A Theology of Money and Stuff

Some relationships are tortured. Think George Jones and Tammy Wynette. Or Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger. Or Eminem and Kim.

Or, me and tithing.

The biblical (in some schools of thought) practice of giving 10 percent of one's income to one's church was pounded into my head from childhood -- even though I thought back then that people were talking about "paying ties," which made no sense to me. I never questioned the concept of tithing growing up.

But then I turned 18 and started questioning everything.

I wrestled with the question of whether or not I had to tithe -- and felt plenty guilty when I didn't -- before finally doing a little research  and realizing that Jesus never talked about tithing (except to criticize the Pharisees and their ilk for doing it while neglecting mercy).

Problem solved -- temporarily.

Not long after reaching a conclusion, I read Donald Miller's "Blue Like Jazz," in which the writer devotes a whole chapter to the importance of giving 10 percent of our resources to God. As Miller was someone whose opinions I greatly respected (and still do, for the most part), I found myself back in the ring for a rematch.

Later, I learned to embrace tithing, but in a different way. Rather than looking at it as a requirement mandated by God (which the New Testament does not seem to suggest), I began to view it as an act of discipline, a choice to deny myself by giving something away -- something that wasn't always convenient. This has been my approach to tithing over the last few years.

Recently, though, I had an epiphany.

It happened as I was finishing a book by Charlie Peacock. "A New Way To Be Human" (the title of which was borrowed from a Switchfoot song and album) is Peacock's manifesto about embracing the Kingdom of God in our daily lives.

At the end of the book, Peacock offers some thoughts, in list format, about what he calls "ten essential 'first things' in the new way." Number 9 on the list is, "Let the Story and the new way of Jesus reinvent your understanding of wealth."

In elaborating on this concept, Peacock wrote the following:

"As far as tithing goes, forget it. In the new way, student-followers give 100 percent.You pray, 'God, everything I have is from you. How do you want me to use it in making the kingdom visible and declaring your rightness and excellence?'"

The reason the Pharisees were so meticulous in their tithing was that it allowed them to measure their holiness against someone else's. The thinking was something like this: "I give not only 10 percent of my money, but also 10 percent of everything in my home, right down to the spices I put in my pot roast. You, on the other hand, only give 10 percent of your money; and there was that one time you got ripped off by one of those slimy tax collectors and didn't have anything left to give. Ergo, I'm holier than you."

A less-defined kind of 100-percent giving, as Peacock outlines, takes away the ability to measure one's piety, because virtually any part of our lives can be lived in this new way.

My 100-percent giving might involve giving money to my church (which I do regularly). It might also involve giving money or a bag of unwanted clothes or a box of non-perishable food to a homeless shelter. It might even involve going out to dinner with friends and picking up the check -- the community you can experience sitting around a table and having a meal together is most assuredly a Kingdom thing. (It might -- and I believe it should -- involve leaving a generous tip for the waiters or waitresses who bring our food, people who are too often treated poorly; it's sad, but I've heard it said that food service people dread the after-church crowd on Sundays, because the diners are so rude.)

Likewise, it might involve the money I invest in building a deck behind my house, where people can come hang out and we can enjoy a hamburger together as we discuss how we might work to see God's will done on earth as it is in heaven. It might involve the cash I spend on a cup of coffee to sit down with a friend and talk about the dreams God has planted within us, or about the struggles we face or our need to be held accountable for our actions and attitudes.

It might involve the cost of driving to Frankfort every February to make my voice heard as I advocate for responsible treatment of our resources and justice for the poor who suffer when coal companies go unchecked in their destruction of our mountains and water supplies. It might involve the money we spend each year for vacation -- a time to decompress, recharge our batteries and renew our commitment to one another and to the vision God has given us.

The parameters are virtually limitless. The key is being sensitive to the Spirit of God and knowing what we feel God is leading us to do with our resources -- both money and stuff.

You don't have to agree with me. If you feel strongly about tithing, by all means, go ahead. But if, like me, you've found the whole idea hard to reconcile with everything else you know to be true about God -- or if you have been turned off by the umpteen messages you've heard preached about it -- I invite you join me in 100-percent giving.

Sodom, Tsaaq and One Big Misconception

Recently, I was made aware of a statement Keith Olbermann made on his TV show in support of gay marriage. I posted the video clip on my Facebook page and was soon answered by a friend who does not share my opinion. When I shared my belief that one's feelings about the morality of the issue should be completely separate from whether or not gay marriage was legal, he shared his fear that God would rain fire down from heaven if we ever legalize gay marriage, citing every evangelical's favorite anti-gay story: The Genesis 19 account of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Over the past few weeks, I have been reading the book of Genesis, and as fate would have it, a recent morning found me perusing chapter 19. I was struck by something that now seems obvious:

The story of Sodom and Gomorrah has about as much to do with the gay marriage debate as a baseball glove has to do with gravy and biscuits. (Which is to say, nothing.)

When I read the story in The Message, I found the angels telling Lot that they were sent to destroy the city because "the outcries of victims here to God are deafening" (emphasis mine). This is a stark contrast to the way I always heard the story growing up -- that God was so disgusted by "those men and their lifestyle" that they just had to be annihilated.

So maybe this is just The Message, right? Maybe ol' Eugene Peterson softened it a bit, watered down the message so it wouldn't be so offensive?

Nope.

The word rendered "outcry" is the Hebrew word tsaaq (or sa'aq). The connotation is a cry of pain, the wounded cry of an oppressed person or a victim. Even in the original language, God is moved to act by the cries of victims.

It's not hard to imagine what sort of victims we might be dealing with here. In the story, a group of men who lived in the city stormed Lot's house and demanded that he send out his guests so they could have their way with them (sexually).

The sexual orientation of the men is not the issue. The issue is that these men were rapists, that they preyed on the weak.

It wasn't homosexuality that set God off; it was injustice.

So what do we do with this story? Do we ignore it? Assume that, if we dismiss it as a warning against homosexuality, there's nothing left for us to learn from it?

I don't think so. I think the story is a warning, and one that we would do well to heed today. It's just not warning us of what most evangelicals think.

It's a warning that God takes it very seriously when we victimize. When we oppress. When we dehumanize. When we prey on those who are weaker. When we do those things by commission, or by omission.

It's a warning to the bankers and CEOs who have made fortunes off the pain and suffering of those who have lost their homes. It's a warning to the surface mine operators who rake in piles of money while poisoning the water supply of those who live nearby. It's a warning to those who turn a blind eye to the poor, who ignore the plight of those who are suffering.

It's a warning to me. It's a warning to you.

Take heed.

New approaches

I opened the July issue of Sojourners this evening and came across an excellent column by Cathleen Falsani. She wrote about the recent formation of One Wheaton, which she describes as "an organization dedicated to showing solidarity and love for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender students" at Falsani's alma mater, a traditional evangelical college. Wheaton College, in other words, is one of the last places one would expect to find such an organization.

On more than a few occasions, I have been reminded by other Christians that we have a responsibility to tell people when they're behaving wrongly. The metaphor I commonly hear is the burning house; perhaps you've heard it, too. It goes something like this: If your neighbor's house is on fire, you're not being very loving if you don't try to wake your neighbor up and let him know that his house is on fire.

At some point, Christians have to figure out that this method of "converting sinners" just ain't working.

In her column, Falsani recounts the story of another Wheaton student who stepped in front of a train due to the conflicting feelings he felt regarding his sexuality and the way he would be received on campus if he came out. Being told his house was on fire didn't help him very much, did it?

If the Christian community continues to vilify the LGBT community, and if the LGBT community continues to fail to respond in the way the Christian community would like, and the Christian community responds by vilifying the LGBT community even more loudly, the game has changed entirely. All of a sudden, the object isn't really to change anything about anyone; it's simply to prove how right you are. A sincere desire to change someone would lead to a completely different approach.

One of the greatest examples I have heard of finding a new approach comes from Southland Christian Church in Lexington. The church has a ministry in which a group of women take food to strip clubs and serve the dancers. No yelling; no picketing; no assurances of coming judgment. Just a home-cooked meal for some women who are often treated as something less than human beings.

For far too long, Christians have chosen an approach that alienates the world around them. An approach that reaffirms a person's status as sub-human. An approach that occasionally pushes someone in front of a train.

Time to stop worrying about being right. Time to start loving people.

This is why I'm encouraged by One Wheaton. I pray others will follow suit.

Imagine it: A group of LGBT supporters springing up on the campus of Liberty University or Regent University or any of the other hotbeds of evangelicalism.

Now, that would be something.

Adventures in Missing the Point

(Over the past couple of months, I have had a couple of opportunities to speak at First Presbyterian Church in Harlan, where my family has been attending since the beginning of the year. Below is the text of my sermon from a couple of weeks ago, based on Acts 1:6-14.

Other scriptures in the lectionary readings for that day included John 17:1-19 , 1 Peter 4:12-14, and 1 Peter 5:6-11.)

A couple of years ago, I attended a rally. Ashley Judd spoke, and I remember her talking about the times when God uses apparent coincidences to call your attention to something. She called those moments “God-winks.”

I think I experienced a few of those as I was preparing for today. First, Jamie spoke a couple of weeks ago – and did a fantastic job – and his sermon went along with what I was already thinking about; then, I read an article on the Internet that further pushed my thinking in this direction; and a few days ago, I listened to a sermon online that touched on the same themes. So I’m thinking this is what I was meant to talk about today.

I would actually like to spend most of my time this morning exploring the passage from Acts that we read a few moments ago.

Our reading from the first chapter of Acts finds Jesus’ disciples doing something they were particularly good at: missing the point. They’re spending some final moments with Jesus, and we can safely assume they sensed something was about to happen. So, their response to that feeling was to ask a question.

“Are you going to free us from Rome now? Is this the time you’ll vanquish our oppressors and take the throne?”

These men who had traveled with Jesus for three years, who should have known him better than anybody, still didn’t get it. They still didn’t understand that he was not that kind of King.

They asked the wrong question.

Jesus had already made his intentions clear. He expressly noted in the prayer he prayed in John 17 that he would no longer be in the world, and that his followers were not of this world. A few hours later, as he stood on trial before Pilate, Jesus said that his kingdom was not of this world, that it was rooted in something deeper than the present reality.

Over and over throughout his ministry, Jesus has reiterated to his followers that he will not be a Lord of war. Repeatedly, he tells them that his way has nothing to do with political power. Yet, in the final moments before his earthly ministry comes to a final end, they ask him again if he is going to exact revenge on Rome.

Jesus doesn’t get frustrated. He doesn’t lecture; he doesn’t criticize. He simply says, “You’re focusing on the wrong thing.” He tells them that the Holy Spirit is coming, and that they will then become his witnesses. When he said they would be his witnesses, I think he was thinking of something bigger than simply affirming what they had seen him do. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that Jesus intended for his disciples to become witnesses of the Kingdom of God.

Here’s what I mean: I have been a Chicago Cubs fan since I was eight years old. I can tell you about a game I have attended, and you’re not likely to care. Or, I can tell you why I am a Cubs fan. I can tell you about Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg and Greg Maddux and Harry Caray and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and 40,000 fans dancing and singing “Go Cubs Go” at Wrigley Field after a win. Which of those is more likely to appeal to you?

Likewise, Jesus’ followers could bear witness to the fact that they had seen Jesus; that they had walked with him; that they had watched him perform miracles; that they had heard his teaching. Or, they could bear witness to the reality that he introduced – the reality that God has a dream for our world, and that we are invited to join in bringing that dream into reality.

The concept of the Kingdom of God was incredibly subversive and countercultural in the time of the early church. Most Jews adopted one of four responses to the Roman Empire. The Herodians and Sadducees aligned themselves with Rome in hopes of keeping the peace and maybe changing things from within. The Zealots stirred up violent rebellions in hopes of overthrowing the empire. The Pharisees strived for stricter adherence to the law in hopes of appeasing God and ending what they perceived as the nation’s punishment. The Essenes simply withdrew into the desert and lived in solitude.

Into this diverse mix of ideologies stepped Jesus. Rather than endorsing any of the existing approaches to the empire, he taught a brand-new concept: That there was a kingdom larger and broader and much more powerful than the Roman Empire. Rather than being primarily concerned with how to relate to the empire, Jesus taught his followers to strive instead to live a life that was pleasing to a King who was far greater than Caesar. He took away the emperor’s power by virtually ignoring him to pledge allegiance to the ruler of a kingdom that was not of this world.

Despite their misguided question before his ascension, the disciples continued Jesus’ approach. The early church did not focus its energies on trying to free itself of the rule of the Roman Empire, but rather on how to be the body of Christ whether the empire was in power or not. Far more frequent in the epistles are encouragements like the one we read from Peter this morning – reminders that our suffering will not last forever, that God will eventually set the world right. In fact, the epistle writers only make reference to the empire on a very few occasions, and most of those are admonishments to be respectful to those in authority.

I’d love to be able to say that this lesson was learned once and for all, but I can’t. Throughout the centuries, Christians have shown a stubborn tendency to focus on asserting how right they are or flexing their political muscles. We could talk about Constantine, the Crusades, the more violent aspects of the Reformation, or the Salem witch trials, just to name a few examples.

Our approach in the 21^st century might be less bloody, but it’s no less an adventure in missing the point. Turn on Christian radio sometime. You’ll probably find a lot of name-calling and criticism of this group of people or that church’s doctrine. You’ll probably hear a lot of discussions about how Christians should bombard their political leaders with phone calls and e-mails and letters to get them to support certain legislation. What you won’t hear is a lot of discussion about how the body of Christ can work to heal a broken world, about justice and mercy and walking humbly with our God.

One of my favorite musical artists is a guy named Derek Webb. Several years ago, Derek wrote a song called “T-Shirts.” I would like to read you a few portions of the lyrics:

“They’ll know us by the T-shirts that we wear/They’ll know us by the way we point and stare/At anyone whose sin looks worse than ours/Who cannot hide the scars/Of this curse that we all bear”

“They’ll know us by our picket lines and signs/They’ll know us by the pride we hide behind/Like anyone on earth is living right/And isn’t that why Jesus died/And not to make us think we’re right?”

“When love, love, love/Is what we should be known for/Love, love, love/It’s the how and it’s the why/We live and breathe and we die”

It’s natural to want to be validated. If the God we serve is all-powerful, it’s understandable that we would want God to show the world around us that our beliefs are correct. We’re not unlike the Herodians or the Zealots or the Pharisees in Jesus’ day, jockeying to get God to endorse our various positions.

But just as Jesus refused them, he refuses us. Just as he offered them an alternative, so he does for us today. He invites us to deny ourselves, to lay aside our desire to be right, so that we can go in peace to love and to serve the Lord.

I once heard someone say that we are like wine connoisseurs when we debate doctrine or theology. Wine connoisseurs can discuss the merits of various kinds of wine – the bouquet, how this wine has an oaky finish or that wine has notes of coriander and lavender, or whatever. (Is it obvious that this is not my area of expertise?) The problem is, we’re debating the fine points of wine, while there’s a world around us in desperate need of water.

The world is not changed when we prove the validity of our beliefs. Food is not put into hungry bellies when we argue over doctrinal differences. Broken lives aren’t mended when we protest or e-mail our senators. God’s will is not done on earth as it is in heaven when we put this political party or that political party in power.

Those things happen when we live up to our calling as the body of Christ. Let us make that our priority.

Outcry

Perhaps my favorite thing about Facebook is that my friends keep me informed of things I probably wouldn't be aware of otherwise.

Recently, a friend posted a story about two mentally challenged gay men who were forced to leave a public swimming pool in Hazard. When the official who asked them to leave was challenged on the issue, he reportedly responded that he could take this action because "the Bible" gave him the right to do so. (The story can be found here.)

I find this story to be embarrassing, as a follower of Christ and as a resident of eastern Kentucky. On behalf of all those who follow Christ, and on behalf of my eastern Kentucky neighbors, I would like to offer an apology, and to assure those two men and all who are following this story that we don't all share the sentiments of this official.

I can hear many of my evangelical friends getting in a twist already, griping about how messed up our world is when even Christians "support that sinful lifestyle." Here's what I would like to ask you to do: Forget about sin for just a minute. Whether it's a sin or not to be gay is a debate somebody else can have - I'm not interested. And it's beside the point anyway.

The point is this: We don't kick people out of a pool because they're gluttons. We don't make people leave restaurants because they have too much pride - even though the Bible states in no uncertain terms that God hates pride.

So, even if you feel that being gay is a sin, why treat it differently than any other sin?

That's just wrong.

I suppose I'm dreaming, but here's what I'd like to see: I would like to see Christ-followers of all theological and doctrinal stripes stand up and decry this humiliating act of discrimination. I already expect a huge public outcry; but it sure would be nice if that outcry came from the body of Christ.

Anybody care to join me in dreaming that dream?

Bell, Hell and What's Really Non-Negotiable

If you follow the Christian blogosphere, you probably noticed a sharp spike in temperature a couple of months ago. That's when word began to spread that Mars Hill Bible Church pastor Rob Bell -- amazing teacher to some, spawn of Satan to others -- was releasing a book titled "Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell, and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived."

In a promotional trailer, Bell shared a story from the book about someone leaving a note at an art show stating unequivocally that Gandhi is "in hell." Bell questioned how someone could know that to a certainty.

Before the book was released, many labeled Bell a heretic or a universalist (labels, by the way, that are synonymous in many circles). John Piper famously tweeted, "Farewell, Rob Bell," presumably stating his belief that Bell had abandoned the Christian faith. All this uproar occurred, mind you, without people having bothered to read the book.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must acknowledge that I am a fan of Rob Bell. I listen to the Mars Hill sermon podcast every week. I've  read several of Bell's books. I have tremendous respect for people like Bell and Brian McLaren, who respond with incredible grace when they are so brutally attacked online by would-be defenders of the faith.

So, the first time I had the chance, I used a Christmas gift card to pick up the book at Barnes & Noble. And I promptly forgot to bring it home with me, leaving it in the hands of my friend Caleb, who seized the opportunity and read it before I did.

I finally got it back from Caleb, and finished if off in just over a week. I have to agree with Caleb's analysis, which was something to the effect of: "I don't see what the uproar was all about."

With a incredible mastery of the material, Bell addresses what the Bible has to say (and doesn't have to say) about hell. He notes that the Old Testament doesn't mention -- not even once -- what we now know as the traditional view of hell. He also points out that almost all of the biblical references to hell use either the world "sheol," which refers to the grave, or "Gehenna," which refers to a massive garbage dump just outside Jerusalem, rather than the more Platonic Greek concept of Hades. He asks some magnificent questions about how one can reconcile a loving God with the existence of a place of eternal conscious torment. (The questions, by the way, probably go a long way toward explaining why some of his critics are so afraid of him. Nothing scares some Christians like questions.) He also cites the teachings of various Christian teachers throughout the centuries, noting that not believing in a literal, fiery hell is not at all a new thing in the body of Christ.

That's what Bell does in the book. What he does not do is espouse a universalist point of view -- in fact, he goes out of his way to point out that a loving God would have to allow us to choose.

The purpose of this entry is not to debate the existence of hell. I tend not to believe in a literal, fiery hell, because I cannot reconcile such a horrible place with a God who loves us. It's fine with me if you disagree, and we won't argue about it. I trust that God knows my heart, and if I don't dot every theological 'i' and cross every doctrinal 't,' he'll still take care of me.

What I would like to ask is this: Why is this one topic -- one about which the biblical writers had relatively little to say -- non-negotiable? There's a long list of items on which Christians simply agree to disagree: women in ministry, worship music, speaking in tongues, and tattoos, just to name a few. Why do some insist that believing in hell is a prerequisite for following Jesus?

Some people spend their lives cruelly inflicting pain on others for their own selfish gain. Many more waste their lives -- their one and only opportunity -- on things that are unimportant and never really make a positive impact on the world around them. I've been to funerals of people like this, and let me tell you, the sense of a wasted life is almost palpable. Isn't this tragic enough? Is it necessary that we envision such people being endlessly tormented for billions of years? How is that helpful?

God loves the world. God intends to change the world through people like us serving as the hands and feet of Jesus. Love will eventually win, despite any and all current evidence to the contrary. Shouldn't this be the issue we view as central to the Christian faith? Shouldn't this be the main thing? Shouldn't it make our petty differences of opinion seem so insignificant that they're hardly worth arguing about?

Rob and I think so, anyway.

(For additional reading on this topic, I highly recommend Brian McLaren's "The Last Word and the Word After That.")

Osama

My first allegiance is not to a flag, a country or a man

My first allegiance is not to democracy or blood

It's to a King and a Kingdom

(Derek Webb, "A King and a Kingdom")

If you haven't been comatose for the last two days, you already know that America's Public Enemy No. 1, 9/11 mastermind Osama bin Laden, was killed Sunday night in a firefight by U.S. Navy SEALS. This news was met across the nation with exuberance -- chants and cheers and high-fives and the waving of flags.

If you had a sense of deja vu reading that, it's probably because that was essentially the way much of the Arab world reacted to the news of the 9/11 attacks.

Perhaps the most bizarre story from all of this (to me, anyway) was yesterday's report that David Brody of the Christian Broadcasting Network criticized President Obama. Sadly, Christians criticizing the leader of our country is nothing new. What was strange, though, was the nature of Brody's complaint: That the president wasn't joyful enough when announcing the news of bin Laden's death. You can read a more complete account here, but here it is in a nutshell: Brody wrote, "How about a word or two saying something about how this is no doubt a happy or joyous occasion for Americans? We got nothing like that at all. ... He was being careful of how the 'Arab Street' would interpret his remarks. ... [Sarcastically] How dare we Americans look like we're celebrating his death!"

Not to put too fine a point on it, but it sounds as if Mr. Brody has decided to be an American first, and a follower of Christ second. Try replacing the word "Americans" with "Christians" in the final sentence of Mr. Brody's words above and see if it doesn't feel weird.


In terms of approval or disapproval, I truly don't know how to feel about the death of bin Laden. My philosophy on war lies somewhere on the pacifist side of the spectrum, but I can't say that I believe violence is never justified. There's no denying that bin Laden was a horrible, hateful man, and there's no denying that his hate made him dangerous. Perhaps killing him was the only way; perhaps not. That debate has little to do with what's rattling around in my brain tonight.

What I can say with certainty is that we, as followers of the Prince of Peace, should not celebrate the killing of bin Laden, or anyone else.

Let's be frank: Jesus did not celebrate violence or death. Ever. When Jesus was arrested, one of his followers grabbed a sword and cut off the ear of one of the men who came to participate in the arrest. Even though the man was there to arrest him -- even though the man was going to play a role in Jesus' agonizing death -- Jesus took time to heal the man's ear.

Jesus said, "Those who live by the sword will die by the sword." In another passage, he said, "Here's another old saying that deserves a second look: 'Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.' Is that going to get us anywhere? Here's what I propose: 'Don't hit back at all.' If someone strikes you, stand there and take it. ... No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously." Now, obviously, Jesus isn't addressing political or military policy here; he wasn't that kind of king. Nevertheless, I think it's clear how Jesus feels about killing and violence.

If we choose to celebrate the death of Osama bin Laden, we are not following the way of Jesus in this matter. It's that simple.If it brings us joy to think that bin Laden is paying for his sins, then we have pledged our allegiance to the wrong king and the wrong kingdom.

There's a quote I've read several times today by Martin Luther King; a number of my friends have posted it on Facebook, and I think it's incredibly poignant right about now. Dr. King -- a man who had reason to be bitter and vengeful if anybody does -- said, "I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

Hear, hear.