had. I barraged him with questions about Nepali wildlife and the Himalayas for the next few hours.   Kathmandu is densely populated. Buildings upon buildings upon buildings. When you run out of “out”, you have to start building “up” and that was what worried him.   Every seventy or so years, a massive earthquake hits Nepal. The fault line that produces the splendor of the Himalayas also produces earthquakes. He knew they were overdue for another one and that when it happened, the buildings would come tumbling down and the damage would be catastrophic.   He was the first person I thought of when I woke up this morning. My phone was binging over and over, so I begrudgingly rolled over and picked it up. An earthquake hit Kathmandu—a big earthquake. Two plates in the belly of the earth shifted and the top of the world trembled. The official death toll at that moment was 111, but I knew it would be much higher. Just a month earlier, I had seen the buildings upon buildings and I shuddered as I imagined them tumbling to the ground.   The second person I thought of was a group of people—the children at an orphanage we had visited. They lived a high rise building on the outskirts of Kathmandu, surrounded by green fields where they ripped and ran and played soccer. What if their building collapsed? My stomach churned.   Right about then, my wife came into the bedroom with our 7-month old son for my favorite ritual—him crawling around on our bed in the morning with a million watt smile and eyes full of curiosity and wonder.   It was a beautiful day—70 degrees, cloudless. My brother in law was getting married in a few hours and I was performing the ceremony. We had much to be thankful for.   It was a strange moment.   Here I sit with my son as he crawls over me, smiles at me, babbles to me. Moments like that make faith easy. Of course it’s all going to be ok. Of course there is a God of infinite love and goodness at the heart of things. How else could I explain a moment like this?   But on the other side of the world, fathers are digging through the rubble for their sons. Many will not be found.   “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen.”   That’s what Frederick Buechner says and in moments like this I don’t know what else to say. How do we hold it together—the beauty and tragedy? Some look at the world and see only the veil of death. Some see only the beauty of creation. But how do we glimpse the beauty of creation through the veil of death? Is it even appropriate to do so?   I got out of bed and went outside to give myself some space to process things.   “God—please give me the eyes of Easter.”   That was the prayer that came to me over and over. The eyes of Easter have seen tragedy—they’ve gone to hell and back. They’ve bore the full burden of reality, in all its misery and suffering. They do not look the other way to preserve the saccharine bliss of naiveté. They stare death in the face.   And yet they are eyes that have glimpsed an empty tomb—an empty tomb that makes promises so big and deep and wide that the hopes of those who glimpse it are forever haunted by intuitions of resurrection.   Wishful thinking? Perhaps. Nevertheless, I’m asking for them.   I have no bulletproof syllogism for why you should. I can understand if you think it irrational and irresponsible, because I’ve seen the world from behind those eyes too.   I can only say that when I glimpse the world behind Easter eyes, I see something that makes sense—something that makes sense of both beauty and tragedy. Creation groans in its bondage to suffering and death. Things weren’t supposed to be this way. Something is terribly wrong. Damn the indifference of those who say otherwise.   But there is also so much beauty, so much love, so much wonder. The problem of good has just as much bite as the problem of evil. Is the empty tomb too good to be true? My Easter eyes tell me it’s too good not to be true.   Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. What do you see?   I see an empty...

The Shadow of Uriah

By on Apr 6, 2015

Our staff is reading through the Psalms together. This week, I was assigned Psalm 17, and as usual (as our youth pastor likes to point out), David is telling God what to do.   He starts out with his typical chutzpah: “Hear a just cause, O Lord, give heed to my cry.”   David is confident his cause is just, his lips are truthful, and his way is peaceful (17:1-5). And he’s confident Yahweh knows it. So because his cause is just and Yahweh knows it, he’s confident Yahweh will grant his request.   It’s not terribly surprising that David’s request is that Yahweh will deliver him from his enemies with Yahweh’s sword (17:13). David is, after all, a man of a different age. Save me and kill my enemies—this is what ancient people tended to ask of their gods. Clearly there are still many ancients among us.   Despite my uneasiness toward David’s violent proclivities, I can place it in its proper space in time, and his cry for deliverance resonates deeply with me. I know what it’s like to feel surrounded by enemies. I know what it’s like to know that I am right and they are wrong. I know the desire to take refuge in the shadow of the almighty, but another shadow falls upon this psalm when I read it.   The shadow of Uriah.   Use your imagination and picture it:   David cries out to God with righteous conviction, reminding God of his justice, integrity, and peacefulness. And this prayer rises up to heaven…where God and Uriah sit side by side.   God and Uriah listen to David’s prayer together, glancing at one another from time to time with knowing amusement, chuckling here and there at the sheer absurdity of it all.   David…a man of justice, integrity, and peace!? The pot-marks of healed arrowhead wounds across Uriah’s torso beg otherwise. David is no such thing, and one would presume that, in more honest moments, David knows it (and many of the psalms indicate that he most certainly does).[1]   And yet here he is, making these comically self-righteous claims. Why? Perhaps because the good news of God was simply much better than he could have ever imagined.   Situated where we are—on the other side of Golgotha—we are privy to a view David never quite had. David, at times at least, hoped Yahweh would deliver him because he was a man of justice, integrity, and peace. And across religions, most have believed (or wanted to believe) the universe is tilted in favor of the just. And that certainly would be good news.   But as we approach Good Friday, we are reminded that the news is even better than that. For on Friday, we remember that the universe is not tilted in favor of the just so much as embracing of the unjust; that is, we remember that God desires to embrace the unjust in the arms of love. There are holes in his hands to prove it.   And if the shadow of Uriah falls upon David, the shadow of Jesus falls upon us all.   So if we want to take refuge in the shadow of the almighty, let us first remember: it’s a refuge for sinners. After all, the good news is not that we are good, but that we are loved. [1] And of course to be fair, it’s probably the case that David is referring to his righteousness in a particular case with a particular opponent and not a blanket righteousness. That said, David has a certain tendency to see himself as “in the...

He Hangs There

By on Mar 31, 2015

A Holy Week Reflection ————————————   What does he think as he hangs there?   What memories fill his mind? What emotions flood his soul?   A strange thing—divinity crucified. An impossible thing—one would think. But there he hangs.   Not a very divine thing to do.   Does he perceive the absurdity? Does his blood boil? What does he think as he hangs there?   It’s no easy task trying to glimpse the thing from behind his eyes and feel it from inside his heart. But his words beckon us to follow them back into the abyss from which they sprang.   He speaks to God, a scoundrel to his left, his mother, his friend, and his tormentors.   He forgives, he promises, he agonizes, he thirsts, and he gives up. What does he think as he hangs there?   The question bursts with infinity. But surely, we must say, he thinks it is real. The grieving mother, the repentant thief, the splinters in his back, the gagging on his own tongue, the godforsakenness of it all.   It is real and it means something.   Such a strong temptation—to flood the abyss of Golgotha with the light of explanations. There are certainly worse things one could do.   But first, let us pause and see the thing itself.   God hangs.   It is real and it means...

Holier than the Himalayas

By on Mar 26, 2015

  One of the scribes came and heard them arguing, and recognizing that He had answered them well, asked Him, “What commandment is the foremost of all?” Jesus answered, “The foremost is, ‘Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God is one Lord; and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.” -Mark 12:28-34   According to rabbinic tradition, the OT contained 613 commandments. 248 of them were positive commandments, meaning “do this, do this, do this.” And 365 were negative commandments, meaning “don’t do this, don’t do this, don’t do this.” That’s a lot of things to remember to do and that’s a lot of things to remember not to do.   And so from early on, it was recognized that some of these commands were heavy and some were light. Some were really big and some were really small. In other words, from very early on in Israelite faith, it was recognized that not all commandments are created equal. Some commandments are more important than others. And few things are more destructive and less biblical than the incredibly misguided belief that all the Bible’s commandments are equal.   When I was in middle school, I vividly remember going to youth camp for the first time. I didn’t much want to go but some of my friends talked me into it, and so there I was, walking into the worship service on the first night of camp…and I’m wearing a hat, turned backwards. Now little did I know, but apparently there are some Bibles in which wearing a hat, much less a backwards hat, in worship, is the unforgiveable sin. It’s the mark of the beast, no less.   So no sooner have I walked in to worship then I feel somebody behind me pop the bill of my hat, sending the hat flying up and off my head. I turn around, and who do I see but one of our adult chaperones. And upon seeing me look at him with anger and confusion, he looks right back at me with anger and confusion and says, “Surely you know better than to wear a backwards hat into worship.”   I didn’t know much about Christianity or the Bible back then. I certainly wasn’t familiar with the (rather culturally conditioned) passage in 1 Corinthians in which Paul says that it’s disgraceful to pray with something on your head. But even back then, something in me said, “Why in the world would this guy puff out his chest and take a stand over something like this? Over a kid wearing his hat into worship?”   That’s a pretty benign example. I didn’t curse Jesus and reject Christianity because some grumpy fundamentalist shamed me for wearing my hat backwards. But there are many darker examples in which people’s belief that the Bible is inspired by God leads them to blindly attempt to apply all the teachings of the Bible equally. So not wearing a hat in worship is, supposedly, as important as…feeding the orphan. And saying a bad word is, supposedly, as damnable an offense as…neglecting your family.   And to all of this, to the desire to use the Bible to paint the whole world in black and white, the Bible itself, Jesus himself, says…no. It’s not all equal and it’s not all black and white. Rather Jesus himself teaches us that at the heart of things, there is something that takes priority over all things. At the heart of things, there is something that all other things must bow down before, must serve, must give way to. At the heart of things, there is something beyond black and white.   And that something that the Bible and the whole universe revolves around is this: love God with all of your heart, soul, mind, and strength…and love your neighbor as yourself.   Have you ever wondered why we talk about love so much? Have you ever wondered why we think about love so much? Have you ever wondered why we sing about love so much? Have you ever wondered why, from the beginning of time it seems, we’ve been haunted by the sense that love is the deepest rhyme and reason of things; that love is the center of gravity that holds all things together; that love is the answer to all the mysteries of the universe? Have you ever wondered why we every last one of us carries around the primal intuition that if we could just learn to love and be loved, everything would be ok?   If so, then hear Jesus’ answer: we were made to love. Love isn’t just one thing among many other things—love is the thing. Love is the reason why anything and everything exists. Beyond black and white, there is love.   Not too long ago, I was talking with this guy who thought I emphasized God’s love too much in my book. Because in his mind, God is love, sure, but God is also equally just and wrathful and so on. So it’s wrong to treat love like it’s more important than other important things.   And so finally I said to him, “Dude, you and...

The Rich Young Ruler, Money, and Downward Mobility

By on Feb 4, 2015

*Here’s an editorialized version of a sermon on Mark 10 and the rich young ruler. You can watch it here* Mark Twain once said: “It ain’t those parts of the Bible that I can’t understand that bother me, it’s the parts that I do understand.” And if you’re like me, you tend to agree with Mark Twain.[1] For example, I don’t understand a lot of the book of Revelation and that bothers me a little bit, but it doesn’t bother me near as much as the Golden Rule…because I do understand it. I’d rather take my chances with the lake of fire than I would treat other people the way I’d want them to treat me. It ain’t those parts of the Bible I can’t understand that bother me, it’s the parts I do understand that bother me. Amen, Mark Twain. And as we continue our series called “Conversations: A Look at Some Run-ins With Jesus”, we’re going to listen in on a conversation that isn’t very hard to understand, and that’s why it bothers me. So Jesus is setting out on a journey with his disciples when this man runs up to him, kneels down before him, and then asks him, “What do I need to do to inherit eternal life? What do I need to do to be a part of God’s everlasting kingdom?” Jesus responds: “Well, you know the commandments—don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal, don’t lie, don’t defraud, honor your father and mother.” And upon hearing this, the man is pleasantly surprised because he’s done all that since he was a little boy. This is a good guy—certainly a better guy than me and I’d suspect a better guy or gal than many of you too. So it’s interesting what happens next. We’re told that Jesus looks at this man—one of those deep, soul-searching looks, a peek down into the bottom of his heart—and that Jesus loved him. It’s the only time in the Gospel of Mark where Jesus is specifically said to love someone. Jesus loves this guy. So Jesus puts his arm around him and says, “Man…I love you, and so there’s this one last thing that you gotta do. Sell everything you own, give it to the poor, and then come and follow me. Come be my disciple.” Upon hearing this, we’re told that the man’s face, which was shining bright as the sun, turns cloudy. His face becomes overcast. What Jesus has said has made him very, very sad, and now we learn why—he’s a very, very wealthy man and that will make it very, very hard for him to sell his possessions and go follow Jesus. This whole encounter shocks the disciples and leads Jesus to say, “It’s very, very hard for rich people to enter the kingdom of God.” And ever since this rich man walked away from Jesus 2000 years ago, shocked and sad, we’ve been trying to avoid, deflect, or “qualify to death” what happened and what Jesus said, because we don’t much like people talking to us about our money and our stuff, unless it’s about how we can get more money and more stuff. And we tend to do this avoiding, deflecting and qualifying to death in one of two ways. Deflection #1: we’ll tell ourselves that while Jesus is saying “sell all your possessions and give them to the poor if you want to be my disciple”, he’s not really saying that. I like this deflection and here’s how it works. What Jesus says to this guy is more or less a metaphor: you have to give up whatever you’d cherish more than God; for you, that’s money, so you have to be willing to give up your money. Now you don’t actually have to give up your money, and it’s not really even about money so much as it’s a reminder to make sure you love God more than anything else. Like I said: I like this deflection, especially because, well, it lets me keep my money and my stuff so long as I tell myself I don’t love them and would be willing to give them up if Jesus asked for them…but of course he won’t :). R.T. France says it well: this is a “dangerously comfortable conclusion.”[2] And here’s why I don’t think it works. Jesus tells this guy he has to give away all of his stuff to the poor if he wants to follow Jesus. The guy can’t do it, so he walks away grieving…and Jesus doesn’t chase after him and say, “Dude, come back! I was just kidding. It was just a metaphor. Just read your Bible a little more instead and we’ll call it even.” No. Jesus told this guy to give away his stuff, all of it, to the poor, and when he can’t, Jesus lets him walk away. It’s not “just” a hypothetical and it’s not “just” a metaphor. Is the bigger issue that he loves something more than God? Yea, and that something is his stuff. So he can keep his stuff or he can follow Jesus. He can’t do both. Which brings us to the second way we avoid, deflect, and qualify to death this run in with Jesus. Deflection #2: Ok—maybe Jesus is really saying that. He really is saying that affluence is a massive barrier to the kingdom of God,...