The demographics of churches in America seem problematic, and the problem is that churches are attended predominantly by women. Don't get me wrong--it's not that I see women's attendance as a negative. It's just that I see men's avoidance of worship as troubling and I want to know why this lack of masculine appeal exists.
I have been in pursuit of what I call "masculine Christianity." Masculine Christianity is one that is strong, bold, persevering, and that captures the vision and allegiance of men. I don't want to create a new or distorted form of Christianity, molded to the itching ears of chauvinists. I'm talking about true and traditional faith in the God of Moses, David, Elijah, Peter, and Saul of Tarsus, about faith in Jesus who faced opposition head on, who preached radical commitment, and who endured God's wrath on our behalf. I'm in pursuit of the Christianity of William Tyndale, John Bunyan, John Paton, Charles Spurgeon, William Wilberforce, and Martin Luther. When I survey history I see at least two era's when a masculine Christianity ruled the day, those of the Puritans and the Reformers, and I've asked myself what distinguished their faith from contemporary evangelicalism. Among other things, theirs was a doctrinally-based Christianity. It's not that ours has eradicated theology entirely, although the doctrinal illiteracy of our time is no secret. It's that theirs focused upon fact and truth as the avenue to the heart, and produced strength, zeal, and a passion for Jesus Christ.
Christianity that reaches men speaks to them at the level of intellect and reason. The resultant faith is not lacking emotion or passion. Rather, it is a faith informed by sound, strong doctrine that inspires courage and godliness among men. So informed, men rise to the challenges of their times. They lead their families, churches, and societies. Their minds are consumed with great themes such as atonement, justification, God's covenants, human depravity, and Christ's Glory. The Puritans and Reformers possessed such a faith. They new the Scriptures and they knew sound doctrine. Yet, contrary to modern expectation, that did not produce a dry and distant relationship with God, nor a harshness of culture. Even a cursory reading of the things they wrote reveal a love for Christ that it seldom imitated today. While their faith affected their culture and daily living, it engaged their mind and warmed their heart. It captured their whole being.
Men must be inspired, but they need to be inspired by the weight and promise of great ideas. They want a cause to uphold, but they must be reached through the mind. Women (speaking stereotypically and generally) are inspired through emotions. They can be satisfied with better feelings and so their worship emphasizes God's love, Jesus' kindness, and their own happiness and hope created by the acceptance they have found in relationship to God. Men, on the other hand, grab hold of truth and respond with vigor. They are dissatisfied with worship that addresses felt needs and feelings. They want something solid.
Many churches have focused upon the former--a feminine, emotionally driven Christianity--without consideration to either the needs of men nor the value of doctrinally-rich, content-laden worship. When exactly this shift occurred I do not know, though it was strengthened by the rise of Neo-Pentecostalism (or Charismatic Christianity) in the 1960's and early 70's. Churches abandoned hymns in favor of choruses--an improvement in terms of musical relevance but pathetically lacking in content. Sermons began to address felt needs for self-improvement and personal well-being. These things connected with women. Some will obviously object that I have painted too narrow a perspective, and I don't mean to imply that these things are true for all members of a gender. My contention is that they are mostly true for a high percentage of each gender. To the degree that worship abandoned men, men abandoned worship.
A very popular chorus comes to mind that demonstrates what I have been saying:
AS THE DEER
As the deer panteth for the water,
So my soul longeth after you.
You alone are my heart’s desire
And I long to worship you.
You alone are my strength, my shield.
To you alone may my spirit yield.
You alone are my heart’s desire
And I long to worship you.
You're my friend, and You are my brother
Even though You are a King.
and I love You more than any other
So much more than anything.
This song, taken very loosely (the first two lines) from Psalm 42, notes very little of God's quality and attributes, and nothing of his greatest work in Christ and in salvation. If one needs a point of comparison, consider Luther's A Mighty Fortress is Our God. As The Deer is a symbol, and perhaps one of the most well known, of a new genre of emotive music. It focuses almost entirely upon how I feel, what I want, and what would make me satisfied (lest anyone think I am simply opposed to modern music, I would counter that I am encouraged by a new wave of doctrinally-rich contemporary hymns/choruses being written by men like Keith Getty). When David penned the Psalm, it was put in the context of suffering, opposition, and the need for God's salvation--powerful, thought-provoking truth. For a generation, however, people have contented themselves with the chorus as here presented. It elicited an emotional response only. Meanwhile, men became increasingly disinterested in the mission and message of churches so oriented.
Churches can influence society once again when they give men access to a masculine relationship with their God, one that affects both heart and mind. They need to return to their foundational, truth-expounding, world-changing mission. They must abandon the idea of a doctrinally-minimal Christianity and imitate the efforts of men like John MacArthur, John Piper, Alistair Begg, and Albert Mohler to impact a new generation of men through exposition and doctrinal clarity. We should applaud the efforts of musicians who seek to help us with the same. When men are again inspired by great truth that elicits zeal, courage, and passion, even the women who follow them will find their faith enriched.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Loss of a friend
I recently lost a friend, or so I thought. He didn't die, he just chose no longer to associate with me. The trigger that compelled his departure was a political statement that offended him. My question, however, concerns not the trigger but the spring that launched him. What incited such a violent and graceless reaction? I doubt it was my statement. I may disagree with friends over their statements, but I'm rarely, RARELY, offended--and never to the point of turning my back on them. Friends disagree, but to suddenly despise someone is a very different matter.
I've begun processing the ordeal, hoping to learn from it. My point here is not to discount the things I should learn about myself, but as these things tend to be multifaceted, a realization came to me about the difference between acquaintanceship and friendship, and the expectations/responses within both. I may well have credited our relationship with a friendship where none existed.
I thought it odd that over the several years that he and his wife attended our church, they refused to become members. A question of membership in a local church involves two matters--agreement with the doctrine and practice of the church, and the desire to place oneself under the authority of that church, for Christ's sake and the good of one's soul. I'm certain that the gentleman agreed with the doctrine of our church, so he must have been unwilling on the other matter. Since I am the pastor of the church, this made for a strange statement about the status of our relationship. I should have noted this from the beginning.
Friendship demands a conveyance of trust. I do not trust all people equally, nor do I have the same expectations of all people I know. Some people are little more than folks I know reasonably well and enjoy. They are not sources of edification or counsel, but they're good for a laugh, a golf partner, or a hand lifting something heavy. They are acquaintances. We might go to dinner together and interact socially at other venues, but trust is superficial. Within this relationship, civility is expected and a modest amount of sacrifice, but little of deeper commitment.
On the other end of the spectrum are those people who are better called friends. We encourage one another. There is a high degree of trust between us. When I need counsel, these are the people I go to. At times when civility and sacrifice are lacking, commitment to the person trumps an ungracious disposition. There are no triggers, because there are no springs. Otherwise it's not a friendship. In the Proverbs, Solomon tells us that "a friend loves at all times." He will not disassociate with you if he does not like your politics. The friendship is more valuable than that. In fact, you will likely hone and sharpen one another's perspectives on such issues. A friend would not refuse to come under your authority as pastor of a church, because he regards you and your insight highly. He doesn't think you're perfect, but he knows God has allowed you to connect for each other's good. He loves at all times; he trusts you and he knows that you trust him.
An acquaintance has a different level of tolerance. He may be easily offended, so you're not as likely to be open with him; he may question your commitment to him, and perhaps rightly so; he may limit his interaction to particular contexts and conversations so as to avoid the deeper level of friendship.
My "'friend's" choice to not become a member where I am a pastor certainly did not convey trust. Perhaps I was undeserving, or perhaps he was lacking in ability to trust (I am not the 1st, or 2nd, pastor he ever objected to). But whatever it was, his departure revealed something about the nature of our relationship that I had not previously considered. We were acquaintances, not friends.
Losing a friend is nearly impossible and, I would imagine, incredibly painful. I would think that one's presence would have to be terribly detrimental, and his responses quite stubborn, to actually lose a friend. My experience at this man's departure was one of despondency. I found it hard to imagine that I was so disagreeable and worthless. Yes, I'm sure I have many things to learn, but one thing I learned is not to invest too heavily in people's departures. I have never lost a friend. I have only lost acquaintances.
I've begun processing the ordeal, hoping to learn from it. My point here is not to discount the things I should learn about myself, but as these things tend to be multifaceted, a realization came to me about the difference between acquaintanceship and friendship, and the expectations/responses within both. I may well have credited our relationship with a friendship where none existed.
I thought it odd that over the several years that he and his wife attended our church, they refused to become members. A question of membership in a local church involves two matters--agreement with the doctrine and practice of the church, and the desire to place oneself under the authority of that church, for Christ's sake and the good of one's soul. I'm certain that the gentleman agreed with the doctrine of our church, so he must have been unwilling on the other matter. Since I am the pastor of the church, this made for a strange statement about the status of our relationship. I should have noted this from the beginning.
Friendship demands a conveyance of trust. I do not trust all people equally, nor do I have the same expectations of all people I know. Some people are little more than folks I know reasonably well and enjoy. They are not sources of edification or counsel, but they're good for a laugh, a golf partner, or a hand lifting something heavy. They are acquaintances. We might go to dinner together and interact socially at other venues, but trust is superficial. Within this relationship, civility is expected and a modest amount of sacrifice, but little of deeper commitment.
On the other end of the spectrum are those people who are better called friends. We encourage one another. There is a high degree of trust between us. When I need counsel, these are the people I go to. At times when civility and sacrifice are lacking, commitment to the person trumps an ungracious disposition. There are no triggers, because there are no springs. Otherwise it's not a friendship. In the Proverbs, Solomon tells us that "a friend loves at all times." He will not disassociate with you if he does not like your politics. The friendship is more valuable than that. In fact, you will likely hone and sharpen one another's perspectives on such issues. A friend would not refuse to come under your authority as pastor of a church, because he regards you and your insight highly. He doesn't think you're perfect, but he knows God has allowed you to connect for each other's good. He loves at all times; he trusts you and he knows that you trust him.
An acquaintance has a different level of tolerance. He may be easily offended, so you're not as likely to be open with him; he may question your commitment to him, and perhaps rightly so; he may limit his interaction to particular contexts and conversations so as to avoid the deeper level of friendship.
My "'friend's" choice to not become a member where I am a pastor certainly did not convey trust. Perhaps I was undeserving, or perhaps he was lacking in ability to trust (I am not the 1st, or 2nd, pastor he ever objected to). But whatever it was, his departure revealed something about the nature of our relationship that I had not previously considered. We were acquaintances, not friends.
Losing a friend is nearly impossible and, I would imagine, incredibly painful. I would think that one's presence would have to be terribly detrimental, and his responses quite stubborn, to actually lose a friend. My experience at this man's departure was one of despondency. I found it hard to imagine that I was so disagreeable and worthless. Yes, I'm sure I have many things to learn, but one thing I learned is not to invest too heavily in people's departures. I have never lost a friend. I have only lost acquaintances.
Fundamentalist?
In modern vernacular, the term "fundamentalist" generally carries one of two connotations:
1) an angry religious moralist who opposes any enjoyment of life for fear of consequent sin;
2) a rabid religious zealot whose adherence to a particular dogma leads to acts of violence.
I am using the term in neither of these ways.
I suppose the term "evangelical" could substitute, though it no longer means what it once did. For many, what once referred to a life oriented around the gospel, both in its belief and practice, now carries the connotation of a light-hearted and light-weighted Christianity, often focused upon catchy music and traditional values politics.
In 1923, J. Gresham Machen published a book entitled Christianity & Liberalism, which title exemplifies his conclusions concerning a debate that had been raging for more than a decade at Princeton Seminary. Machen, among others, insisted that modernist views rejecting essential doctrines--ranging from the reliability of Scripture to the resurrection of Christ--were antithetical to true Christianity. Thus, the options were Christianity or Liberalism, but the two are by definition mutually exclusive. Of course, a faith based upon certain fundamental doctrines will, of necessity, exclude from its recognition of "genuine" Christianity other alternatives, such as Roman Catholicism (the system, not necessarily individuals), Mormonism, the Watchtower Society, and other lesser known deviations. This is the sense in which I am using the term
Many will accuse such a perspective of intolerance, and make assumptions about its motives and personalities. Let me try to dispel some of these notions. First, I have many friends who do not share my doctrinal convictions. I love these friends. I and my family are socially engaged with them. We rejoice at their successes and sorrow over their failures. Yet, we are not by this compelled to abandon our beliefs. Tolerance does not demand agreement, but civility. I also consider my motives to be sincere. I pray for these friends to come to a knowledge of the truth--a knowledge that will not only improve their present but secure their eternity. Short of such knowledge, I believe their only joys to be temporal and their eternity to be tragic. So I attempt to convince them of my beliefs. A genuine friend could do no other. They need not accept my views to be my friends, but I sure love them and hope they will. In personality, I do not think you would find me to be combative or quarrelsome. I am passionate; I am driven; but, I am happy.
In contrast to the nomenclature "evangelical," my theology is rich, and deep, and meaningful. It shares the great heritage of the reformers and Puritans, rejects the folly of the revivalists of the 19th and early 20th centuries, and distinguishes easily between those doctrines which are essential for true Christian faith, and those which are helpful for Christian maturity and Christian living.
I am a happy fundamentalist.
1) an angry religious moralist who opposes any enjoyment of life for fear of consequent sin;
2) a rabid religious zealot whose adherence to a particular dogma leads to acts of violence.
I am using the term in neither of these ways.
I suppose the term "evangelical" could substitute, though it no longer means what it once did. For many, what once referred to a life oriented around the gospel, both in its belief and practice, now carries the connotation of a light-hearted and light-weighted Christianity, often focused upon catchy music and traditional values politics.
In 1923, J. Gresham Machen published a book entitled Christianity & Liberalism, which title exemplifies his conclusions concerning a debate that had been raging for more than a decade at Princeton Seminary. Machen, among others, insisted that modernist views rejecting essential doctrines--ranging from the reliability of Scripture to the resurrection of Christ--were antithetical to true Christianity. Thus, the options were Christianity or Liberalism, but the two are by definition mutually exclusive. Of course, a faith based upon certain fundamental doctrines will, of necessity, exclude from its recognition of "genuine" Christianity other alternatives, such as Roman Catholicism (the system, not necessarily individuals), Mormonism, the Watchtower Society, and other lesser known deviations. This is the sense in which I am using the term
Many will accuse such a perspective of intolerance, and make assumptions about its motives and personalities. Let me try to dispel some of these notions. First, I have many friends who do not share my doctrinal convictions. I love these friends. I and my family are socially engaged with them. We rejoice at their successes and sorrow over their failures. Yet, we are not by this compelled to abandon our beliefs. Tolerance does not demand agreement, but civility. I also consider my motives to be sincere. I pray for these friends to come to a knowledge of the truth--a knowledge that will not only improve their present but secure their eternity. Short of such knowledge, I believe their only joys to be temporal and their eternity to be tragic. So I attempt to convince them of my beliefs. A genuine friend could do no other. They need not accept my views to be my friends, but I sure love them and hope they will. In personality, I do not think you would find me to be combative or quarrelsome. I am passionate; I am driven; but, I am happy.
In contrast to the nomenclature "evangelical," my theology is rich, and deep, and meaningful. It shares the great heritage of the reformers and Puritans, rejects the folly of the revivalists of the 19th and early 20th centuries, and distinguishes easily between those doctrines which are essential for true Christian faith, and those which are helpful for Christian maturity and Christian living.
I am a happy fundamentalist.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Christianity: Symbolism or substance?
Lately, a couple matters have gotten me thinking about the nature of Christianity and spirituality in our modern world. First, an Episcopal church in my community has been growing. At least, I am assuming this based upon a new building project that the church has undertaken. Were it not for my awareness of that particular church's social and religious perspectives, I might have given their building project hardly a thought. However, as a church celebrates homosexual relationships and ordination, believes in a right to abortion, and supports most other secular progressive agenda items, their growth is unexpected. Consistently, churches that have embraced these views have been dying. I'll suggest reasons why in another post, but here I just want to ask one question: why is that one growing?
Second, a friend announced she had converted to Roman Catholicism (coincidentally, she left the above named episcopal church because of its positions on social issues). She claims to have had an evangelical conversion experience at some point in her life, so why, having found Christ to be her all-sufficient substitute, would she embrace a dogma that denies salvation by grace alone (see: Council of Trent)?
In both cases there is a common thread: symbolism.
When completed, the episcopal church will take the shape of a cross. It's not that the church appreciates, or even grasps, the significance of the cross. It seems, rather, a desire for a symbiotic relationship to religious architecture over centuries. The base of the cross-shape will point to a recently installed labyrinth, a design taken from an ancient monastery, for contemplation as one walks it--another connection with ancient ways.
In the case of our newly Roman Catholic friend, it was a decision predicated on her recent "grasp" of the meaning of the mysteries in sacraments, papal succession, tradition, etc.
In both cases, Christianity is a more-or-less aesthetic matter. One might call it emotive or contemplative. Some wrongly coin it "spiritual." What its adherents are seeking is greater "meaning"--a gnostic love of mysteries--and a connection with the historical, cultural, and religious significance of the past. There is a great love for liturgy, irrespective of the message of the liturgy (which quite frequently clashes with the message of the homily). If the words to Amazing Grace (or Cat Scratch Fever, for that matter) were appended to an orchestral arrangement or a Gregorian chant, adherents of aesthetic religion would be moved to rejoicing, far beyond the response elicited by the song's original form or intended message.
I'm not opposed to the aesthetic, mind you. My wife is an accomplished (and selling) artist. I appreciate her talents and encourage her in every way I can conceive. I also believe worship should express the beauty of the Lord, as well as the "singing of new songs." At its core, however, an expression of worship should be driven by a love for and communication of the truth. The problem arises where the love for beauty ignores the truth.
I have embraced a faith of a different sort. While appreciating beauty in expression, my faith is fundamentally rational and forensic. It is about the sinless Christ, sacrificed to pay the eternal debt incurred by my violation of God's perfect moral will. It is about faith in a person and an event that occurred in time/space history. It's symbols are bread, wine, and water, but the symbols exist to communicate a message. Expressions of worship not prohibited in Scripture--and which do not lead to a misunderstanding of the truth--may find use within the church, but expression is incidental. Primary is the exaltation of a person and an event.
This is the reason that the reformers moved the pulpit from the side to front and center in church sanctuaries. They wanted to convey the primacy of the Word of God and the doctrine proclaimed, in contrast to symbols and traditions that had so obscured the truth. Real Christianity is about substance, not symbols, and an abundance of the latter cannot compensate for a lack of the former. In fact, it seems most often to undermine the former.
Our modern world, religious life not excluded, seems driven by aesthetic. It matters little what the truth may be. It only matters what feels good and what seems to possess artistic "depth" and "significance." People are interested in feelings rather than ideas, and because of the vacuousness of this existence, there is a longing to connect with something that seems both "substantial" and aesthetically pleasing. So the attraction of the offerings of my local Episcopalian church, or the Roman Catholic Church, grows. It's not a matter of truth. It's a matter of symbolism. Thus, the substance of the plain, sometimes hard, gospel is ignored.
Second, a friend announced she had converted to Roman Catholicism (coincidentally, she left the above named episcopal church because of its positions on social issues). She claims to have had an evangelical conversion experience at some point in her life, so why, having found Christ to be her all-sufficient substitute, would she embrace a dogma that denies salvation by grace alone (see: Council of Trent)?
In both cases there is a common thread: symbolism.
When completed, the episcopal church will take the shape of a cross. It's not that the church appreciates, or even grasps, the significance of the cross. It seems, rather, a desire for a symbiotic relationship to religious architecture over centuries. The base of the cross-shape will point to a recently installed labyrinth, a design taken from an ancient monastery, for contemplation as one walks it--another connection with ancient ways.
In the case of our newly Roman Catholic friend, it was a decision predicated on her recent "grasp" of the meaning of the mysteries in sacraments, papal succession, tradition, etc.
In both cases, Christianity is a more-or-less aesthetic matter. One might call it emotive or contemplative. Some wrongly coin it "spiritual." What its adherents are seeking is greater "meaning"--a gnostic love of mysteries--and a connection with the historical, cultural, and religious significance of the past. There is a great love for liturgy, irrespective of the message of the liturgy (which quite frequently clashes with the message of the homily). If the words to Amazing Grace (or Cat Scratch Fever, for that matter) were appended to an orchestral arrangement or a Gregorian chant, adherents of aesthetic religion would be moved to rejoicing, far beyond the response elicited by the song's original form or intended message.
I'm not opposed to the aesthetic, mind you. My wife is an accomplished (and selling) artist. I appreciate her talents and encourage her in every way I can conceive. I also believe worship should express the beauty of the Lord, as well as the "singing of new songs." At its core, however, an expression of worship should be driven by a love for and communication of the truth. The problem arises where the love for beauty ignores the truth.
I have embraced a faith of a different sort. While appreciating beauty in expression, my faith is fundamentally rational and forensic. It is about the sinless Christ, sacrificed to pay the eternal debt incurred by my violation of God's perfect moral will. It is about faith in a person and an event that occurred in time/space history. It's symbols are bread, wine, and water, but the symbols exist to communicate a message. Expressions of worship not prohibited in Scripture--and which do not lead to a misunderstanding of the truth--may find use within the church, but expression is incidental. Primary is the exaltation of a person and an event.
This is the reason that the reformers moved the pulpit from the side to front and center in church sanctuaries. They wanted to convey the primacy of the Word of God and the doctrine proclaimed, in contrast to symbols and traditions that had so obscured the truth. Real Christianity is about substance, not symbols, and an abundance of the latter cannot compensate for a lack of the former. In fact, it seems most often to undermine the former.
Our modern world, religious life not excluded, seems driven by aesthetic. It matters little what the truth may be. It only matters what feels good and what seems to possess artistic "depth" and "significance." People are interested in feelings rather than ideas, and because of the vacuousness of this existence, there is a longing to connect with something that seems both "substantial" and aesthetically pleasing. So the attraction of the offerings of my local Episcopalian church, or the Roman Catholic Church, grows. It's not a matter of truth. It's a matter of symbolism. Thus, the substance of the plain, sometimes hard, gospel is ignored.
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