Small Group Aversion

Mt. Tam Christian Community had a casual, laid-back atmosphere (as described in a previous post), but Bart, its pastor, was deadly serious about that word “community.” Bart pictured church as a close-knit family of believers whose mutual love and support served as a magnet to the lost world around them. An admirable goal, to be sure, but given my introverted nature, I wasn’t always comfortable with the practical applications of this vision.

Take, for instance, Bart’s pre-sermon ritual. Before preaching, he had everyone break up into groups of 4 or 5, form their chairs into a circle, and discuss a series of probing questions about their spiritual lives. This practice was disturbing on several levels. First, it felt a little weird to be chatting away in the middle of a worship service. Childhood attempts to engage in this activity had left me at the business end of my mother’s elbow, and my ribs had been slow to forget these inducements to silence.

But the real problem, it must be admitted, was Bart’s questions themselves. They really were probing. For some reason, he wasn’t content to offer up a few harmless ice-breakers like, “Where did you go on your last vacation?” Instead, his queries were more along the lines of . . .

Describe a time when you felt spiritually/emotionally destitute. How did God meet you in that moment?

Such questions presupposed that I was of sufficient spiritual depth to arrive at a meaningful answer and, having formulated such an answer, was inclined to share it with a handful of underdressed strangers. Since both these assumptions were plainly false, I usually made a well-timed trip to the bathroom right before the interrogation.

Bart, however, had more community-building tricks up his sleeve. During the week, the church offered several “family groups” that met in various homes around Marin County, the purpose of which was to further expose us to probing questions about our spiritual lives. A friend from seminary who tried one of these small groups came back raving about the experience. “It’s not your average Bible study, Steve,” he gushed. “We really get to know each other.”

“I’ll bet you do,” I replied. “But I don’t think I could hide in the bathroom for 2 hours.”

Little did I know that, in one of life’s strange little ironies, I would someday be in charge of the church’s small group ministry. But that’s a story for another day.

Rating the Straw Men

So I just finished The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. (Disclaimer: I am not promoting this particular book, though I do promote reading books with a perspective that differs from your own.) At one point, Dawkins lays out a 7-point belief scale, with #1 representing strong theism (100% certainty that God exists) and #7 representing strong atheism (100% certainty that God does not exist). Dawkins' own "rating" is between 6 and 7, and his stated goal for this book is to move people toward that end of the spectrum.

This was frighteningly reminiscent of The Engel Scale I learned about in seminary, which rates an individual’s Christian faith (or lack thereof) on a scale from -12 to +4. The -12 value represented a posture toward God like that of Linda Blair in The Exorcist, while the highest rating was basically reserved for missionaries in Kazakhstan. The idea, I guess, was that even nudging someone to a -5 (Experience of Christian love) signified progress. Then Billy Graham or somebody else who knew what they were doing could take them the rest of the way.

But here's my problem with both of these scales. Once you set out to move people toward some predetermined position, the temptation becomes overpowering to present only the evidence that supports said position, while dismissing conflicting evidence (or creating "straw man" versions of that evidence). I'm sure Dawkins would say that he is honestly weighing all available evidence, and maybe he is—but some of the pictures he paints of religious belief have the whiff of straw about them.

Of course, Christians do the same thing. To cite a trivial example, I just heard a radio show presenting "scientific" evidence for a 6,000 year-old earth by discrediting radio-isotope dating. Talk about a straw man—this argument should audition for the Wizard of Oz. In the first place, scientists are well aware of the applicability and limitations of various forms of radio-isotope dating and would never use this technique in the way it was being presented. Secondly, I know of no scientists who are claiming that radio-isotope dating is the only (or the most compelling) evidence of the earth's ancient age.

Wait, did I just yank this poor schmoe’s comments out of context and erect a straw man of my own? Maybe so. But as far as I’m concerned, he’s welcome to remain at whatever Dawkins/Engel rating he currently inhabits. Just keep an open mind about it, is all I’m saying.

Redness of Eyes

Friends here in the Northern California wine country sometimes express disbelief upon hearing of Golden Gate Seminary’s alcohol ban, a prohibition I mentioned in a recent post. Coming from Tennessee, though, this rule didn’t strike me as even slightly odd. Back home, our pastor only departed from his normal subject matter—the need to accept Jesus Christ as personal Lord and Savior—for one reason. To denounce the evils of alcohol. No Bible-believing Christian, we were often reminded, had any business even shopping in a store that sold liquor, much less drinking the stuff themselves. When turning to this familiar theme, our pastor invariably preached from Proverbs 23:29-30, which says:

Who hath woe? Who hath sorrow? Who hath contentions? Who hath babbling? Who hath wounds without cause? Who hath redness of eyes? They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.

Hearing all this, I, for one, had to agree with the pastor. Even though I wasn’t entirely sure what “contentions” were, they didn’t sound like something I wanted to “hath” any more than I wanted to experience anything else in that list. Especially redness of eyes, which sounded kind of gross.

Now, I suppose some folks felt that these denouncements of alcohol were a bit overdone, given the fact that Jesus’ first known miracle was turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana. But the preacher, being more wily than he looked, was ready for that objection. When preaching his “red eye” sermon, he patiently explained that the wine available in Jesus’ time had no more alcohol in it than the Welch’s grape juice we drank during the Lord’s Supper. Jesus had, in reality, been concocting a healthy, refreshing drink for all the wedding guests and could in no way be viewed as contributing to insobriety.

Hearing that was always a load off my mind, and it made me grateful that by the time Jesus came on the scene, they had stopped making that Old Testament wine that Proverbs said you shouldn’t tarry over. I had missed that fact completely with my simple, literal reading of Scripture, so it was nice to have things explained so clearly.

Be It Resolved

Just as I was getting started on my career as a Southern Baptist pastor in 1995, our denomination celebrated its 150th anniversary by taking a bold step at its annual convention. Delegates ratified a resolution that officially apologized for Southern Baptist participation in the historical evils of slavery and segregation.

This laudable (if somewhat tardy) stand came to mind last week when the California Supreme Court overturned a law prohibiting same-sex marriage, almost certainly igniting a fresh battle with the religious right. No one knows when such battles will end, but I have a sneaking suspicion that sometime between now and the 300th anniversary of the Southern Baptist Convention, a new resolution will be needed that apologizes to the gay community for past sins. In anticipation of this need, I offer the following as a first draft:

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WHEREAS, Since its founding in 1845, the Southern Baptist Convention has been an effective instrument of God in missions, evangelism, and social ministry, albeit with a few missteps along the way regarding our African-American brothers and sisters, women, and other folk like that; and

WHEREAS, The Scriptures teach that Jesus was the sort of fellow who welcomed lepers, tax collectors, and the aforementioned women into his presence with open arms (Matthew 9:10), and that he was criticized as a drunkard and friend of sinners rather than as some sort of “stuffed shirt” (Luke 7:34); and

WHEREAS, We have learned from hard experience that, on occasion, the “plain teaching” of Scripture can be used to justify some pretty lousy positions, and that it is entirely possible that Moses and the Apostle Paul did not have in mind, say, a modern, loving relationships between gay persons who just want to be recognized as a family like the rest of us; and

WHEREAS, Our relationship to our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters has been hindered by our efforts to deny them “special rights” like access to health benefits and hospital visitation privileges; and

WHEREAS, Many of our Baptist forbears made numerous “less than kind” public statements about these same brothers and sisters (to say nothing of some of the stuff we wrote on picket signs);

Be it RESOLVED, That we apologize to all gay, lesbian, and transgender people everywhere for condoning and/or perpetuating individual and systemic bigotry in our lifetime; and we genuinely repent of any bigotry of which we have been guilty, whether consciously (Psalm 19:13) or unconsciously (Leviticus 4:27).

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Of course, I may be jumping the gun a bit here. But it never hurts to be prepared.

San Quentin Blues - Part 2

On the day that Leon was to be released from San Quentin, Mike and I drove his faded green Beetle to the prison’s front gate. Leon soon appeared with a huge smile on his face, and after giving Mike a quick hug, he placed himself confidently behind the wheel of the Volkswagen. Mike shot me a worried glance over the car’s rounded roof, then leaned down to speak through the open window.

“Hey, Leon, do you think driving is a good idea?” he asked.

“Oh sure, man. Toss me the keys—I’m taking you boys to lunch in San Francisco!”

Call me untrusting, but I had grave doubts about Leon’s possession of: (a) a valid driver’s license; or (b) the money to spring for lunch. Still, I followed Mike’s lead and got in the car. In moments, Leon had sped across the Golden Gate Bridge and pulled up in front of a seedy pizza joint. Once inside, Leon immediately ordered a large pitcher of beer and consumed its contents in approximately 18 seconds. Leon promptly ordered a second pitcher, but just before it was set on our table, he retired to the restroom to address needs created by pitcher #1. In his absence, Mike fixed me with a determined stare.

“We can’t let Leon have any more beer, bro. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he gets drunk.”

While I agreed with Mike’s assessment, I didn’t see how we could stop Leon from downing this second pitcher and said as much.

“We’re going to drink it,” Mike said with an eerie calm. “You and I are going to drink all this beer before Leon gets back.”

Well, this was a full-blown moral crisis. Golden Gate Seminary had a strict ban on the consumption of alcohol, so while Mike’s plan had a certain allure, how could I go along with it? My mind was racing, but Mike wasn’t finished.

“I have to drive home, so you’ll need to do most of the drinking.”

By the time Leon returned from relieving himself and chatting with a few other patrons, the pitcher was almost empty and my head was starting to spin. It was still spinning when we dropped Leon off at a friend’s apartment and drove back across the Golden Gate Bridge.

“You did the right thing, Steve,” Mike said as he eased the ancient Beetle onto the Seminary Drive off-ramp. “There was no other way once that second pitcher came out.”

I nodded, still unsure how to feel.

“But just the same,” Mike continued, “You’d better hit the mouthwash as soon as we get back to the dorm.”

San Quentin Blues - Part 1

Marin County is a strange place for a Southern Baptist seminary, but there is another local institution that is even more starkly out of place. San Quentin State Prison also makes its home in Marin, where the notorious penitentiary houses California’s death row population.

I became aware of San Quentin when a chaplain visited Golden Gate to recruit volunteers for a prisoner visitation program. My friend Mike needed little convincing. “Let’s do it, Steve,” he said eagerly. “Who in Marin needs us more than these prisoners?”

“You’re probably right,” I hesitantly returned. “But what if they send us to visit some wacko?”

Mike’s shrug suggested that, in his view, visiting a homicidal maniac would not be such a bad thing. Who needed us more, right? So after completing a training program, Mike and I were paired with two willing prisoners named Leon and Julio.

The prison’s visiting area consisted of several round tables and a handful of television sets, and I was introduced to Julio shortly after entering this room. He was quiet at first, but after a few visits, we fell into a comfortable routine—often praying or discussing the Bible together. Once, Julio even presented me with a gift—a small cross he had woven out of stray threads.

Meanwhile, Mike was finding that Leon was interested in more worldly concerns. During Mike’s visits, Leon usually passed the time by watching Soul Train and commenting on the size of various dancers’ breasts. Leon also displayed an inappropriate curiosity about Mike’s personal life, often asking, “When’s the last time you got laid, man?”

Soon, Mike was dreading our monthly prison visits. To lighten the mood on our way to San Quentin, I sometimes asked, “Any news to share with Leon this week?” Such remarks were probably not helpful, but to his credit, Mike never gave up. His visits would have continued indefinitely if not for a stunning development.

“Leon called me today,” Mike said one afternoon. “He’s getting paroled in two weeks.” This sounded like good news—until the next sentence. “Leon wants me to pick him up when he’s released.” And after a pause, Mike added the clincher.

“You’re going with me.”

Well, this was the least I could do after all my wisecracks, but one question weighed heavily on my mind. If Leon was a handful on visiting days, what would he be like outside the prison walls?

Heeding the Call

Growing up, I saw any number of earnest young men walk down the aisle of First Baptist Church and declare that God had called them to preach (women need not apply, but that’s another story). These announcements were always warmly received and could even stir up some real excitement if the “callee” wasn’t an obvious choice. For example, my friend Keith’s older brother got the calling one Sunday, and that came as a real shocker. Keith and I had suffered much abuse at his hands through the years, especially if he had caught us messing around with his Black Sabbath albums. So you just never knew.

These memories came flooding back to me about halfway through my first semester at seminary, when I became aware that fellow students enjoyed describing their "call to the ministry" in reverent tones, while I had no story of my own to tell. Sure, I had an ill-defined desire to serve God somehow, but that rationale had looked pretty sad on my seminary application. After being accepted, though, I figured that many students were similarly nebulous in the "call" department.

Faced with mounting evidence to the contrary, I began to feel increasingly out of place. But just when I had all but decided to book a flight back to Tennessee, Rod crossed my path. I knew Rod was one of the most respected students on campus, so when he dropped by my dorm room for a chat, I decided to confess my lack of a real call.

By way of a response, Rod laughed at me (guffawed, actually). Then he said the words that kept me in California: "Listen, these other knuckleheads did the same as you. They prayed, talked to friends, and made the best decision they could about God’s will. There isn’t any voice from heaven."

Rod’s explanation didn’t really account for Keith’s brother, whose friends would probably have steered him toward petty larceny rather than the clergy, but this common-sense approach lifted my spirits just the same. And it taught me something about the temptation to put a spiritual veneer on a rather ordinary experience.

Then again, maybe Rod was letting me down easy. Subsequent events do make me wonder.

Mt. Tam Christian Community

My first Sunday in Marin, some fellow seminarians invited me to a local church that had recently been started by a Golden Gate graduate. They described the place as "real casual," so I slipped into some khakis and left my ties in the closet. But upon our arrival at the high school cafeteria where the church met, I noticed that at least half the crowd was wearing shorts and t-shirts, including the guitar- and drum-playing members of a worship band.

As we settled into the folding chairs that had been set out in lieu of pews, I whispered, "Are y’all sure this is a Baptist church?" My confusion was heightened by the congregation’s name: Mt. Tam Christian Community. Not only did this title omit the word "Baptist," it dropped the word "church"! What the heck was a "Christian Community"—some kind of hippie deal?

I soon met Bart, Mt. Tam’s pastor, who had arrived that morning on a crotch-rocket motorcycle. Bart assured me that the church was duly affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention and explained that its name and worship style had been chosen to overcome any preconceptions Marin natives had about Christianity. I wondered how locals took the news when they joined the church and learned that they were now, in fact, Southern Baptists. But Bart was so infectiously upbeat that I didn’t have the heart to rain on his parade.

Bart’s enthusiasm carried over into the sermon, a spirited but down-to-earth talk that made Christianity sound like the hottest thing going. According to this young pastor, the Christian life was not about what you ought to do, but what you got to do—you got to connect with your Creator and find your life’s true purpose. Conspicuously absent were any exhortations to tithe, attend Bible studies, or help in the nursery.

This sounded pretty good, but could you really build a church on such fluff? It didn’t seem likely, but the next week I decided to don some shorts, return to Mt. Tam, and find out. As subsequent posts will show, that decision shaped the course of my life for the next 10 years.

But at the time, I was mostly happy about the shorts.

Elisha and the Bears - Part 2

Some time after completing Old Testament class at seminary, I volunteered with a Marin County literacy program. While attending a training session at a large Catholic Church in San Rafael, I struck up a conversation with an older woman at my table. She was surprisingly pleased to learn that I was an aspiring minister.

"I’ve never been a church-goer," she said. "But I just became a grandmother and am starting to think that my grandson needs some kind of spiritual training."

Of course, I was quick to agree, and we went on to have a pleasant discussion. Later, this woman returned from a break clutching a large, colorful book. Taking matters into her own hands, she had purchased a children’s Bible for her grandson from the church bookstore, which she began to flip through excitedly. After a moment, though, her eyes grew wide with shock.

"This is horrible!" she gasped. "It shows God sending snakes to bite people after they disobeyed Him. But God never did that, did He?"

Here she held the book up to my face, where—sure enough—I saw a picture of cartoonish snakes attacking a mob of terrified Israelites. I was all-too familiar with this story from the book of Numbers, so pleading ignorance was out. But what could I say to this confused and upset woman? In hindsight, perhaps I should have launched into a lengthy explanation of the JEDP theory I had learned in seminary—in hopes of inducing a catatonic state that would last until the training resumed. But at the time I froze up like one of the kids who got eaten by Elisha’s bears in the box canyon, only managing to stammer, "Well, that story wouldn’t have been my first choice for a children’s Bible, that’s for sure."

"So you’re saying these snakes really are in the Bible. That settles it!" And with that, my companion stormed off to get her money back, and I was left alone with my thoughts. Though, really, there was only one thought:

"Lady, you don’t know the half of it."