Fasting from Criticism

I’ve never really been very good about “fasting” for Lent.  In the past I’ve vowed to give something up – but I learned about midway through the season that I’m a Romans 7 type of faster.  (“For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I don’t want to do.  I can will what is right, but I cannot do it.”) Besides, not being much of a chocoholic or coffee-holic has taught me that giving up chocolate or caffeine for Lent means very much to me spiritually.

But at the Ash Wednesday service earlier this week, one of our worship leaders was talking about fasting.  In the midst of that service a voice – or a Voice—said to me:  “Fast from criticism.”

Hmmm.  Fast from criticism.  That’s tougher.  I don’t think of myself as a particularly critical person, but of course I may be simply deluding myself.  Plus there are always more critical comments going on in our heads than ever come out of our mouths, so this would be inner work more than just behavioral fasting.

How would I fast from criticism?  What do I do with my opinions if they differ from someone else’s?  Can I still coach and teach and supervise without breaking that fast?  If I read something a politician has said, can I think to myself, “Boy, that’s really stupid”? Or is that not allowed?

Lent gets harder.

In pondering this, and in sharing with Bev and with my covenant discipleship group, I’m sketching out a few guidelines for my Lenten fast:

a.       Assume positive intent.  Situations that aggravate me aren’t done … well, to aggravate me.  Listen for the good faith idea underneath.

b.      Ask questions before judging. I can be less quick to pronounce my mental verdict and more open to making sure I understand. 

c.       No name-calling.  I don’t know yet if I can say in my mind “That’s really stupid,” but I know God wants me to refrain from saying “You’re really stupid.”  Even to the television set.

d.      Open myself to feedback.  And brush up on my prayers of confession.

Jesus said, “Judge not, and you will not be judged. For with the judgment you make you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get.”

I count on Jesus being far more merciful than I am – but I wish He’d whispered to me something about chocolate instead.

Pastor Larry

An Offensive Cross

I was chatting over the weekend with someone who’d been to another church on her vacation – and who was telling me there wasn’t a visible cross anywhere in the sanctuary.  Ferns, yes, video screens and a lectern, some chairs and a fake tree – but no cross.  Why?

I certainly don’t know the motivations of that church, but I’ve heard other pastors say, “The cross isn’t the only symbol of Christian faith.  We want to use all of them:  stars, angels, candle flames, doves.  We don’t want to be exclusive.”

Now for someone who deeply values inclusivity, I’m really rankled by that logic.  What they mean is that they don’t want to be offensive.  The cross carries all sorts of baggage, so let’s pick gentler, less bothersome symbols.  More people will come if we’re not so off-putting right up front.

And they have a point.  The cross is often offensive.  It can be offensive for the wrong reasons;  many Jews, for example, see it as a sign of long and painful anti-Jewishness  on the part of the church.  That’s an offense for which we ought to repent.  But at its best – even at its best – the cross is supposed to be offensive. 

There is supposed to be something shocking about a God put to death at the hands of human beings.  There is supposed to be something scandalous about a Savior who accepts – and even chooses – death by crucifixion. The New Testament calls the cross an “offense,” “foolishness,” and a source of “shame.” Peter found it inconceivable that God’s chosen Messiah would ever be touched by suffering, yet the cross visibly confronts us with the shocking message of a weak, vulnerable, crucified Savior.

Ferns are so much more attractive.

But at least we’re honest.  We put it front and center.  Oh, we make it from brass and polish it up to a nice shine so it’s pleasant looking.  Aesthetically there’s nothing offensive about it either.  But theologically, the message we at least put front and center is distasteful:  God in Jesus Christ was put to death by people just like us. We killed the Loving Creator of the Universe.  We killed the Son of God. And God let us do it.

Reminds me of the man who came in late to church.  He’d been looking for a congregation that had people like him in it.  As he settled in his seat the congregation around him was praying the Prayer of Confession:  “We have done those things we ought not to have done, and we have not done those things which we ought to have done.  There is no health within us. Have mercy on us, O God.” And he settled back and said to himself, “Finally.  My kind of people.”