Happy Texas Independence Day

Just Don't Get It

The Commons is a small church.

I didn't write that sentence while gritting my teeth.  And I didn't think it with a negative connotation.

We are a small church.

Two years ago we were even smaller.

Two years ago we were eight people around a dining room table.

Two weeks ago we were eighty-five people worshipping in a school cafeteria.

But, by American—and particularly Texan—church standards, we are not big.

Confession: Five years ago this would have bothered me.  In fact, I would have thought of myself as a failure.  I know, I know.  You don't understand.  That's because you're probably not a pastor.  And you don't necessarily equate church size with importance.  Good for you.  Because you're above the fray.

Unfortunately, most pastors are not above the fray.

Yes, I linked church size to church significance.

I've repented since then.

But it was a painful process.

I am in the midst of one of the most tumultuous seasons of ministry and work I have ever experienced.  I teach Monday through Friday.  I do church administrative duties and pastoral care in the evenings.  On Saturdays I write a sermon and prepare worship.  On Sundays I change a cafeteria into a sanctuary, preach, and flip it back into a cafeteria.  Oh, and I try to love my wife and kids somewhere in there.

Bottom line: I'm whipped.

My wife knows it.  My kids know it.  My church knows it.  And they put up with my nonsense and moments of raw humanity.

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On Wednesday nights I'm part of a group of six families that meet in my neighborhood.  We share a meal, pray for one another, and study the Scripture.  I am helping to disciple those families by teaching them the Bible and the way of Jesus.

Two weeks ago we had a breakthrough when a woman understood what the Kingdom of God was for the first time.

Two days ago we had a moment of prayer for a family enduring difficult family circumstances.

And each week I see these people become a little more like Christ.

Six families.

But it's changing their world.  Their marriages, children, professions, and neighbors are feeling the result of what we are doing around supper once a week.

That's the Kingdom growing.  It is growing slowly.  But it is growing.

And that's what makes it all worth it.  Because the world is changing.  Right in my neighborhood.  In those families.  Six families make all the difference.  (By the way, none of those families were part of our church two years ago.  They are all new since then.)

If you "get it," then you get that this little meeting matters.  In a massive way.

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Plenty of people don't get it.

Most of my pastor friends don't understand why I moved and why I continue to work crazy hours to do this.

The answer is simple: The Commons is small, but it is significant.

So, to my friends who continue to look at me with pitiful eyes, to those whose expressions betray worried looks: Yes, this is difficult.  And, yes, it is tougher than other paths we could have chosen.  But we are not in Syria.  And no one is dying (that we know of).  We are simply being obedient to our calling.

And, slowly but surely, we see the change.

As I said above, yes, I'm whipped.  I'm flat exhausted.  But I'm not discouraged.  Because life change is taking place.  A church exists now where one did not 24 months ago.  People will be in Heaven because of what we have done.  This has been hard, certainly.  And I am tired, yes. But I do not regret or begrudge one iota of what has taken place since we took the plunge.

Because of six families.

And eighty-five people.

And twenty kids.

And the eight around the table.

Small numbers.  But significant lives.  Given to the Kingdom.

So, from one small church pastor to the masses: We matter.  We matter because we are making disciples, loving our neighbors, throwing parties for free, serving the poor, loving the local school, volunteering in our city, and making the presence of Jesus incarnate in this place.

We may not always be small.  But I pray that our mindset will never move beyond the enormity of what happens in a single life surrendered to Jesus.

May we be the love of Christ in our place.

And may you do the same.

And Now For Something Completely Different

It's been a tough start to the season for Dirk and the Mavs.

But Dirk is starting to get healthy, and things are starting to slowly round out.

In honor of that, here's the new Dirk NBA ad, plus last night's Dirk highlights, which, in my opinion, was the first game where he started to show some of last year's form.


 

Martin Bashir on NYC Churches and Public Schools

Christians seem to enjoy making the "mainstream media" their punching bag when they disagree with the prevalent Christian position of the day.  It seems only right, then, that we ought to commend MSNBC and Mr. Martin Bashir for his insightful commentary regarding the situation surrounding NYC public schools and the 68 churches which are being refused access to meet in those buildings.

Thanks, Mr. Bashir, for giving a voice to this isssue.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

An Open Letter to Mayor Bloomberg

To the Honorable Michael Bloomberg, Mayor of New York City:

Mayor Bloomberg, I was disappointed to hear of your decision to ban local churches from meeting in public schools for their worship services when the decision was first made public last Fall.  That disappointment was multiplied today when I read your comments in the City Room section of today's New York Times.  I can only either hope that the quotes were inaccurate or that you have been unable to be properly informed regarding this situation, for your words bear the striking resemblance to one who is unfamiliar with the history of government and religious interaction in the United States.

The first troubling comment lies in your reminder that "one of the great things about America is that we keep a separation" between church and state.

This, of course, is true, in a sense.  Unfortunately, however, it is not in the sense that you have insinuated.  There is no "Separation Clause" in the Constitution.  There is, however, an Establishment Clause.  It reads: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion."

This clause, incidentally, was introduced by Christians (Baptists, as a matter of fact), who wished to be able to worship freely.  Those Baptists, led by John Leland of Virginia, feared that the then fledgling United States would adopt a state religion and would outlaw other expressions.  It just so happens that I am a Baptist and have studied at a Baptist university for three different degrees.  Consequently, I am quite familiar with the development of this Clause and its intended effects within the government.  The Clause stands to protect peaceful worshippers of God from the intrusion of government, so that they might worship freely.  Your insistence upon remembering a "separation" is flawed, then, in at least two ways: First, it wrongly believes that there exists such a "Separation" Clause; and, secondly, it misappropriates the Constitution to punish worshippers in the very way John Leland and, consequently, Thomas Jefferson sought to avoid.  In other words, your ban is a gross misinterpretation of the Constitution's Establishment Clause, for it punishes the very people it was written to protect.

Your second troubling comment, however, is much more egregious, for it displays a stunning lack of nuance for a man serving as mayor of the most cosmopolitan and multi-faceted city in the nation, if not the world.  The City Room quotes you as saying, "Someday the religion that’s practiced there [the public school] may not be your religion, and you might in that sense look back and say let’s keep the two separate."

If I am interpreting your words rightly, your argument is that we must ban all Christian groups from worshipping in public schools today, because one day another group that is less benevolent (say, animal-sacrificers of some sort) might desire to worship and then the city would be in the unfortunate position of having to judge another religion inappropriate.

But on closer examination, this reasoning is illogical.  The city could always impose a ban on religious services that are indecent, employ lewd language, nudity, violence, animal sacrifice, incantations, spells, hexes, or the like.  To ban all religious services, particularly the services of Christian churches that have freely worshipped in a variety of locations throughout New York City since its inception is throwing out the proverbial baby with the proverbial bathwater.  It is as if you are making a decision to ban future services of violent sects, and, therefore the peaceful worship of Christians must be ceased.  As a member of the Jewish community, certainly you understand the irony of asking peaceful citizens to become exiles of sorts in order to stop their worship from your position of authority.

New York City is exceptionally diverse, so you deal with such diversity daily.  Yet you manage to distinguish peaceful diversity from unlawful diversity each day in a number of arenas.  But in this particular arena of religion, you have allowed myopic reasoning (based on no substantial complaint, by the way) to rule your decision, and, unfortunately, to cause damage to your city.

And that is the third troubling portion of your reasoning, for you make no notice of the fact that many of the 68 churches (68!) you are vacating do not simply gather for worship in the neighborhood, but that they do great work within those neighborhoods.  They mentor troubled children; they provide food, clothes, job training, and services to the poor; they love the marginalized; and they engage many of the neighborhoods that those who meet in established houses of worship will never entreat to enter.

In forcing the churches out of the schools, you not only made a poor policy, you hurt your city.  That, by definition, is a poor mayoral maneuver.

Mayor Bloomberg, it is entirely possible that I am mistaken in my writing today.  It is possible that your comments were misrepresented by the New York Times or that you have some grand scheme by which to repair the damage you have done to your city of which I am currently unaware.  Unfortunately, I do not believe this to be the case.  I love many pastors and churches in your city, and each of them tells me that you are set in your decision against the congregations (your constituency) in your city.  I hope they are incorrect, but I suspect that they are not.

However, all is not lost.  Each day I find myself making new discoveries and changing positions I once had.  My suspicion is that you, as well, often change your mind as you encounter new information.  So, Mayor Bloomberg, I challenge you to gather the facts.  Count the number of citizens your decision will affect.  Do not simply count the congregants.  Count the citizens that are positively affected by the churches you are ousting.  And then count the budgetary effect of paying for mentoring and social services from the city's coffers once those churches relocate.  And, in doing so, I hope that you change your mind.  And I hope that you then have the courage to admit your mistake and to reverse your decision.  If you do so, I will be the first to commend you.

Do not fall prey to those who would encourage you to dig in to your pride.  Instead, turn to your common sense and the gift of leadership God has given you.

One final note: I see your Twitter account lists you as: "Entrepreneur, Mayor of New York City, Philanthropist."

I challenge you: Make the final moniker mean more than "one who donates money to good causes."  Do something good for those who love your city by allowing them to continue their good work.

I wish you the best and look forward to hearing good news prior to my visit to your city next month.

In Christ,

Reverend Steven M. Bezner, Ph.D.

The Disparity Between Intellect and Character

Today my Ethics course begins.  In its honor, an essay by Harvard professor Robert Coles who understands that intelligence is not necessarily linked to ethical behavior.  Below is the full text of his essay, "The Disparity Between Intellect and Character."

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"The Disparity between Intellect and Character"

by Robert Coles

Over 150 years ago, Ralph Waldo Emerson gave a lecture at Harvard University, which he ended with the terse assertion: "Character is higher than intellect." Even then this prominent man of letters was worried (as many other writers and thinkers of succeeding generations would be) about the limits of knowledge and the nature of a college's mission. The intellect can grow and grow, he knew in a person who is smug, ungenerous, even cruel. Institutions originally founded to teach their students how to become good and decent, as well as broadly and deeply literate, may abandon the first mission to concentrate on a driven, narrow book learning--a course of study in no way intent on making a connection between ideas and theories on one hand and, on the other, our lives as we actually live them.

Students have their own way of realizing and trying to come to terms with the split that Emerson addressed. A few years ago, a sophomore student of mine came to see me in great anguish. She had arrived at Harvard from a Midwestern, working-class background. She was trying hard to work her way through college, and, in doing so, cleaned the rooms of some of her fellow students. Again and again, she encountered classmates who apparently had forgotten the meaning of

please, or thank you--no matter how high their Scholastic Assessment Test scores--students who did not hesitate to be rude, even crude toward her.

One day she was not so subtly propositioned by a young man she knew to be a very bright, successful pre-med student and already an accomplished journalist. This was not the first time he had made such an overture, but now she had reached a breaking point. She had quit her job and was preparing to quit college in what she called "fancy, phony Cambridge."

The student had been part of a seminar I teach, which links Raymond Carver's fiction and poetry with Edward Hopper's paintings and drawings--the thematic convergence of literary and artistic sensibility in exploring American loneliness, both its social and its personal aspects. As she expressed her anxiety and anger to me, she soon was sobbing hard. After her sobs quieted, we began to remember the old days of that class. But she had some weightier matters on her mind and began to give me a detailed, sardonic account of college life, as viewed by someone vulnerable and hard pressed by it. At on point, she observed of the student who had propositioned her: "That guy gets all A's. He tells people he's in Group I [the top academic category]. I've taken two moral-reasoning courses with him, and I'm sure he's gotten A's in both of them--and look at how he behaves with me, and I'm sure with others."

She stopped for a moment to let me take that in. I happened to know the young man and could only acknowledge the irony of his behavior, even as I wasn't totally surprised by what she'd experienced. But I was at a loss to know what to say to her. A philosophy major, with a strong interest in literature, she had taken a course on the Holocaust and described for me the ironies she also saw in that tragedy--mass murder of unparalleled historical proportion in a nation hitherto known as one of the most civilized in the world, with the citizenry as well educated as that of any country at the time.

Drawing on her education, the student put before me names such as Martin Heidegger, Carl Jung, Paul De Man, Ezra Pound--brilliant and accomplished men (a philosopher, a psychoanalyst, a literary critic, a poet) who nonetheless had linked themselves with the hate that was Nazism and Fascism during the 1930s. She reminded me of the willingness of the leaders of German and Italian universities to embrace Nazi and Fascist ideas, of the countless doctors and lawyers and judges and journalists and schoolteachers, and yes, even members of the clergy--who were able to accommodate themselves to murderous thugs because the thugs had political power. She pointedly mentioned, too, the Soviet Gulag, that expanse of prisons to which millions of honorable people were sent by Stalin and his brutish accomplices--prisons commonly staffed by psychiatrists quite eager to label those victims of vicious totalitarian state with an assortment of psychiatric names, then shoot them up with drugs meant to reduce them to zombies.

I tried hard, toward the end of the conversation that lasted almost two hours, to salvage something for her, for myself, and, not least, for a university that I much respect, even as I know its failings. I suggested that if she had learned what she just shared with me at Harvard--why, that was itself a valuable education acquired. She smiled, gave me credit for a "nice try," but remained unconvinced. Then she put this though, pointed, unnerving question to me: "I've been taking all these philosophy courses, and we talk about what's true, what's important, what's good. Well, how do you teach people to be good?" And she added: "What's the point of knowing good, if you don't keep trying to become a good person?"

I suddenly found myself on the defensive, although all along I had been sympathetic to her, to the indignation she had been directing toward some of her fellow students, and to her critical examination of the limits of abstract knowledge. Schools are schools, colleges are colleges, I averred, a complaisant and smug accommodation in my voice. Thereby I meant to say that our schools and colleges theses days don't take major responsibility for the moral values of their students, but, rather, assume that their students acquire those values at home. I topped off my surrender to the status quo with a shrug of my shoulders, to which she responded with an unspoken but barely concealed anger. This she expressed through a knowing look that announced that she'd taken the full moral measure of me.

Suddenly, she was on her feet preparing to leave. I realized that I'd stumbled badly. I wanted to pursue the discussion, applaud her for taking on a large subject in a forthright, incisive manner, and tell her she was right in understanding that moral reasoning is not be equated with moral conduct. I wanted, really, to explain my shrug--point out that there is only so much that any of us can do to affect others' behavior, that institutional life has its own momentum. But she had no interest in that kind of self-justification--as she let me know in a n unforgettable aside as she was departing my office: "I wonder whether Emerson was just being 'smart' in that lecture he gave here. I wonder if he ever had any ideas about what to do about what was worrying him--or did he think he'd done enough because he'd spelled the problem out to those Harvard professors?"

She was demonstrating that she understood two levels of irony: One was that the study of philosophy--even moral philosophy of moral reasoning--doesn't necessarily prompt in either the teacher or the student a determination to act in accordance with moral principles. And, further, a discussion of that very irony can prove equally sterile--again carrying no apparent consequences as far as one's everyday action go.

When that student left my office (she would soon leave Harvard for good), I was exhausted and saddened-- and brought up short. All to often those of us who read books or teach don't think to pose for ourselves the kind of ironic dilemma she had posed to me. How might we teachers encourage our students (encourage ourselves) to take that big step from thought to action, from moral analysis to fulfilled moral commitments? Rather obviously, community service offers us all a chance to put our money where our mouths are; and, of course, such service can enrich our understanding of the disciplines we study. A reading of Invisible Man (literature), Tally's Corners (sociology and anthropology), or Childhood and Society (psychology and psychoanalysis) takes on new meaning after some time spent in a ghetto school or a clinic. By the same token, such books can prompt us to think pragmatically about, say, how the wisdom that Ralph Ellison worked into his fiction might shape the way we get along with the children we're tutoring--affect our attitudes toward them, the things we say and do with them.

Yet I wonder whether classroom discussion, per se, can't also be of help, the skepticism of my student notwithstanding. She had pushed me hard, and I started referring again and again in my classes on moral introspection to what she had observed and learned, and my students more than got the message. Her moral righteousness, her shrewd eye and ear for hypocrisy hovered over us, made us uneasy, goaded us.

She challenged us to prove that what we think intellectually can be connected to our daily deeds. For some of us, the connection was established through community service. But that is not the only possible way. I asked students to write papers that told of particular efforts to honor through action the high thoughts we were discussing. Thus goaded to acertain self-consciousness, I suppose, students made various efforts. I felt that the best of them were small victories, brief epiphanies that might otherwise have been overlooked, but had great significance for the students in question.

"I thanked someone serving me food in the college cafeteria, and then we got to talking, the first time," one student wrote. For her, this was a decisive break with her former indifference to others she abstractly regarded as "the people who work on the serving line." She felt that she had learned something about another's life and had tried to show respect for that life.

The student who challenged me with her angry, melancholy story had pushed me to teach differently. Now, I make an explicit issue of the more than occasional disparity between thinking and doing, and I ask my students to consider how we all might bridge that disparity. To be sure, the task of connecting intellect to character is daunting, as Emerson and others well knew. And any of us can lapse into cynicism, turn the moral challenge of a seminar into yet another moment of opportunism: I'll get an A this time, by writing a paper cannily extolling myself as a doer of this or that "good deed"!

Still, I know that college administrators and faculty members everywhere are struggling with the same issues that I was faced with, and I can testify that many students will respond seriously, in at least small ways, if we make clear that we really believe that the link between moral reasoning and action is important to us. My experience has given me at least a measure of hope that moral reasoning and reflection can somehow be integrated into students'--and teachers'--lives as they actually live them.

F.lux For The Win

I'm making a small change in 2012.  Rather than exercising in the mornings, I'm going to exercise in the afternoons after school.  The reason for the change?  I want to spend some time writing (not necessarily on the blog) each day, and my house is at its quietest around 6:00 a.m. each morning.

Of course, when I look at my computer at 6:00 a.m., my eyes have difficulty adjusting to the harsh light of the monitor.  They're sleepy and barely aroused, and my computer shoots out light like the noonday sun.

So when I heard about F.lux, I was interested.  F.lux is a program that automatically runs on your computer and adjusts the light of your monitor depending on the time of day.  Right now it's dark outside, and my monitor's hue resembles that of a sunrise.  By midday it will change to normal.  And tonight it will gradually ease again.

I'm digging it.  You might, too.

Click here to check out F.lux.

Iowa Isn't Enough

Love him or hate him, you've gotta admire the moxie of Ron Paul's anti-war ad, "Imagine."

But even the exceptionally consistent Paul and his zealous followers need reminding: No matter how this thing in Iowa turns out, every single human leader is flawed and fallen.  During this season of attacks and polemics, I can speak one unequivocal truth: There is no perfect candidate.

So don't get too excited about the results in Iowa tonight.  And don't get too depressed, either.

People of the Way are to take their knowledge that the church is a different polis with a different King.

Love, peacemaking, and forgiveness will never be part of an electable platform.

It got Jesus killed.

I'd rather live (and die) for that platform than anything with corporate sponsors.

The Year in Review

Early in December I started writing a post regarding the lessons we learned at The Commons in 2011.  I decided to wait until the year ended to publish it, but Blogger has it filed a few posts earlier.  If you're interested, click here.

After Hitch

"If I have not love, I am nothing."—1 Corinthians 13:2

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Christopher Hitchens, world-renowned critic and outspoken atheist, died yesterday from complications surrounding cancer.  Several writers have spilled a great deal of ink about him and his influence.  (NYT obit here.)

As I read over Hitch's Vanity Fair piece regarding the maxim, "Whatever does not kill us makes us stronger," I could not shake the irony of his passing taking place in the same spot as my friend Beth.

Hitchens loved to write more than anything. I suspect he would disagree with my previous post regarding identity, vocation, and craft.  Consequently, he envisioned that a life in which he could not write would be pointless. I appreciate his dedication to his work, but continue to believe that such a viewpoint is, at its base, deeply flawed.

As I stood at Beth's side days before she passed, she was at peace.  She continued to love and to minister to those around her.  She poured her energy into building the lives of her fellow travelers.  Beth was no weakling.  Her spirit and attitude was, frankly, stubborn at times.  But she was most definitely loving.

Opposite that is Hitchens, a brilliant man who, nevertheless found it difficult to appreciate anyone or anything more than himself.  My reading of his work leads me to imagine him leaving this world the way he spent much of his time here—confident and cocksure.  He was the best at what he did.  His methodology, however, was troubling.

Two people who loved their craft died in the same place.  One left as a critic.  The other left as lover of people.

One had a global following.  One impacted a small town.

One may be read for generations.  One may be forgotten in a generation or two.

But only one, from my perspective, genuinely loved.

I may be a simpleton, but I know which path I choose.

As Hans Urs von Balthasar said, "Love alone is credible."