There is no singular reason for the deep division that besets our nations and our churches. However, in many ways, the church is reaping what it sowed through some of the principles of the church growth movement, namely the homogenous unit principle.
This principle asserts that, since people are most comfortable being with people just like them (who share affinities, interests and demographics) we can most effectively grow churches by helping people feel the most comfortable.
This is an oversimplification in practice, of course, but this thread ran deep in evangelical circles. The fruit of this, then, has shown us to be more segregated than ever, from race to age, from political party and socio-economic class to music style.
The recovery will be long and difficult. However, through the power of the Holy Spirit and her wisdom, the church can and must work redemptively to repair these breaches. It will take intentionality and it may be painful. But we must remember both our shared humanity and divinity, best expressed in the unity found only in our diversity.
This blog post is part of a recurring series called the #reHumanize Project, an initiative by Nazarenes United for Peace that seeks to help us rediscover our shared, divine humanity.
Return of the Prodigal Son – Rembrandt
There’s a whole lot of “othering” going on these days. But our Wesleyan theology can help us overcome the tendency to retreat into our silos with battlements. It helps us be sure we are not creating victims through our theology.
Rev. Dr. Jones’ post comes at just the right time. I think you’ll enjoy it. May God help us.
Peace.
We are swimming in a disorienting cultural moment. For some of us, it feels unprecedented. For others, it is yet another Monday in a succession of Mondays. But something does feel particularly poignant, a certain weightiness to navigating the cultural waters at the risk of drowning amidst the chaos. I grew up in Tornado Alley. Inevitably, when storms came, we would seek shelter in a cellar, hidden from the power of the storm. And, this image has provided an all-too-appropriate metaphor for the Church’s strategy for weathering the cultural maelstrom – hunker down, secure all exits, cram “our” people into the small space, and hope it blows over.
There is a not-so-implicit theology of holiness that is operational in this model of cultural engagement. It is the idea that holiness is a matter of separation between clean and unclean, holy and unholy. Like water and oil, the two can’t mix. And, in fact, evil, sin, and the unclean contaminates that which it touches. Holiness is delicate and must be protected at all costs. Evil becomes a tangible thing (rather than an absence or twisting of the good) that must be eradicated. It is a small step toward eradicating the bodies and lives of those deemed “unclean” by these holiness codes. After all, holiness must be protected from contamination, lest we all become unclean by contact or association.
Of course, holiness-as-separation (priestly tradition) is not the only framework for understanding holiness in the scriptures. The wisdom tradition gives testimony to the shared experience of living wisely in the world. The prophetic tradition emphasizes communities that preserve the well-being of the most vulnerable in society through means of justice (i.e., widows, orphans, foreigners, and the poor). The over-emphasis on priestly separation creates a significant imbalance in our vision of holiness. And, in its most twisted versions, priestly holiness can only define itself by what it is against while unable to name what it is for. Such a fragile vision of holiness undercuts the quality of holiness that promotes the “good” toward which it must be aimed. Extremes of holiness-as-separation devolve into fearful “escapology” rather than hopeful “eschatology” – the redemption of the world. To be called out and separate is always for the sake of the world, not over-and-against the world.
The over-emphasis on priestly separation creates a significant imbalance in our vision of holiness.
How curious and yet convenient that the holiness-as-separation paradigm fits incredibly well within a political and economic framework that sees all of life on the basis of production, consumption, and competition. It is a framework that at once captures both institutional realities and individual lives. After all, politics and economics as they are currently constructed in the United States rest foundationally on the principle that we are all competitors vying for limited resources in the midst of a sea of insatiable and unending desire (supply and demand). Thus, we may have tentative agreements between select groups that work together for mutual benefit but inevitably it breaks down into individualistic self-preservation (after all, survival is the primary good in this system). In other words, competition devolves into conflict and competitors evolve into enemies – between the haves and have-nots.
In a very simplified way, I am describing the cultural marriage, an unholy trinity, now present in the United States which is predicated on economic self-preservation, religious sectarianism, and political jingoism. The communion of capitalism and democracy under the guise of Christian faithfulness has been long embraced and retains numerous adherents. Questioning or theologically deconstructing such systems is difficult to maintain without significant reformation. Most systems are resistant to critique and prefer the certainty of ideology and demagogues. The extremes of holiness-as-separation, nationalistic isolationism, and capitalistic consumerism provide a sacred litany of categorical demands and classifications, sustaining power and privilege in the hands of a select few and preserves the “holiness” of the system without serious questioning of the system. The baptizing of nationalistic and capitalistic allegiances in Christian language demands conformity, lest dissent be punished with labels such as “unpatriotic,” “communist,” or “un-Christian,” etc. In other words, failing to ascribe to the system renders one unclean, unholy, and unwelcome – other. Likewise, those who are born outside of the system, those who challenge the system, or those who can be categorized as competitors (i.e., the poor, ethnic minorities, different nationalities, adherents of different faith traditions – including those who identify as Christian but question the system, etc.) are quickly labeled as enemies.
Such categorization justifies any violence deemed necessary as a holy war fought to preserve the imagined sacred and holy status of a “Christian” society. Of course, nobody laments gaining the economic spoils of war (thus, pro-capitalism and pro-democracy are chief tenants of this cultural Christianity). The war may result in physical violence, such as a religious pogrom, or it may be as seemingly democratic as a court case determining if employers can fire LGBTQ+ employees with impunity. Regardless, the message is clear; those who do not fit within the parameters of this society and play the game are quickly labeled as “other” and either dismissed as inconsequential or destroyed as a potential threat. Such coalescing of holiness-as-separation, economic competition, and nationalistic exceptionalism is the perfect storm that can only see others as potential threats to be exorcised from the body politic of society. That politic goes by the simple name of Empire whose telos is power, not love.
It was just such a system that crucified a poor, Jubilee-proclaiming, political dissident – the same dissident who mingled with prostitutes, lepers, the poor, and the outcast; the same crucified Christ who announced Sabbath freedom to the blind, the lame, tax collectors, widows, orphans, and sinners. And, it is this same crucified enemy of the Powers-that-be who instituted a Table as a gathering place for all who recognize that by God’s grace and as Kin-dom people of God, we can be neighbors rather than enemies. God, resplendent in holiness, has torn down the dividing wall, dissolved the categories of “other” in order that we may be made one, even as the Son and Father are one.
After all, it is God who is Holy/Wholly Other, who takes on our flesh and becomes one of us – which is to say, God does not remain “other.” This is the scandal of incarnation and crucifixion – the condescension of God – to become one of us, not merely in appearance. And, this same God confronts Peter in a vision in which he is told not to call unclean that which God has made clean – namely, Gentiles (a social and political “other” to the Jews). This trajectory of dismantling “other” from the grammar of our lives is clearly embodied at the Table where Jesus says, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” (Matt. 26:28, NIV). What greater sin is there than the lack of love which promotes the “othering” of those whom God loves and calls to dine at the banquet of divine grace?
John Ortberg tells a powerful story of a priest set apart for service to others, which may bring further illumination.
“Father Damien was a priest who became famous for his willingness to serve lepers. He moved to Kalawao – a village on the island of Molokai, in Hawaii, that had been quarantined to serve as a leper colony. For 16 years, he lived in their midst. He learned to speak their language. He bandaged their wounds, embraced the bodies no one else would touch, preached to hearts that would otherwise have been left alone. He organized schools, bands, and choirs. He built homes so that the lepers could have shelter. He built 2,000 coffins by hand so that, when they died, they could be buried with dignity. Slowly, it was said, Kalawao became a place to live rather than a place to die, for Father Damien offered hope.
Father Damien was not careful about keeping his distance. He did nothing to separate himself from his people. He dipped his fingers in the poi bowl along with the patients. He shared his pipe. He did not always wash his hands after bandaging open sores. He got close. For this, the people loved him.
Then one day he stood up and began his sermon with two words: ‘We lepers….’ Now he wasn’t just helping them. Now he was one of them. From this day forward, he wasn’t just on their island; he was in their skin. First, he had chosen to live as they lived; now he would die as they died. Now they were in it together.
One day God came to Earth and began his message: ‘We lepers….’
Now he wasn’t just helping us. Now he was one of us. Now he was in our skin. Now we were in it together” (John Ortberg, God Is Closer Than You Think, 121-22).
May such holy love be evident among “us,” tearing down the walls that divide, so that we might confess together: “We lepers…”
Rev. Dr. Levi Jones serves as the Director of the Doctor of Ministry at Nazarene Theological Seminary and Co-Lead Pastor at St. Paul’s Church of the Nazarene in Kansas City, MO. He is married to Rev. Rebecca Jones and is grateful for her partnership in life and ministry. They have two wonderful children, Hannah and Caleb.
This blog post is part of a recurring series called the #reHumanize Project, an initiative by Nazarenes United for Peace that seeks to help us rediscover our shared, divine humanity.
This article first appeared in Holiness Today in Fall of 2016 and seems more apropos than ever. Since it is not included in their digital archives, the full text is below:
“Don’t you want to avoid spending eternity being tortured in
hell?” my friend asked as I sat in his living room listening to his Gospel
presentation.
“I’m already living in hell,” I replied. “How could things
get much worse?”
I was sixteen years old at the time and had heard this
refrain countless times from well-meaning friends. I’m sure they were
legitimately concerned about my eternal state, but I heard little interest from
them in the story of my own life that had brought me to that point.
Had they really taken the time, they might have learned that
my inner turmoil had been so great, I had tried to end my life that year. They
could have heard about the trust that was violated by a parent-figure when I
was a young child, which launched me into a life-long spiral of
self-destructive behavior and doubt about my own value.
I didn’t just need my future to be secured in “heaven,” I
needed a very real and present healing—an encounter with a transforming God. I
needed someone to show me the healing
grace of God, not stand above me pronouncing judgment over my lifestyle. I was
in desperate need of someone to hold open space for me and help me to see and
hear the God who was already calling me.
Entering Into Our Stories
It wasn’t until I encountered a group of high school
students at a Nazarene camp in Ohio a few years later that I finally had a
life-changing encounter with God. I met some incredible people who made room
for me at their tables. Despite my incredibly rough, violent, toxic—exterior,
they invited me into their fellowship. They listened to my stories. The looked
at me in the eye and acknowledged my value as a child of God.
They invited me to into
a holy imagination that allowed me to envision a new life for myself, one
marked by love and service to God and others.
They held up a mirror for me, which allowed me to see myself
as God does: beloved. Even I was an image-bearer of God. That was a
narrative often unheard in my youth.
The more I read the words of Jesus, the more aware I am of
just how much time and energy he spent entering into the stories of those he
encountered. Even though he was often addressed as “rabbi” or “teacher”, he
seemed to spend at least as much time listening
as he did talking. He asked lots of
questions:
“Who touched me?” “Do you want to get well?” “Why are you
crying?” “Who is it you are looking for?”
Now Jesus may have known the answers to these questions anyway, but he asked them over and over. I count at least 300 questions on the lips of Jesus. He’s not just asking to find out the answer, but he is engaging in the lives and stories of those he ministered among.
Jesus treated people as ends
in themselves in hearing their stories, not just as means to an end.
Transformative Relationships
Jesus is often described as a “friend of sinners” (Mt.
11:19, LK 7:34). He stood in direct opposition to both the social and religious
norms and customs of the day in order to achieve this friendship. He did more
than just “have coffee” with them—he allowed his life to become intertwined
permanently with them.
And isn’t this really the good news of the incarnation? That
God would become forever intermingled with humanity? For deity to take on flesh
means that God and humankind are intertwined in an inextricably bound
relationship. There is now no godforsaken place that God will not go for us and
with us. Human flesh is the redemptive vehicle through which God chose—and
still chooses to—work.
Our Wesleyan heritage teaches us that we are not just
changed in our standing with God (justification), but we are actually changed
and transformed into Christlikeness (sanctification). And the church, even with
all of her imperfections, is the primary conduit through which God enacts his
transforming grace in this world, in Jesus Christ through the Holy Spirit.
By inviting others to our table, by extending grace and
hospitality to those who may be on the margins (either of society or the
religious establishment), we are participating in the transforming power of God
at work in the world.
When I was in the darkest of the days of my youth, I knew that something needed to change and I needed a way out.
I needed someone to
show me the way, not just tell me.
Holy Hospitality
In his book, Reaching
Out, Henri Nouwen says,
“Hospitality means primarily the
creation of free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead
of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where
change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but
to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines.”
This idea of hospitality might radically transform the way
we approach evangelism. This doesn’t just mean that we simply invite people
into the Kingdom by caring for them (although this is important!) Instead, this
means that the very act of “creating free space” for people—their ideas, their
stories, their hurts—presents the palette on which their new narrative can be
created, all in cooperation with God. This kind of evangelism helps the world imagine the alternative kingdom of God,
which stands apart from the power-hungry, violence-loving way of the empires of
this world. It bears hope for those who carry only despair.
This means that, instead of standing on the outside of the
world making angry pronouncements about how wrong it is, we enter into the pain
of the world with the compassion of God. And if “compassion” means “suffering
with,” then our lives have to be intertwined with those around us in such a way
that anything that hurts them hurts us, too.
The story of my friend, Abbas, illustrates this for me. For
years I had heard about refugees and their struggles, but I cannot say I had
every really cried for them. However, a few years ago when Abbas laid out the
painful details of imprisonment for his faith in his Middle Eastern country and
his subsequent harrowing escape via a dangerous smuggler—all with his wife and
2 little girls in tow—I wept at the suffering he had endured.
This means that, instead of standing on the outside of the world making angry pronouncements about how wrong it is, we enter into the pain of the world with the compassion of God. And if “compassion” means “suffering with,” then our lives have to be intertwined with those around us in such a way that anything that hurts them hurts us, too.
The incarnation of Christ compels us to practice this kind
of holy hospitality—to create space and make room for the stories of others
without condemnation or judgment.
And this might be easy to do with people who are like us or
who have stories that are similar to our own. But it becomes much more
difficult with those who look different from us, who have a different social
struggle, faith or value system than we do.
From Death to Life
The coming of the Kingdom of God has been inaugurated by
Jesus and we are invited to participate in helping this world move from death
to life. In a culture so obsessed with death, we are called to help it imagine
a world that lives as if God were in charge.
The way of Jesus to the cross is called “cruciform” in that
it is in the shape of the cross. Shouldn’t our lives be in the same shape?
Willing to go where God will lead for the sake of others, knowing that
resurrection lies ahead?
My own journey is one from death to life, and this is quite
literal for me—I would likely be dead if it were not for those kids at that Nazarene
camp, showing me how to love God and myself. My self-destruction would have
surely been made complete, otherwise. They showed me that a redeemed life can
participate in redeeming this world with Christ.
And this is what propels me into the world, to share the
good news of the power of God to transform us. The radical change in my own
life is not something can be hidden, and so I have dedicated my life to tearing
down the walls that divide us and building longer tables of hospitality for
even the most unlikely of guests.
This blog post is part of a recurring series called the #reHumanize Project, an initiative by Nazarenes United for Peace that seeks to help us rediscover our shared, divine humanity.
When approached to write for the #reHumanize Project, I was asked for my thoughts on the project title: What people, places, things, or relationships need to be rehumanized? As I contemplated this, another question presented itself: What does it mean to rehumanize? Every process has a starting point and an endpoint. If in this project of rehumanizing our starting point is the dehumanized state in which we find ourselves and our relationships, our endpoint must be some true humanity from which we have been dehumanized.
Only when we understand what it means to be human can we begin the process of rehumanizing. A small directional error at the beginning of a journey will end that journey miles off course. Without a clear goal in mind, moving ourselves and our relationships from their current state may prove fruitless or indeed harmful. Our #reHumanize project, therefore, must properly begin with a clear idea of what it means to be human.
Christian anthropology—the church’s answer to the question, “What does it mean to be human?”—is rooted in the creation order and in the incarnation of Jesus Christ. We find both biblical and historical witness to this anthropology.
Genesis 1:27 states that in the beginning humankind was made “according to the image of God.”1 The language is the same used in Exodus 25:40, when God instructs Moses to build the tabernacle “according to the pattern”2 shown him on Mt. Sinai. This semantic link is not accidental. It carries with it the implication that humankind, and indeed every individual human being, was modeled after a pattern—some particular image of God. Paul writes in Colossians 1:15, “The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation,” and Hebrews 1:3 identifies the Son as “the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of his being.”3 (NIV) Further, the church affirmed at the Council of Chalcedon that in his humanity Jesus is “like us in all respects, apart from sin.”4
The image of God is not abstract, but is found “exact” in Christ, therefore our humanity is created according to the full humanity found in Christ. To be truly human, then, is to be like Christ—to think, to will, and to act as Christ. When we first deny our true humanity found in Christ, we lose the vision of the image of God in others. We rediscover our humanity and are able to rehumanize our relationships only as we conform ourselves to our pattern, the image of God found in Jesus.
The ancient church called the process of conforming to the pattern of Christ theosis. Athanasius of Alexandria wrote concerning the incarnation and theosis: “God became man so that man might become god.”5 Expanding on Athanasius’s writing, Orthodox priest, author, and podcaster Fr. Andrew Stephen Damick writes, “He is present in us, but we remain ourselves, and He remains Himself. But His presence in us changes us. We become not just better versions of ourselves, but like Him.”6
In language more familiar to Nazarenes, the process of becoming like God is entire sanctification. “It is love excluding sin;” John Wesley preached, “love filling the heart, taking up the whole capacity of the soul. It is love ‘rejoicing evermore, praying without ceasing, in everything giving thanks.’”7 Sanctified living sees us reclaim and restore the image of God in us and allows us to envision and cultivate the image of God in others.
Each and every human being with whom we interact has been made according to the image of God.
Each and every human being with whom we interact has been made according to the image of God. C.S. Lewis paints a profound picture in The Weight of Glory:
“It is a serious thing…to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities…that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.”8
Our responsibility begins with searching out the true humanity found in Christ and conforming our lives to that humanity by seeking union with Christ. Then we must seek to see Christ in the humanity of all those around us. With Christ as our sure foundation, we are able to build our #reHumanize edifice—reclaiming our own humanity and reenvisioning the humanity of those around us.
To return to Lewis:
“Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat—the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.”9
In Lewis’s Eucharistic language we find the destination of our #reHumanize project: to have Christ truly hidden in us and to recognize Christ truly hidden in others. As the bread and wine of the Eucharist are transformed by the Spirit to be the body and blood of Christ, so we are transformed by the Spirit to “be for the world the Body of Christ, redeemed by His blood.”10 Eucharistic humanity is the true humanity we have lost and which we must reclaim—incarnational, sacrificial, resurrected, and ascended humanity.
As the bread and wine of the Eucharist are transformed by the Spirit to be the body and blood of Christ, so we are transformed by the Spirit to “be for the world the Body of Christ, redeemed by His blood.”
Let us then live sanctified lives in view of the sacramental nature of our everyday relations. Seek to begin each day with a fresh vision from God, asking that we may see the full humanity of Christ in every individual we encounter. In this way may we fulfill our own human potential, being “filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.”11
The words of Charles Wesley serve as a wonderful prayer for the #reHumanize project:
Finish, then, thy new creation; pure and spotless let us be: let us see thy great salvation perfectly restored in thee; changed from glory into glory, 'til in heav'n we take our place, 'til we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise.12
May God perfectly restore in us the image of Christ, that we may recognize the image of Christ in others, living each day in light of his glory. Amen.
“It is a serious thing…to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities…that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.”8
This blog post is the first of a recurring series called the #reHumanize Project, an initiative by Nazarenes United for Peace that seeks to help us rediscover our shared, divine humanity.
The timing of the launch of our series called the #reHumanize Project seems ironic considering the news of John MacArthur’s awful words about Beth Moore last week. I’ll link to Sarah Bessey’s treatment of it here.
While it has been devastating to hear this kind of dehumanization of half of the human race in the name of Christianity, it has also been encouraging to see how Nazarenes have risen up to be sure the ecclesial world knows that we have always affirmed women in ministry and still do.
I’m very pleased to present to you the first of our submissions for the #reHumanize project. I had the privilege of working with Pastor Emily Reyes in Kansas City and her wisdom, authenticity, and passion are captured well in her open letter.
This week, I
watched a video of you laughing on a stage occupied by men as you mocked and
derided a woman who has ever-so-cautiously stepped into her ministry and
calling, has submitted herself entirely to the Church, and has spoken and led
with grace and truth. You told her to go home. You told her to quiet down. And
you did it all with incessant laughter, sarcasm, and scorn.
I say that I
watched the video, but honestly, I only watched the first few minutes. I
couldn’t take anymore of it, because it felt so familiar to me. And it felt so
unholy. I’ve known men like you – men who told me where my place was, and where
it wasn’t. Men who showed me what conversations and circles I was allowed into,
and how to find my way back to the kitchen when I had wandered too far from its
cozy feminine welcome.
Those men
were good men. They loved me, they loved Jesus, and they were probably
following leadership like yours. And I honestly didn’t mind at the time. I
really liked the idea of being a housewife when I grew up; I baked a pie that
could give any of the other church ladies’ a run for their money in our silent
auctions by the time I was fourteen, and it felt safe to have some parameters
set, some boundaries drawn.
It felt
really safe to be quiet.
That is,
until I had something to say.
[Disclaimer:
my mom and sisters have been stay-at-home moms for most of their lives. That
job is NO JOKE. It’s one I highly respect, one I view as hard & holy work,
and one I think I’d love to have someday.]
I felt God’s
call on my life when I was six years old, and I told my church that I was going
to be a missionary, because that was an acceptable thing to say as a female in
my context. I guess you could say education ruined me, but what’s really crazy
to me is how long it took me to get voices like yours out of my head.
Voices of
fear.
Voices of
pride.
Voices that
clung to power.
Voices that
silenced the Spirit’s empowering, resurrection work in me.
It took a really long time to trust that God really had made Eve equal and partner in God’s image (Genesis 1) and had seen Hagar in her abuse (Genesis 16). God really had used Deborah to judge (Judges 4) and Rahab to lead (Joshua 2). Women really did preach the gospel first (Matthew 28) and Junia really was a deaconess highly regarded by Paul (Romans 16:7). There really is no male or female in Christ (Galatians 3:28) and God’s story really, truly, is big enough and bold enough and good enough to make room for all to be equal and all to have a voice and all – sons AND daughters – to prophesy in these days (Joel 2:28).
This is the scandal of the gospel – that in Christ’s death and resurrection all has been made right and all has been made new. The valleys have been raised up! The mountains have been brought low! In Christ is NEW CREATION – creation as it was first intended, devoid of culture’s systemic sexism and humanity’s broken power struggles. The scandal of the gospel is that it goes this far– yes! – far enough to level the fields and set EVERY silenced voice free to shout this good news to the masses. Men don’t have to live in such insecurity and fear that they puff up at the sound of a woman’s voice leading them to Jesus. There is space here. Don’t sell the gospel short.
In Christ is NEW CREATION as it was first intended, devoid of culture’s systemic sexism and humanity’s broken power struggles. The scandal of the gospel is that it goes this far, yes! far enough to level the fields and set EVERY silenced voice free to shout this good news to the masses
So I guess
all I have to say to you is, you’re wrong, Mr. MacArthur. You’re wrong and I
know it with every fiber of my being because I’ve experienced the goodness and
joy it is to say yes to
God’s leading – even when it pushes me beyond what I’ve been raised to believe
is biblical and even when it’s the last thing on earth I have wanted. I know
because the Church needs the
voices and presence and gifting of women if She is ever to live fully into the
Kingdom of God that the Spirit is leading Her toward. I know because women
pastors have shown me Christ’s way and Christ’s gospel too clearly for them to
be following anyone else’s leadership in their lives. I know because my heart
tells me so, my Church tells me so, and my Bible tells me so.
The leverage
that you hold on American Christianity is still great, even as the sun sets on
Christendom and the cultural standing of evangelicals is waning with it. But be
careful, sir. Men are drinking in your words, reading your books, listening to
your sermons and your speeches and your sarcasm and they’re believing it. And
they’re teaching their families it, they’re proclaiming it from their pulpits,
and there are six-year-old girls who are listening with ardent hearts and
sincere spirits and accepting what they’re hearing as truth. In this, you are
causing others to sin, Mr. MacArthur. You are propagating falsehood and
misusing power, you’re reenforcing the walls of the boy’s club, and this is not
the way of Jesus. I urge you to pause before you sit on any panel again and
open yourself up so lightheartedly to word association games. Your words hold
power, and what you do with them matters. You’re too smart to have an excuse
here. And while I believe that it is right and good to encourage one another
and build each other up, I also believe that there is space, especially in the
Church, for righteous anger and prophetic voices to ring out in the face of
injustice and wrongdoing. And so, Mr. MacArthur, I appeal to you “by the
humility and gentleness of Christ” to examine your heart, repent, and
listen to diverse voices around you with humility – Christ comes to us in the
least of these.
I won’t go
home. I won’t because Jesus hasn’t told me to. Because Jesus didn’t tell Mary
to go back to the kitchen (Luke 10), and he didn’t tell Mary Magdalene and
Joanna and Susanna to return to their homemaking (Luke 8) and when the men
tried to dismiss the woman in Mark 14, he told them “Leave her alone. Why
are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing for me.”
I have a feeling he’d have similar words for you, Mr. MacArthur.
Pastor Emily Reyes serves as the associate pastor to children and families at Shawnee Church of the Nazarene in Kansas. She is a graduate of MidAmerica Nazarene University and is currently pursuing her M. Div. at Nazarene Theological Seminary
Nazarenes United for Peace 