Safe Christian Radio for the Entire Family!

The other day I heard an interesting (I should say depressing) ad on my local Christian radio station. Actually, that wasn’t the first time I’d heard it; it airs on stations around the country. It promises, “safe Christian radio for the entire family!” When I hear that I turn to the heavy metal station immediately.

I wonder where we are as a church when we can use the words “safe” and “Christian” in the same sentence. The word Christian means “Christ-ones”, or, better, “Those-who-belong-to-the-Anointed-One-who-suffered-and-died-and-rose-again”. How is it possible for the followers of Christ to seek safety?

I’m sure the writers of that particular catch phrase had three things in mind. They meant no vulgarity, no questioning parental authority, and no promotion of non-Christian worldviews. For many modern American Christians the greatest vices in the world are sex and, at a distant second, violence. These stations are more than comfortable with craven capitalism. While they would never advertise alcohol or tobacco, even if that were legal, they have no problem promoting materialism and more, more, more. This is all unfortunate, since the Bible, which contains the foundational documents for Christians everywhere and everywhen, is less “family friendly”.

The prophet Amos railed against greed, going so far as to call women of privilege fat cows, threatening them with foreign invaders who will lead them off with fish hooks as judgment for their disregard for the poor. Ezekiel spoke of unfaithfulness to God in graphic terms, comparing Israel to a young woman with a rapacious sexual appetite, extending the metaphor to include animals. Hosea wept over a wife who would not stay home and off her back.

In the New Testament, Jesus, speaking the gritty language of his day, concluded that what goes into a person does not make unclean, since it passes through and into the crapper. His pronouncement on “family”: “Whoever does the will of my Father, this to me is Mother, sister, brother”. Paul was happy to use the words of pagan poets in explaining the gospel to the philosophers of Athens. So much for the Christian worldview, Paul.

“Safe . . . for the entire family . . ..” It seems that a safe Christianity demands a safe God. I shudder to think that I might lead my children to believe God is safe, or Jesus is warm and cuddly. Certainly I want them to hear the words, “Come to me, all who are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest”. But I also want them to meet the wild Jesus who walked on water, his hair whipped by the wind, his clothes soaked by the rain, shouted down the storm and wondered where his disciples’ faith was hiding. I often tell people that there is safety in Jesus, but Jesus is not safe.

A safe God is predictable and domesticated. If I learn nothing else from reading the scriptures it is obvious that God is not safe. He is not capricious like some other gods, but you surely cannot anticipate how YHWH is going to respond to any situation. The actions of the God of Israel and the Church transcend logic and predictability. Who, for instance could have foreseen the death of the firstborn of Egypt, or the tears of Hosea’s Lover-God? Who could reason the incarnation? Where is the safety when the salvation of the entire human race, no, the entire universe in parts of Paul, swings in the belly of a girl and her husband-to-be?

We ought to flee a safe Christianity. An early church father said, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church”. Years ago I sat with my friend Bruce, a charismatic pastor, who was sharing the faith with a college student, encouraging him to give himself over to Christ. He said, “If you take this step, there’s no turning back.” The student said, “What if I say yes to Jesus and he tells me to go to Africa and die?” Bruce answered, “Then you’d better go. I’m not promising you cotton candy and dancing girls. This is Jesus we’re talking about.”

There is among a certain slice of the Church what’s been called a “bunker mentality”. We are under attack and always in danger of losing. This attitude has lead to a kind of parallel culture for many Christians, but especially evangelicals. This is the ultimate source of safe Christian radio. There has been in the past centuries a bleeding of Christian influence in art and culture until now Christian art is defined by its derivative nature and cheese appeal. It imitates the very worst in pop culture, rather than leading the way in innovation and creativity. It is bad art, or, worse, not art at all but didacticism and propositionalism masquerading as art. This disengagement with the culture has been disastrous for both culture and Church. And it has not been “safe”.

The sociologist Rodney Stark believes that the reason the Church grew like a rabbit colony in the early centuries was because of the willingness of Christians to take risks and to engage their world. It was Christians who allowed women a place of leadership, to the scorn of pagan neighbors. It was Christians who went around adopting abandoned baby girls who might otherwise become slave prostitutes. It was Christians who stayed in the cities during plague outbreaks, caring for the sick, many of whom lived. It was danger, not safety, these Christians embraced.

History is replete with tales of Christians acting like Christians, despite the risk. Saint Perpetua and hundreds like her were torn by animals and men for not denying the faith. Saint Francis hugged and kissed lepers on the mouth, believing them to be Jesus, and his actions spurred thousands of men and women to do likewise. During the Nazi occupation of France unknown peasants hid Jews in their homes, risking everything for the blood relatives of Jesus.

A Christianity that is safe never leads me to question my own assumptions about the world. From the safety of my cocoon I can ignore the death wail of the earth’s poor, whose “blood cries out from the ground”. I can comfortably believe myself to be OK; it’s those other people who have the problem. I can easily hold onto racist, xenophobic ideas, or turn a blind eye to the prophets’ call to repent and walk humbly with God. A Christianity that is safe never leads me to Jesus, who said very distinctly, “Take up your cross and follow me.”

I would like to hear one of these radio stations advertising opportunities to work in AIDS hospices or to enter war zones and work for peace. I wonder what would happen. They could no longer claim to be safe for the entire family, since my son or daughter might hear and really believe and follow Jesus into a prison in Mozambique.

Rather than make me safe, I need Christian radio to remind me of the dangerous adventure we’ve been called to.

The E Word

I used to tell people that Christians are not in the business of selling Jesus, but anymore it seems they’re in the business of pitching him. Advertising is the currency of evangelism.

Most evangelism I’ve seen (and, frankly, most of the evangelism I’ve inflicted on people) has taken its cue not from the gospels or the gospel, but from sales and marketing.

Confused? Here’s how it works. There’s a pitch, usually made with the help of illustrations, graphs, charts, and a series of leading questions, all intended to back the victim into an impossible corner. There’s no disagreeing with the evangelist. He (and, let’s face it, aren’t the really good evangelists men?) sets it up so there’s no logical way to escape the truth (You’re right, I must agree. I can see now that one sin does indeed make me a sinner, just as one murder makes me a murderer. [Does taking one pen from the grocery store counter make me a thief?]) There’s a sense of urgency over this limited time offer. There's an easy, simple, prepackaged one size fits all prayer to put in the slot and Jesus comes into the heart.

Let me state first what might be obvious. I do believe that there are times of great urgency in our approach to God. I wonder, though, if those moments are not better left to the individual and God. Who is the evangelist to try to create this existentialist moment of angst?

I also believe that the gospel has its own internal logic. I’m amazed, however, every Easter, at the people, churchy and non, who march into church and talk about Jesus coming back from the dead like he’s Punxsutawney Phil. Tell yourself the story of Jesus and see if it makes “sense”. It doesn’t. More about that elsewhere.

I also believe it is vital for all people to confess sin, to confess Christ, to commit to him and his way. But, at the risk of losing any evangelical street cred I might have once had, the “Sinner’s Prayer” often leaves me thirsty. Although there is no universal standard for the wording, it must flow in a very specific way. And it is sacrosanct. Do not mock the Prayer. It’s not in the Bible, but it ought to be. Jesus never used it, the apostles never prayed it, but they should have, and would have, if only they’d seen it. I once told someone that the Sinner’s Prayer wasn’t my preferred liturgical form for initiating people into the kingdom. He left shaking his head, wondering how I could be a pastor. My friend Brian was regaling a girl with a tale of some act of immature barbarism we had perpetrated and ended his story by saying, “Then we went home and prayed the Sinner’s Prayer.” “Really? That’s great,” was all the girl had to say.

But mostly, it’s the dishonesty of evangelism in general that bothers me. In the rush to get everyone to buy our product, we forget to inform our potential clients about potential side effects, like dying for the cause of justice, standing for righteousness, carrying crosses behind Jesus. There’s little mention made that Jesus will not leave you alone. Ever. That’s not always as comfortable as it sounds at first blush. What about having to make decisions based not on my desires, but on this relationship?

Evangelicals, and, I’m afraid, most other Christians in America, dance (rather stiffly) to the drum of marketing. But advertisers are so much more savvy than they were a couple decades ago. Niche marketing is what it’s all about now. There are certain demographics, maybe as small as one, that respond positively when the product is presented in certain ways. Tailor the message to hit that target. So, Christian publishers design narrower and narrower Bible covers. “Extreme Teen Study Bible”, “New Parent’s Bible”, “Good News for Japanese Housewives With Periodontal Disease” (translated, of course, from God’s native tongue, English).

But here’s the bad news for marketers and pitchmen. The gospel can’t be reduced to four laws. It can’t be boiled down to propositional truths. It can’t be simplified to a code or a slogan or a chorus. The gospel is a story, the story that gives meaning to all other stories.

So, there’s the rant. There’s the hole. Where’s the mountain?

For starters, evangelism is what evangelicals claim it’s about. It is introducing people to the possibility of a wide-awake relationship with God. But the way to that relationship is very different for many people. For most, it’s a journey into unknown territory, slowly at first, then with more confidence that Jesus does indeed know what he’s doing. Sure, I realize that for some it’s the whole flat on your ass Damascus road bit, complete with bright lights and voices, but not for most. It’s laden with crises, triumphs, and turning around to go home.

Two stories best illustrate good evangelism. The first is from the first chapter of John’s gospel. Jesus is spotted by John the Baptist (no relation to the writer) and declared to be the Lamb of God. John’s disciples wonder what they ought to do with this information. “Go and ask where he’s staying, you putz,” says John.

They go, ask the question, and hear, “Come and see.”

They end up spending the night, which I never like to do without a toothbrush. Next day, they each go off to find friends. Andrew gets his brother Simon and tells him how impressed he is with Jesus, and how this might b e the Messiah.

“Really?” Peter mumbles.

“Come and see,” is all Andrew says.

Philip finds his friend Nathaniel lolling the day away under a tree. “We’ve found the Messiah,” Philip tells him. “It’s Jesus from Nazareth.”

“Nazareth? Can anything good come from there?” wonders Nathaniel. Nazareth was like the Arkansas of Judea.

“Come and see.”

Neither Andrew with his dipshit brother nor Philip with his doubtful friend felt like they needed to convince anyone of anything. “Come and see. You’ll see.”

The other story I like is Ann Lamott’s story. She tells it so well in her book Traveling Mercies, I won’t try to replicate it. Suffice to say that she experienced Jesus in a little Presbyterian Church, then she felt him hunched in the corner of her room at night, then she sensed him following her like a cat until she finally said, "“Fuck it. Come on in." And he did.

Is there a right way to “do evangelism”? I’m not sure. I have often thought that if we could jettison the term we’d be closer to the real thing. Evangelism is simply being amazed by God’s mercy and saying to anyone who asks, “Oh yeah? Come and see.”

Maybe the reasons we have so much trouble with sharing to good news of Jesus is that we don’t really believe it, we’ve heard too many miraculous stories, and we’re convinced that Christianity is just a set of propositional statements we need to give mental assent.

On a Typical Monday

On a typical Monday afternoon, Paula Sattler’s family knows where to find her. She’s making supper for Jesus. And she’s probably got help. Each week in Lake Norden, SD (population 350 on a good day) the doors of the Covenant Church open for a community ministry simply called Table. Paula leads a core of volunteers who come from various churches in town, or no church, in preparing balanced meals for anyone who wants to come and eat.
Table. The word is a crowd, a thousand images. To be at table goes way out past belly filling. To be at table with others is to be in community with them. Needs previously unknown are met, hungers which have gone unnoticed are quieted. Table means family, safety, reconciliation, mercy, freedom. Hold on to those pictures of table and you begin to get close to what goes on here.
We started Table when I was the pastor at Lake Norden Covenant Church. Our intention was simple: feed the hungry. But, as is so often the case with Jesus centered service, much more has happened.
We at the Covenant Church had talked for a long time about issues like hunger, loneliness, evangelism, and service in a holistic package in our little town, as well as our own need to be Jesus to our community. We’d had opportunity to participate in a ministry called The Banquet in Watertown, a town of 20,000 some 25 miles away. The Banquet makes no bones about being a service to the poor and residents of group homes for mentally retarded adults. In the fall of 2001 we began to talk about how we could emulate that dynamic ministry.
At our initial meetings with representatives from the other churches in town, we thought to imitate the organizational structure of The Banquet, complete with a Board of Directors with two members from every participating church, volunteers pulled from surrounding churches and service organizations, and a focus on “helping the poor”. We soon realized, however, that it was our job to do the work, that we needed one “chef”, that no one likes to be identified as “the poor”, even if its true, and that hunger wears many guises.
The flavor of what we finally arrived at after a few months of just doing it is unique and has lent itself to ministry we could never have foreseen or planned. There is no sharp line between “workers” and “guests”. Everyone is welcome in the kitchen, and many people head to the sink to wash a few dishes on their way out the door. The cooks make sure to get out and eat, and if they don’t, someone heads in and takes over for a while. The organizational style of Table has sometimes been described as “organic”, “very hippie”, and “liquid leadership”. Whatever it is, it works. Table is a success by whatever standard we can apply.
First, the people who show up and make the food are often the poorer members of the community. Many of them are participants in Paula and her husband Jeff’s “Trailer Trash Bible Study”. They, often labeled by society as “needy”, provide for the needs of others. In fact, some helpers stop by the local food pantry first, then show up to cook, set tables, fill salt shakers, and greet diners. In this context, for these people, receiving are literally two sides of the same coin. They may feel awkward when a plate passes through Sunday’s pews, but at Monday’s Table they give time and talent and effort.
Then there are the people who come to eat. They come for a variety of reasons. Some come because there’s not much in the cupboard, some come because they’re lonely, some come out of boredom, others come to support a good thing. People of mixed social, economic, religious, and family backgrounds sit together, linger over dessert. Breaking bread they become bread for each other.
When we first started Table, some of the community members feared we’d use food to coax them into the church and then hit them with an evangelism bomb. Don’t think it wasn’t suggested. “You have a captive audience,” some said. Suggestions for “evangelism” ranged from Christian music in the background, to devotions, prayer, and sign up sheets for church activities. We resisted, believing that acting like Jesus is better than talking about Jesus. Now some of those same people who balked at coming to church for supper have been on mission trips, attend Bible studies, and serve at Table. They’ve seen the good news of Jesus in action, they’ve sat at table and stood at sinks with people whose struggles are changed (not eliminated) by the Holy Spirit, the gospel has rubbed against their wounds, they’ve tasted and seen the goodness of God.
Three churches in Lake Norden (ELCA, General Conference Baptist, and Evangelical Covenant) actively and regularly participate in Table. Those three churches have historically cooperated in VBS, a yearly outdoor worship service, and Lenten gatherings, but Table seems to have raised ecumenism to a different level.
Table reaches children and, through them, their parents. As Paula says, “The kids in this town can’t seem to remember to come home on time, but they all know five o’clock Monday afternoon.” Families eventually come, and everyone greets them with excitement. Then they come back.
Reconciliation happens at the Table. I’ve seen sisters- the grown women kind- forget heir feud and stir stock pots together. Friends who have been estranged set up tables and reset their relationships. Baptists and Lutherans shove into the same hot sink and battle roaster pans. The only theology among the suds is the theology of the Son of Man who came not to serve but to be served.
We started Table in January 2002. Paula and Jeff (who are not wealthy by any stretch) donated the first meal. After some debate, we put a basket out for donations. Since then, anywhere from forty to eighty have eaten, and eaten well. Nearly every week, the basket pays for the meal. Once a year the Table crew does a bake sale to raise money to recharge the checking account, but then they can’t resist giving some of in away to pay for a yearly pilgrimage to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation for Thanksgiving.
Many theologians have pointed out that what made Jesus a unique figure in the first century was his “radically inclusive table fellowship”. I tend to think that observation belongs as much to our era, as well. As Table has unfolded itself on the Lake Norden community, we have found the deep truth of such statements. It is literally impossible to call ourselves followers of Jesus without the hard work of actually following.
Table is nothing like a church supper; it is a reflection, however pale, through whatever dim glass, of the kingdom of God. As far as it is possible to say so in a place like Lake Norden, “Many (have) come from the east and the west, the north and the south, and (have sat) at table in the kingdom of God.” Church people, community folk, the pious, the liars, the rich, the poor, the gregarious, the shy, the penitent, the searching, the strong, the weak, the fearful, the proud, the workers, the management: they’re all there.

Phoenix of Grace

In the spring of 1994 the mud in Rwanda ran red with the blood of genocide. The world, witness to massacre upon massacre in the past century, turned our collective head, collective hands hanging limply at our collective side. The United Nations withdrew troops from the very area most in danger of bloodshed. No nation on earth would break the spell by crying, “Genocide!” since to do so would compel action, both morally and legally. The US Secretary of State said, without the slightest hint of irony on her lips, “Ultimately, the future of Rwanda is in Rwandan hands.” Actually, in the hands of Rwandans were machetes, hoes, and knives. The Hutus of Rwanda took up these tools of harvest and used them on their Tutsi neighbors. Slowly and methodically, like men pulling double shifts in death factories, they hacked their way through human beings. They worked under tortuous sun and by firelight. They stockpiled their victims in schools and churches and hospitals. They carved a road to the future through flesh.

The Hutus were encouraged by a government which openly admired the methodology of the Nazis. Books about Hitler and the Holocaust became primers for officially sanctioned actions. They were spurred on by priests and nuns. They were strengthened by doctors and nurses. They were cheered by teachers and lawyers. They were pushed by parents, wives, and children.

But the intimate slaughter did not stop there. During the 100 days of terror, more than a quarter of a million women were raped with the kind of intentional passion kept only for burning love and grinding hate. Many, after they were used up, died. Many others fell victim to AIDS, intentionally exposed to the virus.

One of those women was Severa Mukakinani. Her story, recounted by Kimberlee Acquaro and Peter Landesman in the January/February 2003 Issue of Mother Jones Magazine, is a thumbnail sketch of the horror painted in the blood of the innocent. After watching the brutal deaths of her children, seven of them, she was raped, “I don’t know how long.” When her tormentors finished with her, likely to move on to fresh victims, she was cut up and dumped to die in the mud. But Severa didn’t die. She lived. And she who had seen seven births and seven deaths, found herself pregnant.

This might have been the last rock piled on her heart, the final blow of the machete meted out to her. This might have stolen, finally, her humanity. But Severa didn’t die. She lived. She is the phoenix of grace, rising from the mud, clinging to her humanity. She kept her baby, her child of pain, her child of violence, so national and so personal. And she saw her child not through the eyes of anguish, but through the eyes of hope. She, reborn from the mire of sin, gave her baby life and life abundant. She gave her daughter the name which is perhaps apt for all children, Hutu, Tutsi, German, and Costa Rican. She named her Akimana, “child of God”.

Today in Rwanda, women hold the highest places, places formerly closed to them. They are teachers, police officers, politicians, property owners. These women, risen from the ashes, are leading their country, and if we let them, the world, toward reconciliation. These women have learned more of mercy than the rest of us could dream of. They are raising the children of their oppressors, working hand in hand with the wives of their murderers, and leading their nation toward a different reality, where grievance does not follow grievance, and eyes are not demanded for eyes.

But still, I wonder. I wonder about that passage in the Bible where it says that, “All things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to God’s purposes.” I wonder if Severa would ever trade her child of God for her lost seven children, or them for her. I suspect that to ask her to make such an exchange would at last snuff out the phoenix within her. Who could make that call? Who could destroy her own soul?

I wonder if there might be some easier way for women to succeed in Rwanda. Surely there must. Did their path have to be cut through their skin and the bones of their men? Did the future need to be written in blood, rape, and mutilation? Could so great a forgiveness have come any other way?

In the end this thing drains meaning from words like tragedy. I am saddened at my own reduction of the pain into a cost/benefit analysis.

I’m glad that God’s economy is not like my own. There is no direct exchange: tit for tat, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. I’m glad we are not given those choices. And I’m glad God isn’t the author of everything, whose tears mingle with our own. I’m glad for a God who was with Severa, even in the mud, even in the rape compound, even in her powerlessness. I’m glad for a God whose blood ran in the river that day, who suffered the scorn of rape, whose hands, feet, and head were severed. I do not understand such a God, such a suffering God, such an economy. I am glad for a metaphysical economy of inequity. There is no direct exchange, only God’s life for mine. I’m glad for a God who is The Phoenix of Grace, rising from the mud and ashes to bring us along in faltering flight.