What do Associate Pastors Want?

My friend had a dazed look when I asked how his work as an associate pastor was going. Then he ripped into his senior minister: "He won’t communicate! He thinks ministry is only for ordained people -- preferably him alone! He doesn’t even seem interested in what I do at his church!" Then he grew pensive: "We’re like strangers passing on the street -- in the same place, but not connected at all."

Another associate minister in the room tried to comfort him: "Hey, it’s not his fault -- seminaries were terrible back when he came through. Anyway, you’re smarter than he is."

When I told a senior minister about this exchange of commiseration, he sighed. "Sometimes with my staff I feel like my dad did during a long car trip with the family. When the kids would get rambunctious in the back, he’d take just so much before turning around to give us a good whack."

The metaphors -- strangers in the street, rambunctious kids -- suggest lonely young associates who are alternately insecure and arrogant, unsure of how to take those first toddling steps out of seminary and onto a church staff. They also suggest the plight of senior ministers who’ve been given no resources for handling a staff other than whatever people skills they happen to have.

The relationship between a senior pastor and associate pastors is often key to the health and ministry of a church, yet it receives next to no attention in seminaries or in the literature on ministry. The attention it does receive is often thin theologically -- a pinch of God in a broth of dated managerial theory.

I spoke with several associate and senior ministers, hoping that what they’ve learned can help other pastors think through their lives and ministries more thoroughly and theologically.

What do associate pastors want from a senior pastor? The associates invariably mentioned "communication" first. They do not want micromanagement, or a senior pastor constantly glancing over the underlings’ shoulders. Instead, associates want clear direction for the areas of ministry over which they have charge, and then they want to be left alone "to make the church’s vision a reality" in that area.

This concern suggests the importance of having a well-articulated vision toward which all can aspire, and a certain amount of freedom for each staff member as he or she works toward it. Carol Madam sees this happening at the church she serves in Naperville, Illinois. She compares her senior pastor to Captain Jean-Luc Picard in Star Trek: The Next Generation, who regularly tells his first officer, Commander Riker, "Make it so!"

Says Madalin, "‘When I say I’m thinking about doing something new or different, he listens, and then says, ‘Great, I like it!"’

Another associate struggles with a head pastor who doesn’t communicate as well. "He’s not into details; he just wants to cast the vision. But when I come back with details worked out, he’s not happy You have to be OK with the way an associate achieves your goals or else the associate just spins her wheels."

In addition to being able to communicate, ministers have to be able to get along well with other staff members. Kelly Lyn Logue, an associate in Gary, North Carolina, worked for a senior minister in her first job. When the senior pastor was moved to another church, the two ministers petitioned their bishop to move Logue so that the two could work together again. Clearly something had gone right! Her secret? "We just hang out with each other -- shooting the breeze. It’s no fun to work with someone you don’t want to be around." The willingness to talk about trivial and personal matters builds the trust that allows colleagues to be blunt with one another. "When something negative is brought up about one of us, we tell each other."

Associates often become sounding boards for unhappy members who don’t want to confront pastors directly. This can lead to unhealthy triangulation. A senior minister of a large congregation in suburban Chicago compared the associate’s job to a sewage treatment plant. "The associate takes in all the crap and people imagine he or she will filter it before passing it on to the senior."

Other seniors and associates responded to stories about unhappy staff members by insisting that triangulation between associate pastors, unhappy members and senior pastor must be stopped if the associate pastorate is to be successful. And trust is crucial. Both senior and associate pastors often compare their relationships to friendship and even marriage.

Les Longden, a professor at Dubuque Theological Seminary and formerly the head of a large church staff in Michigan, said that the social times his staff spent on retreat were "worth their weight in gold. If I were a senior again, I’d be even more intentional about having fun."

Many clergy don’t have many positive staff experiences to share. William Willimon says, "We preachers have no training in how to supervise other human beings, and it shows most dramatically in a multiple staff church." Willimon, a United Methodist bishop in Alabama, suggests that a staff find a management coach who will observe and help the senior pastor through such headaches as job evaluations, budget management, and hirings and firings.

Some pastors come to a staff with management experience; they may have worked for a corporation or small business. These mid-career individuals are wiser and have more life experience. They also know that partnerships function better when all parties are generally intentional about teamwork. Cynthia Anderson, who worked in communications in the corporate world and is now an associate pastor in Barrington, Illinois, says her corporate experience gave her a settled ego, an eagerness for teamwork, and the conviction that a senior pastor’s authority must be respected in front of staff and other church members. "Never air disagreements with her or him in public," she advises.

Darryl Franklin, associate in a large suburban African-American church outside Chicago, also brings corporate experience to his ministry. Franklin told his senior minister he was eager to learn from him, and promised to protect his interests in front of church members and never to disagree publicly with him. In return, he asked for "an open door and mind" when he disagreed with the senior privately "This almost immediately turned me from an outsider to a trusted colleague," Franklin said.

Loyalty works both ways, of course. The senior must be confident enough in himself or herself to hire talent, let staff members have space to roam, and trust them to remain loyal. The senior must also be an advocate for the associates. This includes being sure the associates’ needs in salary and public recognition are met, and being willing to let them take some risks. Sometimes these are risks that senior ministers are not able or willing to take themselves.

Craig Kocher, associate dean of Duke Chapel, says, "Associates can be a bit more subversive. They are frequently young and passionate, recently out of seminary, and can use the role to speak gospel truth to the congregation in a way the senior can’t."

Alisa Lasater, an associate in Charlotte, North Carolina, recalls attending a meeting to discuss grant proposals to fund local missions. The committee was ready to reject a proposal that had come from a minority applicant. Lasater spoke up for the applicant, tentatively at first. "Then I saw the look from my senior -- it said ‘Go!’ He had to moderate, but he wanted me to advocate."

Senior ministers can choose to cultivate a gift of prophetic advocacy in an associate, or squelch it by turning the associate into a personal assistant. One associate in Texas was looking forward to a retreat for planning his church’s ministry for the next year. "I was fresh from a top seminary and passionate to begin leading others in ministry. Then the night before, my senior called and told me to be sure to pick up juice and donuts the next morning."

Lyle Schaller writes about the importance of recognizing certain ministerial tasks as "winners" and others as "losers" in The Multiple Staff and the Larger Church, "Winners" are the tasks that lead people to sign up for ordained ministry: preaching, presiding over sacraments, being present at key life transitions such as weddings and funerals -- in other words, the prominent, visible and generally rewarding parts of ministry. The "losers" are those areas that are less visible and more likely to invite ecclesial disquiet: youth ministry, administration, fund-raising -- and breakfast procurement. Satisfied associate ministers consistently point to senior pastors who share the winners.

Christy Sharp, an associate in Asheville, North Carolina, praises her senior for allowing her to choose the Sunday a month when she’ll preach. One year the senior pastor even took vacation at Easter and left the leadership in her hands.

Logue and the senior pastor at her church refer to each other with pastoral titles: "the Reverend Logue" and "Pastor Charles," and intentionally make references to what the other has previously said in sermons and teaching. "This requires paying attention to each other," she said -- a task more difficult and crucial than it sounds.

Sara Webb Phillips, a 26-year veteran of solo pastorates and chaplaincies, took a job as a late-career associate pastor in Evanston, Illinois. At a meeting of area clergy, she had to swallow hard before introducing herself as an associate, and at the last second decided to say, "I’m one of the pastors at Evanston First." When her senior introduced himself, he said, "I’m another one of the pastors at Evanston First." "It meant a lot for him to recognize my need at that point," Phillips said.

Senior pastors have high praise for associates whose work reflects well on the senior. This dynamic is a bit tricky. A senior pastor must have a healthy ego to hire an associate with talent, and then to mentor that talent well. The relationship between senior and associate requires that both practice humility. The associate may have far less power in the relationship, yet bring energy that leads to success within a congregation as well as to personal pride and a sense of accomplishment.

Lillian Daniel, a senior minister in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, says, "No young associate can imagine how her church ever functioned before she got there." The lack of energy that some associates perceive in the parish explains the short duration of many associate pastors’ tenure. Says Daniel, "I know a fair number of people who spent 18 months as associate pastors, then left to do Ph.D. work, and spent teaching careers disparaging the local church ever after."

Freshly minted associate pastors, with their high ideals, may collide with senior pastors whom they perceive as lazy, or parishes they perceive as lifeless. One associate recalls: "Although lazy would not be the word I would use, he was a minimalist. He was, however, extremely religious about walking across the street to the parsonage at the exact same time every day to watch week-day soaps."

It is not surprising that some associates who encounter such situations leave the ministry. One effort to stem this problem is the Lilly Endowment’s Transition into Ministry Program, coordinated through the Fund for Theological Education. Churches that apply for grants from the program receive some $750,000 and anywhere from two to six ministerial interns to train for two years. In their first calls, these interns are given partners who serve as peers, and they work with a senior minister who has been recognized as an effective mentor in experiences with other associates.

Ann Svennungsen, president of the FTE and a former senior pastor in the program, says that "if we are to raise up the next generation of pastoral leaders, pastors must be intentional not only about inviting people to consider ministry, but also about retaining those trained for ministry through times of disillusionment."

Svennungsen recalled her role as mentor with fondness. "We met once a week over breakfast to talk and pray and read and talk about books we were reading -- it was a renewing experience for me too."

Even a less-than-ideal senior minister can be a blessing for an associate. "Minimalist" seniors may let associates do a lion’s share of the work, thus encouraging growth and pastoral maturity. Associate pastors may also enjoy a surprising degree of freedom (as Chris Smith argues in Leadership magazine). It’s not the associate’s job to worry about budgets. The associate doesn’t receive the phone call in the middle of the night if the youth do something outrageous, or are stranded roadside in the middle of nowhere. Associates may be able to avoid more weeknight meetings. The greatest benefit may be that associates are often able to develop more genuine friendships with church members than their head pastor. For such reasons Willimon counsels new pastors to seek out associate positions for their first ministry experiences. "Ministry is mostly learned through apprenticing," he said, comparing it to an art to be mastered rather than a technique to be memorized. "I sure would have been a disaster if I hadn’t had my first two years as an associate. Even when it’s terrible, it’s valuable learning."

Jeffry Bross, an associate in Batavia, Illinois, remembers that "even though I was the pastor who called on people when they were sick, and even though I was the one who was there when their spouse passed away, it was always the senior pastor whom they wanted to do the funeral." As Lyle Schaller has said, it is the higher salary that determines who is charge, despite what we say about team play and equality. The contrast in status between pastors may tempt associates to view their positions as trampolines to something "better," or a route to more prestige and salary.

But long-term associate pastorates show that the associate role can be a vocation, and not just a step toward something else. William Green has been an associate in the same church in Gary, North Carolina, for almost 20 years. Senior minister Rodney Hamm says of Green: "William works longer hours than I do. . . . He’s invaluable to me. I don’t mind the attention he gets, and I salute his m ministry as often as possible. I don’t know how we could replace him." Green launched a Bible study outreach that involves dozens of prisons in the area. He is a leader in Emmaus Way’s retreat ministries. He also leads a men’s as group with over 100 participants. Those ministries are vital to his church’s life.

There’s no fixed formula for senior-associate relationships. They’re as variable as the gifts of each party. Several seniors swear by the importance of "spiritual gifts inventories" that show staff members what they do well, what needs work and how staff members can complement one another.

George Thompson, a former senior pastor, oversaw associates who were "polar opposites" in personality, but who "continue to be like members of my family." Several had exceptional gifts for preaching, so he asked them to preach more than usual. Another had a legal background and became a resource in the community for prophetic ministry and civic action. A visionary, bored with details, as allowed to delegate details to others on the staff. The key is flexibility and a willingness to let associates’ gifts shine without forcing them into the mold left by a previous associate. In Thompson’s case, several who were pastors on his staff are now presiding over associate ministers of their own.

Most of the suggestions for healthy relationships can be found in secular studies of leadership and management: the need for humility, public deference, team building and on. Where does God fit in the discussion of staff relationships? Green says that this is part of the secret to a long associate pastorate. "The best thing a senior and associate can do is simply sit down and talk. They need to tell their faith stories so each can appreciate the other in light of how God has worked in their lives."

Bill Gattis, a former senior pastor, talks about the importance of giving his staff spiritual leadership. To Gattis, staff meetings are "worshipful work," with times of silence for prayer and discernment woven into them. He would have his staff members pass a "prayer rock" around the table, with the one holding it charged to pray for whatever topic of conversation was at hand.

Melinda Hinners, an associate in St. Charles, Illinois, suggests that senior and associate pastors go on an annual retreat to a local Christian counseling center. With the aid of a facilitator, staff members review the year and prepare for the coming year in an atmosphere of contemplation. Spiritual relationships among members of the pastoral staff -- relationships of the sort to which ministers are ordained -- are not a prerequisite for the work of the church. They are the work of the church.

Relationships between associate and senior pastors are neither more nor less complicated than other human relationships: they hold the potential or abuse as well as for transformation. The gospel promises to transform human relationships as Jesus changes us from enemies to friends of God. Therefore any and all theological claims about relationships -- about everything from sin to reconciliation and the eschatological summing-up of all things under Christ -- are important to consider.

Yet theological reflection is surprisingly lacking in materials that discuss the associate pastorate. Books from conservative theorists present scripture as a sufficient resource by itself, as if our modern bureaucratic church structures can be enlightened without difficulty by chapter-and-verse talking points (see Robert Radcliff’s Effective Ministry as an Associate Pastor). Mainline thinkers who have broached the subject do so clumsily. In Leading the Team-Based Church, for example, George Cladis suggests the popular theological description of social trinitarianism as a model for staff relations. As the Trinity is a society of mutually indwelling persons, the argument goes, so the staff should be a team of players without one figure dominating the others. It turns out, however, that the managerial visions of mutuality are presumed in this argument before the theological mystery of the Trinity is explored. (And if the Trinity model is taken seriously, then someone must become incarnate and die!)

Many associate pastors frown on any comparison of senior and associate to Jesus and the disciples. For them, the analogy confirms a dated, CEO-type model of ministry. Several pointed instead to Paul’s mentorship of Timothy. Lasater made this comparison, saying, "It helps when my senior ‘knights’ me publicly, and sends me out with his authority."

Most pastors with whom I spoke invoked Paul’s metaphor of the church as a body in which every member has an indispensable role. The image validates the ministry of every member of the church, and not simply the "professional" clergy. It also implies coordination between members, with the head responsible for orchestrating things, but with many other necessary parts. Paul’s metaphor also insists that the "least honorable" be treated with the greatest honor. Mike Bonem and Roger Patterson explore this theme in their book Leading from the Second Chair. Being humble and giving others public recognition and spiritual encouragement should sound like familiar tasks: they are descriptions of being Christian.

The desert monastics talked of fleeing the world and other people in an effort to love others better. By isolating themselves from the sorts of self-inflating fantasies that choke love, they would learn how to love as God does. Rowan Williams summarizes the activity this way: when you win your neighbor for God, you "become a place where God happens for somebody else." Logue and her senior pastor are doing this work when they "pay attention to one another"; Green and others are doing this work when they listen to and pray for each other. Those in the ministry offer themselves as "places where God happens" for the church. For associates in ministry, this difficult but rewarding process starts with the office next door.

Alternative Christian Communities

At a time when the church had grown too cozy with the ruling authorities, when faith had become a means to power and influence, some Christians who sought to live out an authentically biblical faith headed for desolate places. They pooled their resources and dedicated themselves to a life of asceticism and prayer. Most outsiders thought they were crazy. They saw themselves as being on the narrow and difficult path of salvation, with a call to prick the conscience of the wider church about its compromises with the "world."

I’m describing not fourth-century monks, but present-day communities of Christians who think the church in the United States has too easily accommodated itself to the consumerist and imperialist values of the culture. Living in the corners of the American empire, they hope to be a harbinger of a new and radically different form of Christian practice.

These "new monastics" pursue the ancient triumvirate of poverty, chastity and obedience, but with a twist. Their communities include married people whose pledge to chastity is understood as a commitment to marital fidelity. Poverty means eschewing typical middle-class economic climbing but not total indigence -- sonic economic resources are necessary for building this desert kingdom. Obedience means accountability not to an abbot but to Jesus and to the community.

The description new monasticism comes from the theologian Jonathan Wilson. In Living Faithfully in a Fragmented World: Lessons for the Church from MacIntyre’s ‘After Virtue’ (1998), Wilson responds to moral philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre, who concludes his celebrated 1991 critique of modernity by calling for "the construction of local forms of community within which civility and the intellectual and moral life can be sustained through the new dark ages which are already upon us. . . . We are waiting for another -- doubtless very different -- St. Benedict." Wilson agrees, and as an Anabaptist theologian he recognizes the resources in his church to create precisely the sort of new monasticism for which MacIntyre calls.

Be careful what you write. Wilson’s daughter is now a founding member of one such new community, the Rutba House in Durham, North Carolina. Rutba got its start and its name from the experience of a Christian Peacemaker Team that was in Iraq at the start of the war. Leah Wilson-Hartgrove and her husband, Jonathan, were trained in CPT’s tactics of nonviolent conflict resolution and of "getting in the way" of those who would do violence. Their group had a car accident in which a member was seriously hurt. They took him to Rutba, the nearest town with a hospital. The Iraqi doctor treated the injured American for no fee, but asked the group to promise to tell others what had happened to them in Rutba -- that while their country was dropping bombs on his, he offered healing and peace. (Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove tells this story in To Baghdad and Beyond: How I Got Born Again in Babylon [Cascade].)

The Wilson-Hartgroves returned to the United States and started the Christian community in Durham, where Jonathan began study at Duke Divinity School. It’s based in a sprawling old house with creaky hardwood floors in a largely black section of the city called Walltown; drug problems and civic neglect give the neighborhood a reputation as a dangerous place. Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove describes Rutba’s mission there as one of "hospitality, peace-snaking and discipleship." He contrasts the community’s vision with that of the rural Southern Baptists among whom he grew up: "Jesus doesn’t just forgive my sins, he gives a whole new way of life -- the best way to live."

The community shares meals and daily prayers from the Book of Common Prayer. Its members do not have a common treasury in the strict sense. They tend their own finances, but they do keep a common purse that members are encouraged to give to or take from as they have ability or need.

Their theological commitments are visible in the pictures on the living room walls: one is of Martin Luther King Jr., the other of Dorothy Day, cofounder of the Catholic Worker movement. Rutba’s members are committed to being in Walltown. When other Duke students travel home for holidays, Rutba is their home. A bit worried that the Rutba members may be perceived as white do-gooders who intend to "save" the housing projects, Jonathan can only counter that they are committed to being a presence in Walltown – "unless the area gentrifies completely."

Wilson-Hartgrove heard a call to this sort of life while at Eastern College outside Philadelphia, where he studied with Tony Campolo. "A lot of Tony’s students took his ideas more seriously than even he was ready for," he said. A number of Christian communities that include Campolo’s students have cropped up in blighted neighborhoods in and around Philadelphia.

The Rutba community has only five members. In addition to the Wilson-Hartgroves, it includes another divinity school student, a 40-year-old man and a high school student whom the community has taken in as a foster child. When I asked whether the neighbors think Rutba is weird, Jonathan said, "You should hear [the high school student] tell his friends where he lives. ‘Well, I live in this house, they’re Christians, white and black, who aren’t really kin to me, but as Christians sort of are . . ."

Despite its small size, Rutba House has a prominent place in the network of intentional Christian communities. In 2004 Rutba hosted a conference that led to the publication of a book, School (s) for Conversion: 12 Marks of a New Monasticism (Wipf and Stock), which includes essays on such topics as "Relocation to Abandoned Places of Empire," "Sharing Economic Resources" and "Peacemaking in the Midst of Violence and Conflict Resolution." Jonathan also tends a Web site that seeks to connect and support like-minded communities across the country (newmonasticism.org).

He is wary of having such a leading role in the young movement. "The Internet is the ‘yeast’ of the Pharisees about which Jesus warned," he jokes. Indeed, the Wilson-Hartgroves and Rutba could be accused of a sort of naive idealism, both in Iraq and Walltown, as they try to change a violent and racist world as 20-somethings. They are aware of that charge, and reply that their steadfastness over time will refute it. (The rate of failure for these sorts of communities is quite high.) These communities’ eager use of the Internet reveals some of what is new in the new monasticism. They do not reject technology as such. They embrace the Internet, as it serves their purposes of linking similar Christian communities to one another and sharing resources.

Newness is also evident in their embrace of Catholic and Orthodox sources of inspiration, which other Anabaptist or Amish communities who live in similar ways once eschewed. Wilson-Hartgrove often uses a Dostoevsky quote that Dorothy Day employed in her ministry: "Love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams."

In contrast to Rutba, Reba Place Fellowship in Evanston, Illinois, is a long-established intentional community. It was founded in the 1950s by a Mennonite professor from Goshen College who wanted a church more strictly modeled on the New Testament. Reba’s membership peaked in the 1970s at about 150. Now it has 33 adult members, 16 children and teens, five "interns" who are considering membership, and a half-dozen or so people who simply "knocked on the door" to express interest, according to Reba leader Allan Howe. Some seminary students in the area have been steered to Reba by their professors. Those who want to know where they can find the way of life described in the New Testament actually lived out are directed to Reba Place Fellowship.

Reba members pool their money, and the community draws from the common treasury to cover members’ housing, transportation and health care. Over the years Reba has acquired considerable resources, including dozens of houses and apartment buildings in racially diverse south Evanston. The fellowship rents many of these apartments at below-market rates as a service to the community. In contrast to Rutba’s young idealism, in 50-plus years Reba’s membership has grayed considerably. The community’s decision to foreswear health insurance, trusting Providence for expensive medical care, may eventually tax even its deep pockets and those of its generous givers.

Reba is hesitant to refer to itself by using the ancient Christian terminology of monasticism. Mennonites have always rejected what they see as a two-tier church in which monks and priests are regarded as especially holy. Reba’s David Janzen says the community has no interest in MacIntyre’s ultimate purpose of "saving Western civilization." Rather, its members hope to show the world what following Jesus’ way of justice and peace might look like.

A Chicago television station recently profiled Reba Place Fellowship by focusing on the Selph family. Doug Selph is a computer programmer who puts his $100,000 salary into Reba’s common pot. Doug and his wife. Lisa, and her two children receive $762 a month from the community to cover the family’s expenses. The WTTW program focused on one event that revealed how the community works. Lisa Selph’s daughter Hannah was being encouraged by her violin teacher to buy a professional-quality instrument at a price of $10,000. The Selphs took the proposal to their "house group," with whom they pray regularly. The next step would have been to take the proposal to the entire fellowship.

Reba’s leaders said they would be inclined to regard such a purchase as good for the whole community -- like paying for a college education. But the question never got that far. The Selphs’ house group suggested that Hannah earn the money to help pay for a new instrument and in the meantime continue to rent an instrument and develop her musical gifts. For the Selphs, Reba’s practice of communal discernment kept the family from making an idol out of their child’s talents.

Janzen, who contributed an essay to the New Monasticism volume, says that how the community’s life works is not as important or interesting as why it works. "We keep returning to Jesus teaching, [his] commands to love one another, to see to one another’s welfare. There is a Spirit that grows up among us in doing that that is heaven on earth."

Even a casual visitor to the fellowship gets a sense of what he means. Their prayers crackle with evangelical piety and concern for peace, both global and local. The presence of a visitor from Christian Peacemaker Teams talking about her work in war-torn Colombia shows this is not merely private piety. The members of the fellowship want to make an impact, however small, on the world.

Something of a different animal from Reba is the Church of the Servant King in Eugene, Oregon. Many of its members are evangelicals who originally joined a parent congregation of the same name in 1978 in Gardena, California. The Eugene congregation was planted in 1987. Most of its key leaders have been living together in intentional community since the ‘78 founding.

Servant King started as an evangelical effort to live out scripture’s vision of the church. A commitment to nonviolence evolved slowly, partly as members read the works of Stanley Hauerwas, partly as they decided who would clean the bathrooms. Peace is not merely about a position on the war in Iraq; it is about how one relates to one’s neighbor, one’s spouse and one’s adversary in the community. Community leader Jon Stock points out that most intentional Christian communities that are not committed to nonviolence don’t survive, because when arguments erupt, someone has to win -- and the community loses. The Gardena congregation that planted Servant King has had such a rupture and is now on strained terms with its ecclesial offspring in Eugene.

Servant King’s members say that a key to its survival is its "overcoming of pietism." They are not rigid about drinking, smoking or cursing; the atmosphere there can seem a bit like the early hours of a fraternity party. This is intentional. Members have worked hard to avoid any sense of competition over righteousness, both as individuals and in comparing Servant King to the wider church. Such pride can splinter a community, as in the Gardena congregation’s case.

When I asked Stock whether he considers his community a model for the rest of the church, he almost visibly shuddered: "I’m much more comfortable talking about the mistakes we’ve made." Though smoking and drinking are permitted, the group is traditional in other moral matters. "We’re quite conservative in what we do with our genitals. You have to get money, sex and power straight or they’ll ruin you."

Pietism can create artificial boundaries between a community and the wider church. Communities like these are born precisely out of impatience with the mainstream church, which they regard as compromised by or indistinguishable from the world. Servant King has, with some difficulty, reembraced the wider church. It follows the lectionary in its preaching and celebrates the Lord’s Supper weekly. It invites prominent theologians to visit and teach in its midst.

On the Sunday I visited, the community added a new member to the group, which Stock says is made up of 23 adults, eight teenagers and "I can’t remember how many" children. The group gathers in the largest living room of its several houses in Eugene to sing "Down to the River to Pray" and to accompany the new member to her baptism -- in a large tub in the backyard. She makes a public confession of sin, saying she has "idolized relationships above all." Stock almost whispers, "The Lord forgives" His fellow pastor, Brian Logan, shouts St. Paul’s words as he dips her under the water: "If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation!"

In a liberal university town on the west coast, Servant King seems strange not because it’s a commune of sorts, but because it’s Christian. The community works to be known as such among its neighbors. It runs Windows bookshop, a used bookstore with mostly theology texts on its rough-hewn shelves. Ten years ago the bookstore birthed Wipf and Stock Publishers, which employs many of Servant King’s members. The community also runs a coffee shop. All these activities take place in a city block-sized building that includes a pizza parlor and a stage for performances, which draw others in. Eugene’s small number of Christians (it has the fewest churches for a city its size in America) know the church, as do the colorful assortment of folks who stop by for pizza, coffee, books or conversation.

By comparison with Servant King’s members, Reba’s Mennonites seem a bit more pious and plain. Reba’s participation in a network of similar Anabaptist fellowships in the Shalom Mission Communities also stands in contrast to Servant King’s independent status. But the two groups have some things in common. The life of the mind is important to both (one makes its living by selling books; the other has bookshelves filled to overflowing). Both communities are also quite wealthy. Reba’s real estate is worth a fortune in the overheated Chicagoland housing market, and Servant King’s property has tripled in value during the recent housing boom.

Yet these communities are not investors. Their property is important to them only as a way of allowing members to live near one another and share life together, as Stock writes in the New Monasticism book, or of enabling them to offer low-cost housing to their neighbors. When I asked Stock and Logan what they plan to do when their members retire, they looked befuddled. Christians don’t retire, in their view, "Florida is not on the Christian map," Stock says. They plan to work until they cannot, at which point they will trust others to take care of them.

If their care for one another now is any indication, others will be there for caregiving. Stock and Logan kiss each other on the cheek when they part for a journey of a few days, suggesting that three decades in intentional community has led to a deep friendship. "What we’re after is a place that tastes and smells like the kingdom of God," Stock says. One gets a sense of such a place at the party after the baptism. The new member has requested a traditional backyard barbecue, but I’m told she could have chosen any food she liked. Really? Even lobster? Sushi? Caviar? "Sure, she’s a new member of Jesus’ body -- when else do you celebrate?" Servant King is not opposed to extravagance as such, but wants to see it in the service of building the kingdom of God rather than in private consumption.

Another branch on the new monastic family tree is the Church of the Sojourners in San Francisco. Eighteen years ago some evangelicals who wished to wed a personal gospel with the social gospel helped begin a church and intentional community in the city’s Mission District.

Tim Otto, part of a leadership team for Sojourners, speaks of rethinking vocation along Christian lines. The new monastic communities swim against the pull of the American dream -- to be financially secure, to move across the country for a better job, to plan for retirement. Sojourners encourages members to resist the allure of relocating or borrowing for career opportunities, but to be eager to move or take out a loan for the sake of the church. When asked what he does for a living, Otto says, "I’m trying to become a saint." Only subsequently does he reveal that he is a part-time nurse. The flexibility of part-time work is important to him, as he devotes the rest of his time to the church.

Sojourners traces its founding to its members’ realization that they were better at being Americans than at being Christians. Disparagement of America is not controversial in San Francisco, but the claim to be Christian is. The contrast is evident in Sojourners’ concocted "Celebration of Yahweh’s Kingship," held annually on the Fourth of July. Its goal is to "colonize" the holiday for Christianity the same way Hallmark and Madison Avenue have colonized Easter and Christmas for their purposes. Member Debbie Gish says the Sojourners’ barbecue and fireworks are part of a "declaration of allegiance" not to the United States but to "Christ the King," by citizens "of a monarchy, not a democracy." That won’t play in either red state or blue state America.

Another church that bears a family resemblance to the new monastic communities, though with some key differences, is Grace Fellowship Community Church. The largely Asian congregation, part of a small denomination, the Cumberland Presbyterians, began as an offspring of a 100-year-old congregation in San Francisco’s Mission District.

Grace looks like a "normal church," according to pastor Bob Appleby Its members do not all live together as in the self-described intentional communities. But to join, one must submit to an intensive, nine-month catechetical program. The church takes Stanley Hauerwas and William Willimon’s Resident Aliens as a sort of manifesto. Catechumens are asked, among other things, to take the church’s trash out and make the coffee. Such tasks are seen as a sort of truth in advertising -- the church is about service, not about having one’s "felt needs" met.

Grace Fellowships primary relationship to the new monastic communities is its effort to give the church prominence in its theology, rather than the state. Pastor Sharon Huey talks of Grace’s catechumenate as preparation for taking something like a "vow of insignificance." Putting off prestige is hard, especially for "overeducated" and upwardly mobile Californians, and even more so for Asians, she says. But it is scriptural.

Huey and Grace Fellowship share with other evangelicals a love of scripture. But they have put it to use in reading Hosea as carefully as the rest of the Bible. The prophet taught Huey that the common reduction of Christianity to psychological help for the privileged is a sort of "whoredom." Reading the prophets is training in how "not to be nice," the amiable Asian woman says, for her community is "better at harmony than truth." In a time of empire when the church should tell a "more persuasive story" than one of exultation of the nation, Bible study is radical stuff. Community members say they were "ready" on 9/11, for the prophets had taught them to mistrust claims that saving power comes from anything other than God.

The communities I visited have important differences in organization, style, finances and even theology. Some are churches, like Church of the Servant King and Church of the Sojourners. Some are related to churches. Reba sponsors two ecclesial gatherings nearby, So that one can worship with a Reba congregation without participating in Reba’s common-purse arrangement. Rutba looks for support and wisdom from nearby St. John’s Missionary Baptist Church, but members do not have to attend. Grace Fellowship is simply a mainline church committed to more radical living. Reba folks have a common treasury and give a stipend to members; Sojourners members maintain an agreed-upon standard of living and give the rest of their income to the church. Servant King members tithe 15 percent and open their books to one another to account for the rest. Servant King’s rough speech and petty vices would make some people at Reba uneasy.

These communities can seem a bit inbred. Jonathan Wilson, coiner of the phrase new monasticism, is father and father-in-law of the key members of Rutba, which hosted the conference, edited the book and sponsors the Web site by the same name. The woman I saw baptized at Servant King is Jon Stock’s niece. Stock runs Wipf and Stock Publishers, which prints Jonathan Wilson-Hart-grove’s work. Members of Sojourners and Grace Fellowship spoke at a conference organized by the Chicago-area seminary professors who send students to Reba.

Another problem the communities face is the challenge of transcending divisions along the lines of race and class. While those who do join are drawn to the scriptural norm of communities that transcend racial and financial barriers, they tend to be white, college-educated folks, despite great effort to reach out. For example, one of the Sojourners’ original goals was to serve some of the tens of thousands of refugees displaced to San Francisco as a result of civil war in El Salvador. Three Salvadoran families joined the church and benefited from its legal clinic and job preparation aid. As soon as they acquired the resources, the families promptly bought mini-vans, left the church and moved to the suburbs. Perhaps those who have had less of a chance at pursuing the American dream are not yet ready to be disenchanted with it.

Even with these difficulties, the new monastic communities say they are adding new members, and various new communities are sprouting up around the country. Camden House in New Jersey has planted a garden in an area of postindustrial blight, where homeless people can get fresh vegetables. The Open Door in Atlanta is billed as a sort of "Protestant Catholic Worker" house, where members staff a soup kitchen for the homeless and agitate for justice in the city. Others communities have arisen in such unlikely places as Shreveport, Louisiana; Omaha, Nebraska; Waco. Texas; Springfield. Massachusetts; and Lexington, Kentucky, now linked as part of the informal new monasticism network. Each has its own gifts, idealism, quirkiness and commitment to local community. And each claims to be an alternative to the now-regnant empire and a foretaste of a coming kingdom.

Each of the communities I visited seeks also to serve the wider church -- and even to convert it. Monastic communities have always had greater influence than their numbers. For one thing, they enable preachers and other Christians to point and say, "See, someone does try to live out the costly demands of Jesus with regard to possessions, family, nonviolence and love." Their presence also encourages more traditional churches to alter their life in small but significant ways.

Even if the effort doesn’t have that effect, its adherents view it as worthwhile. As Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove says, "Whether these communities proliferate or not, this life is good enough in itself."

A Passion for Reconciliation: An interview with Chris Rice

Racial reconciliation has been the central theme of Chris Rice’s life and ministry. It is also the subject of his two books. More Than Equals (InterVarsity, 1993) was coauthored by his friend Spencer Perkins, a fellow member of Voice of Calvary Church in Jackson, Mississippi, and the son of the civil rights leader John Perkins, founder of Voice of Calvary. In the memoir Grace Matters (Jossey-B ass, 2002), Rice describes life in the intentional Christian community called Antioch that he and Spencer Perkins helped found and lead. Both books describe Rice’s transformation from a naïve white "do-gooder" to a person who lives and teaches the message of reconciliation.

After Spencer Perkins’s death at age 44 in 1998, Rice left Mississippi to study at Duke Divinity School. In 2004 he led a study group on reconciliation for the Lausanne Forum on World Evangelization, which met in Thailand (see the groups paper, "God’s Mission as Reconciliation," at www. reconciliationnetwork.com). His next assignment is to help establish a center for reconciliation at Duke.

I spoke with him about what he has learned about race and the church, and about the church’s mission in reconciliation.

 

Is it possible to sum up what you’ve learned from 17 years at Voice of Calvary Church and 12 years of living in an intentional, multiracial Christian community?

I learned there that the way things are is not the way things have to be. In Jackson, Mississippi, a new community was birthed in a broken inner-city neighborhood. Blacks and whites came to be close friends. Our children grew up together, we worshiped together. We showed that over time substantial reconciliation can happen.

I also learned to keep hope small. Black and white people eating together, leaving their isolated worlds and coming together in mission -- this is a small sign of hope.

What would you say to someone who thinks there’s not much more work to be done in racial reconciliation?

The heart of the gospel is becoming a new community. The Holy Spirit’s interruption of this world at Pentecost with a new community of Jews and gentiles, privileged and marginalized, is not realized in the church in the U.S. Ninety percent of African-American Christians worship in all-black churches. Ninety percent of white American Christians worship in all-white churches. Thirty years since the incredible victories of the civil rights movement, we continue to live in the trajectory of racial fragmentation. The biggest problem is that we don’t see that as a problem.

For example, the mostly white Presbyterian church of which I am a member has a hundred-year history. Three blocks away from our church in Durham is an African-American church that also has a hundred-year history. For a century these two churches have existed three blocks apart but have not prayed together, read scripture together, celebrated communion together, or joined in common mission. We are doing some small things to change this, but basically Christians don’t even ask what it means for us to be members of the one body of Christ in this city.

That’s the challenge of this new era -- to realize a common life. That wasn’t possible during segregation -- you would get killed for even praying together then. That doesn’t happen now, but we still don’t pray together.

I was struck by Spencer Perkins’s comment, which appears in More Than Equals, that he wouldn’t have bothered with racial reconciliation if he weren’t a Christian.

Spencer was willing to speak the truth no matter where it led him -- even if it led him to self-criticism or to criticism of fellow African Americans. He would say that black people aren’t any more interested in reconciliation than white people.

Martin Luther King Jr. taught us that the oppressed may have to initiate reconciliation. The categories of "oppressed" and "oppressor" are problematic for Christians because we’re all called to work for reconciliation. We’re all called to become faithful whether it "works" or not. That’s a hard message, but I think it is at the heart of what it means to be Christian.

In your books you tell of traveling with Spencer, and how, as you talked and laughed together in public, you would draw stares. You imagined people wondering if you two were musicians, or athletes, or gays. Those groups do a better job of bridging racial lines than the church does.

So does the military -- that’s the most integrated institution in America. Not the church. No one would think that maybe we were together because we were Christians.

When Spencer and I would go out to speak and stand side by side in front of an audience, we felt like half of our work had already been accomplished.

But it was far from easy. We were together only through years of blood, sweat and tears. But we were together, and that was our message.

How did the Antioch intentional community get started?

In 1983 many of us white members of Voice of Calvary thought things were going quite well in our church, but the African Americans believed there was racism in our midst and organized meetings to address it. There were many confrontations and many people left the church. It was a very painful time.

A group of whites and blacks from among those who stayed began to meet together. We’d survived this crisis, so we pledged to stay together and see where we were led. We started by studying the Sermon on the Mount and asking, "What does it really mean to live this out as a group of friends?" After two years of meetings we decided that we were being called into an even deeper commitment of friendship and mission.

We left our individual homes and bought a six-acre property with an old farmhouse. Twelve of us renovated it, moved in together and called ourselves the Antioch Community, thinking of the first Christian church in Acts 17 that shared life across lines of Jew and gentile.

We shared a common life for the next 12 years. We had one refrigerator and one telephone line. We had a common checkbook and all of our salaries went into a common purse. We ate dinner together every night. We had a ministry of hospitality to neighbors and to men just out of prison. A single mother lived with us during her pregnancy and when she gave birth. We had a saying that there was always room for one more at our table. Those were rich years.

It’s clear from your account in Grace Matters that the relationships were intricate and difficult.

Our life was intense. But it was even more marked by hope. Our black members were much better at this. They taught us whites not to be too serious. Eating good ribs together was just as important for Antioch as preaching racial reconciliation. Lingering over meals together and wrestling with the children on the living room floor were crucial. Then when crises did occur, we were close enough to forgive each other.

The combination of intensity and hope was even stronger in my relationship with Spencer. He and I were very different people. We got on each other’s nerves. There were often ego issues. I learned from Spencer that I really am a sinner -- that’s not just a theory. I saw my dark side, my desire for power and control, my jealousy.

Can you say more about what you learned from your friendship and ministry with Spencer Perkins?

I learned the power of forgiveness. Spencer was raised in a segregated town in Mississippi. He and his parents decided he would integrate an all-white school. He suffered intense humiliation there for two years. His father was nearly beaten to death for his civil rights work. And yet after these experiences of pain, Spencer was in a church with white people like me.

He also had incredible love for outlaws -- guys who we knew were dealing drugs, troublemakers. He would continue to embrace them when other people would write them off. He taught me about the priority of relationship -- of taking time for people.

At the Lausanne meeting in Thailand, a small conflict arose within the group, and I responded in such a way that one of the African members commented, "Chris thinks like an African, Chris is a relational person." At that moment I thought: there’s a lot of Spencer in me.

In More Than Equals you note that some whites say they would like to move into predominantly black areas, but are reluctant because they worry about their children’s safety. And you mention that your missionary parents took their children to Korea when it wasn’t so safe or comfortable, and you say that that example was actually a greater gift than safety.

My parents went against the grain by living not on a missionary compound, but in Korean neighborhoods. They developed deep friendships with Koreans. They learned the language. There was no separation between home and ministry. When the military dictatorship cracked down in South Korea and the human rights movement heated up in the 1970s, my parents took up the cause of the Korean struggle for justice. My parents made it easy for me to go to Mississippi.

You write that it is not that God is using the church to heal the racial divide in America, but that God is using race to heal the church. Have you seen evidence of this movement in your international experience too?

When you bring 50 church leaders from around the world into a room for a week, it can be heaven or it can be hell. At the Lausanne meeting in Thailand, we had Palestinian Christians and Messianic Jews from Israel in our midst. We had Hutus and Tutsus from Rwanda. It was potentially very volatile. But it turned out to be an incredible journey.

We focused a lot on Rwanda and its 1994 genocide. Rwanda was considered one of the most evangelized countries in Africa up until the genocide. Our group journeyed together to Rwanda. We visited the genocide memorial in Kigali where 250,000 victims are buried under a huge concrete slab. They were killed in just over 100 days. We visited a village where 10,000 people were slaughtered inside a church where they had fled for refuge. That’s three 9/11s inside one church. This was Christians killing Christians. What does this say about a kind of Christianity that is growing in the world?

Our group adopted a covenant pledging ourselves to continue our friendship and to pray for one another. We also plan to launch a global reconciliation network. Our sense in Thailand was that God is willing something into existence, and we shouldn’t name it too quickly.

Our group was one of 30 that made presentations to the entire forum. We feared that these five-minute presentations were going to get dull, so instead of talking we grouped 12 of our number on the stage. A Hutu and a Tutsi from Rwanda were standing together. So were a Catholic priest, a Protestant clergywoman and an Orthodox priest. A Messianic Jew from Israel and a Palestinian Christian were sitting together. In the next group were an African American, an Asian American and myself as a white American. And finally a man and a woman.

As our narrators told the story of what we did in our group, we pulled out basins, towels and jars of water and washed one another’s feet. As we were leaving the stage I could hear thunderous applause. Fifteen hundred people were on their feet, applauding. Many wept. My hope is that they would see in our message God’s desire for the entire church.

Your group featured mainline and evangelical Protestant leaders, and also Catholic and Orthodox. Is this the future of ecumenism?

I hope so. Our group was weary of such distinctions as "evangelical" versus "ecumenical," These two emphases cannot be separated. An evangelical member of our leadership team from Burundi said while we were in Rwanda, "This is the first time I’ve ever talked to a Catholic brother in Christ." He and Emmanuel Katongole, a Ugandan Catholic theologian at Duke, have become friends. After a prayer at the Thailand meeting a Pentecostal pastor from Serbia told me it was the first time he had heard of an Orthodox priest blessing something an evangelical was involved with. He said, "Serbian Orthodox and Pentecostals are bitterly divided. But because our hands were grasped together, I felt for the first time an Orthodox priest was also blessing me.

Many people are tired of the divides between "reconciliation" and "justice," between "personal salvation" and "social gospel." I did see a deep yearning for new possibilities.

How was your vision of a seamless unity between racial reconciliation and evangelism received at the Lausanne Forum?

I see the dangers of triumphalism in some evangelical approaches to mission -- as though somehow if we could get a film about Jesus into every village on earth, the world would be saved. Evangelicalism can be marked by excessive certainty and insufficient self-criticism. But evangelicals breathe vitality and energy. Theirs is the kind of Christianity that is growing in the world, especially in Africa and Asia.

The mainline ecumenical movement, on the other hand, is in danger of surrendering the uniqueness of Christ, of trying to be all things to all people so that Christ no longer matters as the Son of God raised from the dead. For evangelicals, the danger is that of making Christ too divine; for mainliners, it’s that of making Christ too human. Both lose the fullness of the Christ of Chalcedon.

Do you have hope that local communities can emulate the sense of mission that your group in Thailand found?

This movement isn’t so much about new organizations. It’s about building community that is concrete and visible. It’s about local churches learning to eat together, to grow in relationship, to become friends in mission and pursuing a just community. That’s where the hope is. That’s how to begin.

We’re called to deal with a daily, ordinary mess. I wouldn’t want to rush in with grand strategies for changing the world. Locality matters. We need people to look around to see where the boundaries are that have become normalized and then to be willing to cross those boundaries to live a common life,

For me the mission is never far removed from the Antioch community’s dinner table. It’s never far removed from welcoming Cecil, a southern "redneck" inmate who lived with us for a year. It’s never far removed from hospitality, because that’s what we’re created for as human beings. We’re created for life in the body, for eating together, for friendship, for intimacy

I have a passion for reconciliation -- not for abstract reasons, but because of specific friends from Antioch like Gloria, Lue and Kortney, whom I love. They matter to me. That’s why I want to make reconciliation happen -- because I want to share life with them.

What’s Behind "Left Behind?"

 

I heard that when the tribulation comes, China will be one of the few countries with a big enough army to take over the United States." My parishioner looked at me earnestly, awaiting confirmation of her theological and political observation. This woman, the spiritual rock of the church, doesn’t fit the media profile of those who believe in the "rapture." She is well educated, deeply involved in the community and a successful businesswoman and civic leader -- hardly a Neanderthal or escapist.

I decided to respond with what I took to be a fairly plain-vanilla, noncontroversial geopolitical observation: "Actually, North Korea’s army is bigger than China’s." She nodded, satisfied, and headed off to her third church meeting of the week.

What a failure on my part. But I wasn’t equipped to respond adequately. I had seen the glossy displays of the Left Behind series in bookstores, had heard claims that the novels (the 12th and final installment is due out this spring) had sold more than 60 million copies, but had never met anyone who actually believed in the rapture, neither in my college evangelical fellowship groups nor in seminary. Then I received my first rural church assignment and quickly discovered that out here I was the only person who didn’t believe in the rapture. My parishioners simply assume that this is what the Bible teaches. And why shouldn’t they -- they’ve never heard otherwise from their preachers.

That I didn’t even know enough about dispensationalism to disagree with it intelligently is no accident. Mainline seminaries have ignored this phenomenon in inverse proportion to its growing social and political influence. Meanwhile, the rapture’s proponents have not only established a publishing juggernaut; they have also been influencing members of Congress and presidents.

This is deeply ironic. For generations mainline Protestants have tried to "demythologize" the contents of scriptures and creeds in an effort to gain social and political influence, while dispensationalists have avidly "mythologized" the Bible into ever more incredible systems of belief about the "end times." Mainline churches’ influence has sagged as we have carried out this bargain, while the dispensationalists’ has grown immensely. The rising tide of end-times fiction and politics urges us to take a long, hard look in the mirror.

For befuddled pastors, help is on the way. Two new and quite different books offer a glimpse into the thought world of those who believe in the rapture. Amy Johnson Frykholm analyses the literature from a broad range of perspectives -- literary, critical, historical, sociological, feminist and theological. (The theological focus is impressive in a scholar who professes to be a recovering former fundamentalist and mostly nonreligious.) While Frykholm has no sympathy with the Left Behind series theologically, politically or literally, she has a great deal of sympathy with its readers and she explores why people with interesting lives are drawn to such schlock in their religious reading. Her book is a good place to start if you’re wondering what these novels are about and why they appeal to people.

Barbara H. Rossing’s book is more polemical. Anger drives this Lutheran minister and seminary professor. She hates what Left Behind has done to popular Christian eschatology to the Bible, to public policy and especially to Christians’ attitudes toward the environment. (Why save trees when the world is soon going to burn up anyway?) She seeks to rebut the dispensationalists’ views and offer a more deeply biblical vision of Jesus’ eschatological kingdom.

The basic storyline of premillennial dispensationalism -- the system of thought that informs "rapture fiction" -- originated in the mid-l9th century in the teachings of John Nelson Darby, a disaffected former Anglican priest. This version of eschatology holds that the Bible, read aright, contains a schedule for the final events that will precede the end of history. Darby believed that God deals with the world differently in each of seven "dispensations," or eras. We are now in the sixth era of world history, soon to be followed by the seventh -- the end times.

The first event in the chain of dominoes that will lead to the end is the "rapture" -- the secret return of Jesus to transport all true believers (i.e., not mainline liberal Protestants) to heaven. Cars, trains and planes will fly into one another as believers are suddenly taken heavenward, leaving their clothes, personal effects and vehicles behind (hence the bumper sticker: ‘Warning: in case of rapture this vehicle will be unmanned"). Those "left behind" will endure seven years of tribulation, mostly inflicted on the world by the Antichrist, disguised as the leader of a one-world government (read: the United Nations). Some of those shocked by the sudden disappearance of their loved ones will become true "Bible-believing" Christians who will band together to resist the wiles of the Antichrist and conduct secret evangelism campaigns meant to grow the power and numbers of their "tribulation force."

The plot of the Left Behind novels follows several characters who make up the heart of this force: Rayford Steele, an airline pilot; Buck Williams, a journalist; and their enemy, Nicolae Carpathia, the Antichrist. The heroes are quite busy. According to the "biblical prophecies" on which the novels are based, the Antichrist will support a Russian invasion of Israel, rebuild the Jerusalem temple, and lead nation into war against nation. This global warfare, coupled with a series of horrible natural disasters, will make the world a truly nasty place.

Finally, after seven years of death-dealing by the Antichrist and growing resistance by the tribulation force, Christ will return a second time to defeat the forces of evil at Armageddon, a large plain in Israel. He will then reign, before the world finally ends, for 1,000 years, over a politically reconstituted kingdom of Israel, full of Jews who have converted to Christianity.

This system is subject to endless variations, For example, the enemies can change. In Hal Lindsey’s 1970s rapture fiction, all the bad guys are Soviets. The villains can also morph into Muslims, as they often have in the post-9/11 world.

Frykholm’s book helpfully situates the Left Behind series in relationship to previous generations of rapture fiction, which stretch back to the early 20th century. These books have traditionally begun with the rapture of a significant woman character. In Left Behind, the first book of the series, Steele’s wife, Irene, leaves only her nightgown and her open Bible behind in a rapture that occurs while he is away on the job, flirting with another woman. Faithful, long-suffering women should be extolled for their virtue but should not expect any this-worldly justice, the books imply. In this regard, the Left Behind series is no different from its many predecessors.

Historians note that dispensationalism and its fiction arose just as American culture was undergoing seismic social shifts in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It offered reassurance that conservative social values some day would be vindicated. The Left Behind series stands in a long line of books reacting against change -- not only against independent and strong women, but also now against gays and lesbians.

Yet the series leaves its predecessors far behind in its embrace of technology. Steele and Williams use ultra-high-tech computers, satellite phones, the Internet, covert underground bunkers, superfuturistic weapons and massive range rovers driven in ways that conflict with local traffic laws. They rely on their elite educations, political connections at the highest levels and limitless reserves of cash.

In other words, this is not your grandma’s Scofield Bible -- inspired tribulation force. The first line of the first book makes that clear: "Rayford Steele’s mind was on a woman he had never touched. With his fully loaded 747 on autopilot above the Atlantic en route to a 6 a.m. landing at Heathrow, Rayford had pushed from his mind thoughts of his family." Frykholm calls this description "an image not so subtly connected with sexuality and worldly power." The series’ combination of social reactionism, an embrace of technology and an engagement with a prognosticated global geopolitical clash is a heady cocktail, and the source of the books’ widespread appeal.

Frykholm suggests that dispensationalist categories have so affected not only evangelical and fundamentalist believers but also nonbelievers, mainline believers and politicians that they have blurred the distinction between "mainline" and "fringe," "religious" and "political." Yet the books retain the rhetoric of presumed social isolation. Their authors, Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins, and their adherents expect to be criticized or snubbed by mainline ecclesial institutions and academic elites. Critiques like this one will undoubtedly serve to fortify their view of themselves and the world.

Frykholm also offers the beginnings of a theological critique. She notes how the books assume that the mass global conversions expected to take place during the tribulation will be of the Protestant fundamentalist sort, engineered by giant "Promise Keeper -- like rallies in sports stadiums" that, the authors presume, "the entire world finds as captivating as Americans do." All of the books’ Christian characters, "whether they are Middle Eastern, Greek, or from the American Midwest, speak in the idiom of American evangelicalism," a sort of "protestantese."

Frykholm asks what, precisely, these people mean by conversion, by the "accepting" of Christ at altar calls. She suggests it reflects a willingness to take on the worldview and speech of evangelicals. She wonders about Tyndale Press’s claim that millions of people have been converted through these books. In conducting dozens of interviews, she has failed to find a single convert who traces her or his conversion to the books, When she asked the publisher for proof of its claim, she received copies of seven letters by writers who said they knew of someone else converted through reading. Frykholm concludes that the books are captivating only to those who already share their theological worldview, and are often repulsive to those who do not.

Frykholm’s criticism of the novels is balanced by a positive portrait of the Left Behind readers. Though some might view these readers as mindless droids in a pro-apocalypse army, they actually are diverse and thoughtful people. They argue with the books, they read them for reasons at cross-purposes to those for which they were written, and they put them to interesting uses. Readers insist that the books are appealing because they make the difficult and disparate writings of scripture "come to life." Rapture fiction also connects the dots between chaotic and frightening world events, and it points toward an ultimate coherence in things.

The idea of a secret band fighting an underground war for good appeals not only to our apocalyptic instincts -- as demonstrated by the popularity of Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings -- but also suggests a more exciting life than most of us lead, a life full of mystery, intrigue and moral certainty. The description of believers who physically vanish and who, left behind, receive a special mark identifying their allegiance to good, suggests that the now invisible divide between the righteous and the wicked will be revealed. Finally, these books create community. The volumes are read, discussed, lent and borrowed.

Rossing issues a salvo with her opening line: "The rapture is a racket," Her first paragraph is a full-blown jeremiad: "In place of healing, the rapture proclaims escape. In place of Jesus’ blessing of peacemakers, the rapture voyeuristically glorifies violence and war. "In place of Revelation’s vision of the Lamb’s vulnerable self-giving love, the rapture celebrates the lion-like wrath of the Lamb. This theology is not biblical."

The rest of her short book is devoted to demolishing the dispensationalists’ reading of the Bible, and to offering a counterstory of the incarnate love of God that refuses to leave his church or his world behind. Rossing describes her opponents’ view with a twist on John 3:16: "God so loved the world that he gave it World War III." Not that the true believers will be around for all the bloodshed. Those raptured away will watch the desolation of the earth from a front-row seat in heaven, enjoying the tribulation poured out on those left behind, says proponent John Hagee.

Rossing sees all this as a frighteningly stark contrast to the actual message of the Bible, in which God comes to be incarnate in God’s world and promises not to leave God’s church. She speaks of the message of the gospel as a sort of "rapture in reverse," in which God refuses distance and comes to be present, as opposed to a world left bereft of God and church, abandoned to punishment.

Unlike Frykholm, Rossing makes no attempt to find sympathetic points of contact with the fiction or its readers. She has no problem imputing malicious motives to the Left Behind writers: "Slaughter sells books," Most compellingly, she presents a frightening list of political statements by powerful people, demonstrating that their belief in the rapture leads them to support ugly public policies. Dick Armey, the retired House majority leader, promoted the removal of all Palestinians from their ancestral land to an unpopulated desert. Ronald Reagan’s secretary of the interior, James Watt, discouraged pro-environmental legislation because of what he saw as the likelihood of the Lord’s imminent return. Conservative pundit Anne Coulter recently paraphrased god’s giving over of creation to human sovereignty by saying, "God said, ‘Earth is yours. Take it. Rape it. It’s yours.’" Oklahoma Senator James Inhofe supported the expansion of Israeli settlements in the West Bank by citing Genesis and calling the debate on the issue "not a political battle at all. It is a contest over whether or not the word of God is true."

Finally, Rossing cites a number of religious broadcasters who insist on the impossibility of avoiding Armageddon. The end is near. Resistance is futile. Why should anyone support peace in the Middle East, or anywhere else? Or environmental conservation? Rossing accuses the rapture’s supporters of a kind of "sickness," a Caligula-like lust for war that rivals anything promoted by the imperial cult of Rome. "It’s blood," notes Steele of the red-stained snow and burning hail falling all around him in Soul Harvest (number four in the Left Behind series), "and a sense of peace flooded his soul."

Rossing also dissects dispensationalists’ reading of scripture and advocates a more faithful eschatology. She describes the dispensationalist interpretation of Daniel 9’s "70 weeks of years" as a schedule for the end that was interrupted by the Jews’ refusal of Jesus as king. The "prophetic stopwatch" is now stuck at 69. The final week of years -- the tribulation -- will come when the rapture begins. Simply laying out these sorts of arguments has the effect of making their facile nature plain. An appendix to the book gives a detailed critique of the dispensationalist reading of crucial biblical passages.

Rossing praises Martin Luther’s comment that if he knew the world was to end tomorrow, he would plant a tree. True eschatological insight ought to press Christians into deeper, more loving, even more mundane dealings with God’s world, she argues. Rossing attempts to present a counterstory about God and his world to that told by dispensationalists, one that focuses on "Lamb power" rather than phantasmagoric fantasy, one marked by Jesus’ eschatological proclamation of a kingdom of nonviolence, charity and peace.

The strength of both books lies in their authors’ lively engagement with the subject. Both Frykholm and Rossing raise a key question: To what degree can we call dispensationalism "heresy"? Frykholm suggests parallels to gnosticism, Rossing to the Manichees. Do mainline Protestants even have heresy any more? What would such a pronouncement from ecclesial bodies accomplish? It might just reinforce the dispensationalists’ rhetoric and view of themselves as culturally isolated, even as they sell millions of books and elect powerful legislators.

Or it might force mainline pastors like me patiently to explain precisely why this view of the world conflicts with scripture and orthodox teaching in ways that lead to contorted lives and twisted church practice. It might lead us to offer a contrasting vision of a politics informed by a slain lamb whom we claim rules the cosmos, whose rule encourages us to participate in God’s peacemaking between Americans and Chinese or North Koreans, between Israelis and Palestinians, between pastors and parishioners, between liberals and conservatives, between humanity and the rest of God’s creation.

Can a Jew Be a Christian?

Can you be a practicing Jew and also believe that Jesus is the messiah? The customary answer is no. Though Christianity began as a Jewish sect, it quickly became an all-gentile affair. Indeed, Christians came to understand themselves as people who by definition were not Jewish and who believed that Christianity had "superseded" Judaism -- that is, "taken its seat" of favor before God. The word "Jew" came to mean those who had denied Christ, even murdered him, having been unable to see their own scripture’s clear prediction of his coming.

Christians have significantly modified this view in recent years, especially in the wake of the Holocaust. They have tried to come to terms with the fact that the Nazis who murdered millions of Jews drew on a longstanding Christian tradition of slandering Jews. The Roman Catholic Church led the way in theological revision during Vatican II with the document Nostra Aetate, which struck some of the worst statements of anti-Judaism from church teaching. Protestants soon followed. Abandoning all forms of "supersessionist" theology now seems the only viable form of repentance. Mainline Christians forswear the belief that the church has replaced Israel in the divine scheme of redemption. There is no reason for a practicing Jew to convert to Christianity, since God’s original covenant with Jews remains intact. Most Jews, of course, could hardly agree more.

Yet the question still arises: Can a practicing Jew also believe in Jesus? The question arises in a forceful way with the presence of "Messianic Jews," who claim that their profession of Jesus as messiah and Lord does not invalidate their Jewish identity and practice. The worship practices of Messianic Jews resemble those of the synagogue, but their theology is closer to that of evangelical Christians -- who often fund missions to the Jews. Many Messianic Jews call themselves "completed" or "fulfilled" Jews, indicating not only that one can be Jewish and believe in Jesus, but that every Jew ought to.

The existence of Messianic Jews makes both Jews and mainline Protestants uneasy, if not angry. This anger explains the controversy surrounding Avodat Yisrael, a Messianic Jewish congregation in suburban Philadelphia. For unlike hundreds of other Messianic Jewish congregations in North America, Avodat Yisrael (the name means in service of Israel") has been aligned with a mainline denomination; it has received some quarter of a million dollars in start-up funds from the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.). (Just last month, however, it lost its official status as a PCUSA congregation. See the report on the next page.)

The PCUSA is one of the denominations that has repudiated supersessionist theology. So many Presbyterians and other mainline Protestants have wondered what the PCUSA was doing supporting Avodat Yisrael.

Many Jewish groups have asked the same thing. Their complaints about Avodat have come at a time when the PCUSA has taken other steps that Jews have found offensive: Last year the church voted to consider divestment from businesses in Israel that are deemed harmful to Palestinians. And a group of PCUSA leaders met with the Muslim organization Hezbollah, which is linked to terrorist activities. These events have constituted what theologian Mark Wallace calls "a perfect storm" in the PCUSA’s relationship with Jews. Christopher Leighton, director of the Institute for Christian and Jewish Studies in Baltimore, says he cannot remember "a more bleak and strained relationship between Presbyterians and Jews in my professional life."

But to listen to Andrew Sparks, the spiritual leader of Avodat and an ordained PCUSA minister, the denomination has acted with unprecedented faithfulness in supporting his congregation. Sparks, whose mother is Jewish, making him a Jew even by strict rabbinic standards, submitted a report to the Philadelphia presbytery in November in which he planed his perspective: "The church today has a chance to get right what the early church got wrong.

That is, the early church was made up of both Jews and gentiles who professed faith in Jesus as Messiah and Lord. The church’s overwhelming success in preaching to gentiles, and its lack of success in preaching to Jews, made the church not only all-gentile but quickly anti-Jewish. To accept Jews into the church as Jews who follow the Torah’s instructions for observant Jewish life even as they live in fellowship with Jesus-believing gentiles, would represent a return to the church envisioned by the writers of the New Testament. (Sparks was directed by the Philadelphia presbytery not to discuss Avodat with reporters, and he declined to be interviewed for this story.)

Sparks does not think his ministry is at odds with the PCUSA’s disavowal of supersessionism. He points to the Roman Catholic Church’s ability to balance interreligious dialogue with Jews and support for Jewish Christians. The Catholic Church has made space for a specifically Hebrew Catholicism, complete with its own bishop and liturgical rite, and there is talk of a seminary in the works. Sparks says Messianic Judaism is a crucial third party to Jewish-Christian dialogue. He speaks of Avodat as a bridge between the church and the large Jewish community in Philadelphia.

This sort of talk incenses many other Jews. Carol Harris-Shapiro, a Reconstructionist rabbi who teaches at Gratz College in Philadelphia and wrote Messianic Judaism: A Rabbi’s Journey Through Religious Change in America, attacks Sparks’s metaphor head-on: "Both ends of the supposed bridge are on the Christian shore," she argues.

If there is anything about which all four branches of Judaism in the U.S. (Orthodox, Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist) agree, it is that one cannot be both Jewish and Christian at the same time. One who converts is often still considered to retain a Jewish status, but is disqualified from the responsibilities and benefits of Jewish life, such as participation in a prayer quorum or burial in a Jewish cemetery.

Christianity and rabbinic Judaism emerged as rival claimants to continuity with Israel after the destruction of the Jewish temple in 70 AD. Since Christians have long held political power over them, Jews’ opposition to Christian claims about Jesus are not only theological (a denial that Jesus is the messiah) but essential to Jewish identity and survival. That’s why Jews tend to be more tolerant of other Jews who dabble in, say, Buddhist thought and practice than of those who move toward Christianity. Harris-Shapiro underscores a basic Jewish concern with Christian evangelizing of Jews "The problem with proselytization is [that] the already-small Jewish community is shrinking. There is real fear of our disappearance."

Especially troubling to Jews is that Christian missionary efforts like Avodat Yisrael seem duplicitous. Messianic Jews use altered English or Hebrew words for traditionally Christian terms in an effort to display a Jewish form of Christianity. The baptismal process is called a mikveh. for example, and the New Testament is the New Covenant or the B’rit Chadashah. Christian symbols like the cross are removed or put to the side. Some Messianic Jews insist they are not Christians, but Jewish followers of "Rabbi Yeshua."

Many Presbyterians side with the Jewish critics of Avodat. They worry that Avodat’s blending of Jewish and Christian practice is hurtful to the Jews with whom they have worked hard to foster friendship over the past few generations. Susan Andrews, a pastor who recently served as moderator of the denomination, points to what she regards as a more genuine bridge between Jews and Christians that has been built at her church. Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church in Bethesda, Maryland, has enjoyed a 40-year partnership with Bethesda Jewish Congregation, with whom it shares sacred space, joins in common community outreach and worship, and even argues over theology. Such cooperation and dialogue with Jews is hard-won, rare in the past 20 centuries, and precious to its practitioners. These achievements were perceived to be directly threatened by the PCUSA’s support of Avodat.

But not all Presbyterians share Andrews’s concern. Advocates for evangelism generally have supported Avodat. So have proponents of ethnic ministries, which make up some 60 percent of new church plants in the denomination. If Presbyterians can support ethnic Korean or Indonesian churches, they argue, why can’t they support Jewish ones? Former PCUSA moderator Fahed AbuAkel, speaking in support of Avodat at the church’s general assembly last year, said: "If we listen to the opposition, then Brother Peter and Brother Paul would not have written the New Testament. For me the gospel is for everyone" (reported in the Presbyterian Layman).

Several efforts in the Philadelphia presbytery and in the general assembly to cut off Avodat’s funding met with failure. That result may reflect matters of polity as much as theology. Regional presbyteries don’t like national bodies telling them what to do. Also, Presbyterian ministers may be more traditional theologically than their leaders, and laypeople more so. They may be more dedicated to evangelism generally, and undeterred by concerns that seem to them to reflect mere "politically correctness." The social-ethnic disagreements are also complex. Presbyterians’ commitments to ethnic "diversity" -- usually a liberal cause -- come into tension with the "liberal" position on not evangelizing Jews.

Bill Borrer, cochair of a special committee called in to oversee Avodat’s work amidst the controversy, recalls a committee member charging that Avodat is not sufficiently Reformed -- that is, aligned with traditional Presbyterian theology stemming from Calvin’s Reformation. When Borrer asked each committee member to define "Reformed," however, he found there was no consensus. If denominational leaders cannot agree on what it means to be Reformed or Presbyterian, Borrer observed, how can they be sure Avodat is not?

In an ironic turn, Avodat’s advocates have suggested that their critics, in defending Jewish sensibilities, are actually being anti-Jewish. Sparks reported on the controversy to his presbytery by saying: "The church is a mother that has given birth to a child. This child is Avodat Yisrael. . . . But there is a problem. Some people don’t like the way this baby looks. Some would seek to change the child into something it is not. Some would even like to cast it out of the family." Sparks also wrote a letter on behalf of Avodat passionately opposing Presbyterian divestment from Israel as a threat to the Jewish relations that Avodat seeks to enhance.

Sparks and his supporters often cite the work of orthodox Jewish theologian Michael Wyschogrod, who has written with surprising sympathy about Messianic Judaism. For Wyschogrod, being Jewish is primarily about God’s election and only secondarily about one’s religious belief or practice. He is willing to accept Messianic Jews’ claim that they are still Jews as long as they act like Jews by obeying the Torah, keeping kosher, observing the holidays, circumcising their sons, and so on.

Sparks and fellow Jesus-believing Jews point to Wyschogrod’s argument that the true test of Christianity with regard to Judaism is its treatment of the Jews in its midst. If the Jews it baptizes may continue to live as Jews, then those Jews who do not believe in Jesus have nothing to fear from the church. However, if the church insists that an eclipse of Jewishness is a necessary correlate of baptism, then the church is well on its way toward anti-Semitism. By this logic, Messianic Jews who follow Torah are necessary to keep the church from returning to its anti-Jewish past.

History presents divided evidence on that claim, however. It is true that the loss of Jewish identity within the church led directly to Christian persecution of Jews, but missions to the Jews in the late 19th century were careful not to impugn Jewish thought and practice. Nevertheless, conversion did mean a loss of Jewishness and required joining an all-gentile church. The Philadelphia presbytery has a 60-year history of involvement in this type of Jewish mission through its relationship with Messiah Now, whose approach to evangelism Borrer describes as "low-key." Messiah Now is funded largely by individual converts and several Presbyterian congregations.

In the 1960s and ‘70s, Jewish believers in Jesus began to form congregations that sought to maintain a more robust form of Jewish identity. This emphasis was partly an outgrowth of various ethnic-pride movements and of the worldwide prestige Israel won for its successes in the 1967 and 1973 wars. The name "Messianic Judaism" was coined in those years. Leaders of the movement tended to come from Moody Bible Institute and other fundamentalist schools that emphasized evangelizing Jews. Not coincidentally, these groups tended to espouse premillenial dispensationalism. In accordance with John Darby’s elaborate scheme of the "end times," the Jews were expected to convert en masse before the return of Jesus to reign over a Jewish kingdom from Jerusalem for 1,000 years. Dispensationalists therefore have a distinct place for Jews in their scheme of salvation -- they need to be around in order to be converted and to populate the kingdom at the eschaton.

Sparks is part of a particular movement within Messianic Judaism called Hashivenu ("return us God"), which takes a different approach theologically. He joins with the PCUSA in renouncing supersessionism. He also avoids the language of conversion, and speaks instead of reaching out to nonreligious Jews and intermarried families. For Sparks and colleagues, the Jews’ election has not been abrogated. The fulfillment of Israel’s covenant in Messiah Yeshua does not necessarily mean that Jews who do not recognize this messiah are condemned. They insist therefore that a community like Avodat is consistent with the PCUSA’s statements against supersessionism. Given these positions, critics’ fears that Avodat represents a regression to a crude soteriology, in which Jews must "turn or burn," are overblown.

Another representative of this new form of Messianic Judaism is Mark Kinzer, author of Postmissionary Messianic Judaism: Redefining Christian Engagement with the Jewish People (forthcoming from Brazos Press). Kinzer, a Messianic rabbi in Ann Arbor, Michigan, argues that the New Testament never commands Jewish followers of Jesus to abandon Jewish practice. They must live as one body with gentile Christians, but they must still obey the Torah. Paul’s arguments about the place of the law are not directed against Jews who follow the law, but against anyone who would insist that gentiles must follow Torah to he saved.

Further, for Kinzer, the renunciation of supersessionism means that God is still with the Jews, including non-Christian Judaism over the last two millennia. Hence Jewish thought in the form of rabbinic teaching and Jewish practice in both home and synagogue can be seen as gifts from God for a Messianic community’s ongoing life.

Views like Kinzer’s represent another ironic twist in which one mainline commitment -- renunciation of supersessionism -- is taken up by Messianic Jews to support their own practice. Even though Jesus or Paul may not recognize today’s forms of Judaism, God gave those practices to the Jews. so they can and should be part of a specifically Jewish life in the body of Messiah.

Avodat’s brand of Messianic Judaism is not focused on proselytizing Jews. It aims to witness to Jews about the coming of the messiah and also to witness to the gentile followers of Jesus about the Jewishness of Jesus. its noteworthy that Kinzer has his Ph.D. in New Testament from the University of Michigan. Other young Messianic Jewish scholars are studying at schools like Harvard, Duke and Cambridge. One of them, David Rudolph of Cambridge, recently published an article describing the movement in the theological journal Pro Ecclesia. These are not schools or forums where fundamentalists, dispensationalists or supersessionists flourish. This new wave of Messianic Jewish scholars is small, but it takes 0111)’ a few to alter the terms of discussion considerably.

One scholar currently in a Ph.D. program, who wished not to be identified for fear of censure from opponents of Messianic Judaism, tried to rehabilitate the bridge metaphor that Harris-Shapiro challenges. "It’s not that our beliefs are a bridge between Christianity and Judaism. The bridge is in our flesh. We are both circumcised and part of the body of Messiah." Such language reflects not only traditional Jewish emphasis on orthopraxy or "right practice" over orthodoxy or "right belief" but also a growing Christian awareness of the theological importance of practices.

A renewed Jewish Christianity among nonfundamentalists is not as surprising as it might seem, considering that historians for several generations have highlighted the particularly Jewish nature of the New Testament and the first Christians. Every introductory New Testament class now begins with an account of the Jewish context of the document. Theologians have picked up on the work of historians and brought Israel into the center of theological discussion. George Lindbeck, for example, has called for the church to recover its "Israel-like" nature. John Howard Yoder wrote about the exemplary nature of Israel’s posture with regard to imperial power (and he wrote with explicit sympathy for Messianic Judaism). Robert Jenson has offered a theological defense of non-Christian Israel on christological grounds. Kendall Soulen has critiqued the church’s "Israel-forgetfulness." Many of these theologians were influenced by Karl Barth, who put heavy emphasis on the doctrine of election and God’s preference for the particular (e.g., Israel) over the general (universal truth claims).

Opponents of Avodat have their own theological commitments, some of which also stem from Barth. Cynthia Jarvis, minister of Chestnut Hill Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia, thinks support for Messianic Judaism is inconsistent with the Reformed insistence that God keeps his covenantal promises. If God’s election of Israel cannot be contravened,

Christians have no business proselytizing those already "with God," to quote the 1987 Presbyterian statement on this question.

What would happen, Jarvis wonders, if a well-meaning attempt at rapprochement between Presbyterians and Muslims led to a Muslim Presbyterian Church? Both groups would immediately see such syncretism as a corruption of both communities and a violation of their most central claims, and they would be appropriately outraged. Jarvis’s opposition included taking out an ad in a Jewish newspaper in Philadelphia to show that some Presbyterians disagreed with the PCUSA’s funding of Avodat.

Jarvis insists she is not opposed to evangelism or even to Jews converting to Christianity. She has baptized several Jews herself, she said. Susan Andrews acknowledges that she has also baptized some Jews. (Avodat apparently has not yet baptized anyone.) Jarvis opposes what she sees as the masking of a Presbyterian church plant as a synagogue. Even more, she is opposed to her church investing time and energy in what cannot but be evangelism targeted at Jews. To her, an individual baptism of a Jew bespeaks a special circumstance, whereas a Presbyterian-Jewish congregation bespeaks a denomination that has returned to a view of Judaism as theologically insufficient.

Leighton, director of the Institute for Christian and Jewish Studies, makes similar charges against Messianic Judaism. He argues that "following Jesus requires one to

make hard choices," and he points to Bonhoeffer’s comments on the cost of discipleship. "In the case of Messianic Jews, this cost is leaving behind a claim to ongoing Jewishness."

Lauren Winner, who has written in Girl Meets God of her conversion to Christianity from Orthodox Judaism, and in Mudhouse Sabbath of those parts of Judaism she misses, worries that an effort to blend the two faiths may run roughshod over reality. Anglican worship, she says, echoes its Jewish antecedents without claiming to be Jewish. And she feels she should stay away from the synagogue she used to attend: "I have to respect [the fact] that for these people who loved and nurtured me in the faith I am now an apostate."

Jarvis, Leighton and Winner all recognize that for Jews the Christian appropriation of Jewish faith is a source of anguish. It reminds them of centuries of persecution and forced conversions. Jews often regard a Jew’s conversion to Christianity as a "posthumous victory for Hitler."

Yet for Messianic Jews, these arguments beg the question. Messianic Jews claim still to be Jews. The ones I spoke with at Avodat and elsewhere spoke of their obligation to marry other Jews and raise their children as Jews. They pointed out that while other Jews may not recognize the validity of Messianic Jews’ Jewishness, such division is not unusual: some of the various branches of Judaism in the U.S. don’t recognize each other’s Jewishness either. Messianic Jews say their relationships with other Jews, even other rabbis, are much better than the statements of Jewish spokespersons and watchdog groups would suggest.

Kirk Gliebe, a messianic Jewish rabbi in charge of Devar Emet ("Word of Truth") Messianic Synagogue in Skokie, Illinois, brushes aside claims that Jesus-believing Jews are a threat to Judaism. "The majority of Reform rabbis, and many Conservative rabbis as well, do not actually hold to the concept of God as it is portrayed in the biblical text. Most Jews are intermarrying. Don’t blame us that Jews are disappearing. As born Jews, we not only believe in God, we still act Jewishly."

Several Jewish observers of Messianic Judaism think the best Jewish response to it is to ensure that Jewish life flourishes. Harris-Shapiro suggests that the best way for Jews to "combat" Messianic Judaism is to strengthen the religious institution at the center of Jewish life: the home, with its weekly Shabbat worship and observance of other Jewish holidays. Those not captivated by the beauty of their own tradition are more likely to turn to another faith. Harris-Shapiro suggested that Wyschogrod’s surprising sympathy with Messianic Judaism really stems from his confidence that Jews who practice Torah will eventually return to the fullness of Judaism -- without the adjective "Messianic."

Another observer who makes a forceful case for Jews retrieving their own tradition is Lawrence Hamilton, a Jew who converted to Christianity, became a Lutheran minister and then converted back to the Judaism of his birth. Some Jews who convert to Christianity never knew their own tradition very well, he asserts. (He is similarly troubled when Christian converts to Judaism say, "I never understood the Trinity anyway"). He worries that Avodat’s effort to reach out to unaffiliated Jews is a case of "pouncing on the sheep who stray farthest from the fold." Converts, he says, should be able to articulate the fullness of the faith they leave behind as well as of that they wish to join.

Given the multiple attacks Avodat has faced, it is not surprising that the members and leaders feel besieged. It is, when all is said and done, a very small group. Barely 20 people were present at the service I attended. All this fuss over this little gathering? With these numbers, and this much controversy, Avodat does not seem like a mission experiment likely to be repeated soon by any mainline denomination. But perhaps it is good for such a congregation to be connected to a mainline church, thereby raising profound questions about Jewish and Christian identity.

Why shouldn’t a Christian affirmation of Israel’s election and a Christian renunciation of supersessionism leave room for a specifically Jewish form of Christianity? This way of posing the issue undercuts one of the most frequent arguments made on Avodat’s behalf -- that it is simply one more effort at multicultural ministry (like, say, Korean Presbyterian churches). A strong affirmation of election along Wyschogrod’s lines makes that kind of claim impossible. The Jews are not an ethnos, one of the nations. They are elect, claimed by God, with or without their assent. The next question is whether Christians, who hold that Jesus is the Messiah of Israel, must require Jews who come to Christian faith to renounce their claim to ongoing Jewishness.

At the Avodat shabbat service I attended, almost every adult present had a role in the service. I was the only man not wearing a yarmulke. Most had on prayer shawls. They may not qualify to be part of a minyan elsewhere, but here they have prestigious roles, reading from the Torah scroll, parading it around to be kissed, chanting scripture in Hebrew, blessing children, leading music, preaching. During one of the many New Covenant readings, the words of Yeshua were quoted: "Blessed are you when you are persecuted for righteousness’ sake." The cantor then leaned over to tap Andrew Sparks’s shoulder. Sparks smiled sadly and shook his head.

The St. John’s Bible Project

Bibles are cheap in their zeal to make scripture accessible to everyone. Protestants have manufactured Bibles in almost every language and made them available for startlingly small sums. Perhaps in doing so they have unwittingly made the Bible cheap not just financially, but theologically. Whereas Wycliffe and Tyndale devoted their lives to creating a Bible in the vernacular, modern folks have access to plenty of Bibles but are not very interested in reading them.

The St. John’s Bible is not cheap. It is being produced by dozens of scholars and artists who have been laboring for almost a decade, at a cost of about $4 million, to create the first handwritten, illuminated Bible in five centuries. Even reproductions of the seven-volume Bible will be pricey. A museum-quality facsimile will cost thousands of dollars. The one trade volume available, Gospels and Acts (Liturgical Press), runs $64.95. This is a long way from the two bucks it takes the Gideons to produce a New Testament. In fact, chief calligrapher Donald Jackson and his colleagues are producing something priceless -- a Bible beautiful enough to make readers want to keep reading, and even want to praise God.

The project began with a decision by St. John’s Abbey in Collegeville, Minnesota, to commemorate the second millennium of Christ’s birth in grand fashion. The Benedictine order has long been devoted to manuscript preservation. In the Middle Ages the order copied precious books that would otherwise have been lost. In the Internet age, it continues to work on the stewardship and dissemination of manuscripts.

St. John’s decided to produce a Bible with all the trappings of the greatest editions of the past -- using gold leaf, calfskin pages, quill pens and so on. But the project would also draw on modern resources, such as computers to plot out the spacing and provide schemata for the calligraphers. To oversee the work they tapped Jackson, chief calligrapher for the queen of England, whose life ambition was to produce a handwritten Bible. St. John’s allowed him to choose a team of assistants. A committee of theologians and biblical scholars directs the project from Minnesota.

The St. John’s Bible, due to be completed in 2007 and roughly halfway there, has been called "America’s Book of Kells" by Newsweek. It may be far more important than that, for this text is meant not only to be beautiful, like a museum object, but to inspire a renewed love of scripture. It is meant to be read at home and used in liturgy.

The three finished volumes -- Gospels and Acts, the Pentateuch, Psalms -- have been on display at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, and there are plans for a nationwide tour. Beautiful as the trade volume is, the originals must be seen to be believed. The handsome script, specially designed for the SJB, is as beautiful as that of any ancient manuscript. Its rich texture invites the eye to continue reading; the words are so aesthetically pleasing you don’t want to stop. Texture is a key word in this project. The production of these volumes is more like the patient and loving knitting of a fine garment than the printing of a book.

Christopher Calderhead, author of Illuminating the Word: The Making of the Saint John’s Bible (Liturgical), points out that in the case of a modern book the reader is the first to see any particular copy – it is sometimes wrapped in cellophane at the printer’s and opened for the first time by the purchaser. The St. John’s Bible, in contrast, has been lovingly and excruciatingly pored over by a highly trained scribe, illuminated by a master artist, planned and supported by a monastery and a university’s theology faculty.

The illuminations themselves are inspired not only by ancient Christian canons, such as Orthodox icons, but also by modern art. The serpents biting the Israelites in Numbers 21 are so many jagged lines, which seem to threaten to jump off the page. The demons in the Gospels’ exorcism stories are portrayed as a wave of screaming creatures that call to mind Picasso’s Guernica.

Modern science is incorporated in an illumination of Jesus’ lineage at the opening of Matthew: a Jewish menorah serves as Jesus’ family tree, with his ancestors’ names written in Hebrew and English. The whole is superimposed on an image of a DNA double helix, indicating both his human nature and the relatedness of all humanity in him. In Acts, Jesus’ sending of his apostles to the ends of the earth is illumined with an image of Earth from space taken by the Hubble telescope.

Perhaps most striking, the SJB is fully Christian without being exclusive in its sensibility. Hebrew lettering is used throughout, both to name Old Testament books and to reflect the smattering of Aramaic in the New Testament. The Jewish provenance of the scriptures is thus unmistakable. Hagar’s name is written in Arabic as a nod to her descendant Muhammad. Islamic manuscript illuminations are the inspiration for several patterns, including candles and snowflake-like designs. The leftover loaves and fishes from the feeding of the 5,000 appear in Native American baskets. A cosmic mandala image from the Buddhist tradition appears in several places. Visual representations of chants from Native American, Muslim, Taoist and other traditions are the basis for illuminations of the Psalms. The varying pitch of the chants is rendered graphically to provide a motif for the abstract illumination.

The illuminations themselves are complex exercises in biblical exegesis that send us back to the words with fresh eyes. In Genesis 3, Adam and Eve are depicted as Africans -- which science tells us they were. Jackson declared that he wanted to make Eve "sparky" – "someone you might want to get into trouble for" -- and indeed she is. Sin is exciting, but not more beautiful than creation.

The parable of the sower depicts Jesus casting seed not only on the four types of soil, but all across the page, suggesting there are seeds throughout this text waiting to take root in the soul of the reader. St. Paul is shown surrounded not only by images from the stories in Acts, such as his Jewish prayer shawl and a ship, but also by church buildings from all ages, including the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica.

Flora and fauna and insects from Minnesota and from Wales (home of Jackson’s scriptorium) also appear, locating this Bible in the places of its production. Poisonous insects native to Minnesota are shown beside passages on Eden and Jesus’ baptism, announcing encroaching danger. As the prodigal son flees a life of degradation, there is an image of the Twin Towers burning in the background -- as if to say: only reconciliation overcomes violence. The picture of the multitude on whom the Holy Spirit descends at Pentecost was modeled on the crowd at a St. John’s University football game! The abbey church appears in the background of that page -- a direct descendant of that first church in Jerusalem.

Calderhead’s book and the Minneapolis exhibition take pains to distinguish between an illumination and an illustration. Illumination refers etymologically to light playing on gold. The gold leaf is meant, quite literally, to throw light upon the words that surround it and, in doing so, cause us to read these words more deeply. Theologically, gold is an image for God, and so it appears in the thin line that separates creation’s chaos into light and dark, and in the blast of light that flames from the incarnate Word in John 1.

The light flashes off the gold more dramatically in the handmade version than in the facsimile edition. In the trade volume, Jesus on the cross looks merely like a gold streak. Viewing the original, one can see that the figure on the cross is made entirely in gold relief, down to each detail. The "special treatments" of certain texts, such as the first and last psalms and the Magnificat, literally rise from the page and fill the viewer’s field of vision. This is more than an exhibition of beautiful art, though of course it is that. It is closer to liturgy, as the pages flash, and praise is almost demanded of the viewer, who sees long-loved words shining anew.

Every psalm page features a small gold image that graphically renders the chanting of the monks from St. John’s Abbey. We are constantly reminded as we read that the psalms are to be sung in church -- and that in such singing God is present.

Only occasionally is a verse from one part of scripture used to illuminate another. In the only clear case of a specifically Christian reading being given to an Old Testament text, the first chapter of Genesis features Paul’s words about the glory of a transformed creation from 2 Corinthians in the margin. John’s prologue is illumined with the words from Colossians 1 about Jesus being the "image of the invisible God." Jesus’ injunction to the apostles to be his witnesses "to the ends of the earth" accompanies not Acts 1 but Acts 28, appropriately leaving these words as the conclusion to that most missional of biblical books.

The grandeur of the SJB is made all the more striking by the presence of the occasional mistake. Even a master calligrapher’s eyes will slip occasionally in transcribing thousands of lines. (Drawing a single page, with two columns of text, makes for a full day’s work.) The calligraphers’ solutions are themselves delightful. For example, one of the birds that gobbles seed in Mark 4 flies off to "rescue" a missed line and add it to the text.

Some might ask: Is it not extravagant to spend such effort and money on a book? Might not such an expenditure be better used to care for the poor -- a longstanding commitment of the Benedictine order?

John Klassen, O.S.B., abbot of St. John’s, in conversation with Calderhead, pointed specifically to love of the poor as a reason for the project. "God’s commitment to the poor is embedded in scripture.. The deeper we are drawn into scripture, the more we will be driven to address these issues in our lives." Indeed, the texts that highlight God’s preferential option for the poor -- from the instructions for a just economy in Leviticus to Jesus’ feeding and healing of outcasts -- are often selected for special treatment.

Jackson points to the preciousness of the biblical words themselves as reason for such extravagance. In The Illuminator, a video about the making of the SJB and about Jackson’s life, he says, "When you really mean something . . . you don’t type it out on a piece of paper, you ask somebody like me to put these words in such a form that it looks as if you really mean what you’re saying." Father Eric Hollas, O.S.B., of St. John’s University pointed to the enduring legacy of the SJB: "I would like it to be known as a project that people went out on a limb to pursue, that was so out of the ordinary. . . that people would no longer ask ‘why are you doing it,’ but ‘why didn’t someone do this before?"’

The elaborate care taken with the words of scripture speaks prophetically to an age that cares little about the wisdom borne by ancient texts -- and about craftsmanship generally. Universities, corporations and governments spend similar sums daily on all manner of ugliness, In one corner of the world, a monastery is creating something of wondrous beauty meant to last, and worthy to last, for hundreds of years.

For centuries art and scripture were intertwined in the church, not only in the production of illuminated manuscripts but in the making of buildings, statuary and drama. Since the Reformation, Protestants have zealously printed and guarded the text of scripture, and in their more iconoclastic traditions they have eschewed the use of images. Catholics, for their part, have maintained a tradition of ecclesially shaped art, but often without rigorous attention to the words of scripture. The result of this division has been stacks of ugly and unread Bibles, and art so distanced from holiness as to evoke despair of any search for beauty or truth. In the St. John’s Bible one sees a Protestant care for words and a Catholic care for ecclesial art sewn back together. This surprising, almost miraculous reunification may spark a renewed attention to art and to ways of living shaped by these words. Such attention would indeed be a fitting way to mark the birth of the Image of God.

Protestants and Marian Devotion — What about Mary?

The name of the Theotokos expresses the whole mystery of God’s saving dispensation. -- St. John of Damascus (655-750)

In the doctrine and worship of Mary there is disclosed the one heresy of the Roman Catholic Church which explains all the rest. -- Karl Barth (1886-1968)

 

It is precisely such practices that Karl Earth railed against. For him, as for most heirs of the Reformation, such attention to Mary is an extrabiblical intrusion into Christian faith that deflects attention from Jesus. Devotion to Mary may well land its practitioners in idolatry, leading them to worship one who is not God, and who called herself merely a humble "servant of the Lord" (Luke 1:38).

Much of what being Protestant has historically meant has involved a protest against the Catholic devotion to Mary. Nevertheless, the Second Vatican Council declared in Lumen Gentium that Mary is a potential ecumenical bridge, a source of the future unity of all Christians. That suggestion might seem either ridiculous or insulting to Protestants. But recently there has been a flurry of publications by Protestants on Mary, works that suggest she could be an ecumenical bridge -- or at least that the Protestant aversion to Marian devotion is eroding.

Beverly Roberts Gaventa, a biblical scholar at Princeton Theological Seminary, has led the charge with Mary; Glimpses of the Mother of Jesus (1995) and with a collection of essays she coedited called Blessed One; Protestant Perspectives on Mary (2002). Meanwhile, Robert Jenson’s monumental two-volume Systematic Theology (1997 and 1999) and another collection of coedited essays, Mary; Mother of God (2004), has given a certain pride of place to the Mother of God.

Church historians of all stripes have long granted that Marian teaching and devotion dates from the earliest days of the church. And they grant that devotion to Mary was not discarded even by the leading Reformation figures Luther, Calvin and Zwingli. The fruit of ecumenical labor on this topic can be seen in such balanced and helpful resources as Mary in the Plan of God and in the Communion of the Saints (1999), a product of years of dialogue between French Catholics and Protestants that calls for both Catholic and Protestant "conversions" on the subject.

The most interesting new book on the theotokos in terms of its form is Mary; A Catholic-Evangelical Debate, by two graduates of the fundamentalist Bob Jones University, one now an evangelical Episcopalian and the other a Catholic convert and professional apologist (2003). Dwight Longenecker (the Catholic) and David Gustafson (a lawyer by trade) manage to defend their positions tenaciously while being gracious toward one another.

Many Protestants who have plunged into the thought and spiritual practice of the ancient church have found a Mary more appealing to them than she was to their forebears. Kathleen Norris, a Protestant participant in Benedictine monastic life, wrote the foreword to the most recent Gaventa book. She notes that she was not familiar enough with the Bible to know where the monks’ nightly vespers prayer comes from, and only later learned that the stirring words of the Magnificat come straight from Mary’s lips in the scriptures. It took Catholic monks to reintroduce Norris to one of the treasured practices of Protestant Christians -- memorizing and singing scripture.

My own participation in such monastic worship has also sent me back to the scriptures to ponder Mary’s place in them -- more prominent than I had thought on the basis of her place in the churches that reared me. Yet those same monks whose chanting is so beautiful engage in a most un-Protestant practice: they turn and face a statue of the Virgin with her child on her lap. They sing, "Hail holy queen, mother all-merciful, our light, our sweetness, and our hope we hail you. To you we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to you we send our sighs, while mourning and weeping, in this lowly valley of tears. Turn then your eyes, most gracious advocate, oh turn your eyes, so full of love and tenderness, upon us sinners."

The description of Mary as "our light, our sweetness, and our hope" seems to offer her praises scripturally reserved for Jesus. The song concludes, "and Jesus, the most blessed fruit of your virgin womb, show us, when this earthly exile is ended. Oh element, oh loving, oh most sweet, virgin Mary." Jesus seems an afterthought in the song, just as his place in the statuary seems secondary -- the lesser god on the lap of the greater. The prayer is a beautiful way to end a day of contemplative prayer, with candles flickering on Mary’s bronzed face. But is it true?

We might begin considering the place of Mary in devotion by noting some ways not to renew a discussion about her. We ought not speak as though all that matters about her is the virgin birth. This question, central in the fundamentalist-modernist controversy of the early 20th century, treats Mary herself as a side issue, a mere conduit for the one she bore. A second way not to proceed is to use Mary to say anew that which Protestants already say. For example, when Luther treated Mary he tended to depict her as a model for justification by grace alone – that is, as further evidence for what he already believed. If we are to attend to Mary anew, the effort should yield something fresh, something neglected in our own churches and lives.

The most important contribution of these recent reflections is to give fresh attention to the incarnation. The Council of Ephesus insisted that what Christians hold true about God is that God is not unwilling to get involved in the flesh and blood of human life. The Christian God is enwombed. To say otherwise is to introduce some sort of split in the Son himself, to suggest that the man Jesus is born of Mary and the divinity is not (perhaps the divinity is added later or not at all). To call Mary theotokos is to safeguard the fleshiness of God, and so the entire saving work of God in Christ.

As the Catholic theologian Lawrence Cunningham puts it, there is an "almost outrageous particularity" about saying that God’s presence in the world is localized in the womb of an unmarried teenage girl from Nazareth. Anyone can claim God as "almighty" or "omnipotent" or "omniscient" or whatever philosophical word we wish to append to him. To claim that God is enfleshed, that God has a birth and death date, that God is Jewish, is the scandal of particularity to which Christian faith is committed. Claims about Mary are ways to keep from smoothing out the scandal. As Luther said, "Mary suckled God, rocked God to sleep, prepared broth and soup for God." She also taught him the songs, stories amid practices of the Jewish people whose messiah he would later claim to be. Similarly, Charles Wesley (as Methodist theologian Geoffrey Wainwright points out) praised God as one "who gave all things to be, what a wonder to see, him born of his creature and nursed on her knee." In Mary the church ties a string around its finger to remember the particularity of its claims about God. (John Henry Newman argued more than a century ago that the churches that had maintained strong doctrines on Mary are those that had not abandoned strong christological ones.)

Not surprisingly, this string has led Christians to focus intense scrutiny on Mary in her own right. The early church assumed that to bear a sinless child she had to be sinless as well, and Roman Catholics codified this as dogma in the 19th century in the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception -- the claim that by a special work of God, Mary was spared any stain of original sin.

Protestants argue instead that it is Mary’s ordinariness that keeps the incarnation scandalous, not her sinlessness. That God is born in the midst of a quite average life is the claim Mary safeguards.

A focus on Mary also gives us a fresh approach to scripture.. A standard Protestant objection to Catholic Mariology is that she is not as important in scripture as she has become in ecclesial traditions. To a degree this is true. No one can argue for her immaculate conception, her assumption into heaven, or her coronation as heaven’s queen directly from scripture. Yet argument over those points has clouded other scriptural claims about Mary. What she lacks in quantity of appearance in scripture she makes up for in quality. Luke’s telling of the gospel begins with her, and her fiat ("let it be’ in Latin) to Gabriel’s announcement of God’s incarnational intent opens the way for a new eruption of grace into the world. She is present at and indeed an instigator of Jesus’ first miracle at Cana in Galilee (John 2: 1-11). She and other women are present at the cross, when the male disciples flee. Depending on how one reads the resurrection narratives, she is present there too (Mark 15:40; 47).

It is striking that Mary is in the upper room at Pentecost -- the only woman present there who is named -- to receive the outpouring of God’s Spirit at the birth of the church (Acts 1:14). When Paul makes his one oblique mention of Jesus’ mother it is to point to her as a sign that he was indeed born, and so was genuinely human (Gal. 4:4). To cite a more contested passage, her image in Revelation 12:17 as a woman clothed with the sun with a crown of stars in the agony of giving birth to a son who will rule the nations is, at the very least, impressive. Mary’s appearances in scripture are indeed limited, but they are tied to crucial moments in salvation history, without which there would be no church.

Scripture presents Mary as an important agent in her own right, not just as the mother of her son. If her Magnificat is any indication, she is an extraordinary reader of the Bible, lyrically weaving together Jewish scripture into a new song that is perhaps the most frequently sung canticle in church history. We are twice told that she "treasures" the words entrusted to her by angels and shepherds and that she "ponders these things" in her heart (Luke 2:19, 51). Aged Simeon promises her that her child’s destiny to be for the "falling and rising of many in Israel" will cause a "sword to pierce" her own soul too -- suggesting that Mary’s importance continues in the saga of salvation long after her child’s birth. (Luke 2:34-35).

Mary’s interaction with her son on the cross is striking, since one of his final acts is devoted to naming John as her new son, and her as John’s mother. In this and other scenes she is depicted as an image of the church, the mother of believers, and one to whose care Jesus is devoted to his dying breath. Scripture presents a vision of Mary as one whose importance is not limited to the Annunciation and to Christmas, but extends into the life of the church.

At the same time, scripture also portrays Mary as misunderstanding her son on several occasions. A precocious Jesus seems exasperated with her failure to understand that he would rather be in his father’s house than traveling home from Jerusalem with his parents (Luke 2:49). Jesus speaks to Mary harshly at Cana before granting her wish (John 2:4). Later, Mary and fellow family members come to collect Jesus when a crowd accuses him of being crazy in Mark 3:21 and 31-35. Jesus redirects a passerby’s blessing on Mary to all those who do the will of God (Luke 11:27-28).

Nevertheless, Mary is far more than an eyewitness to key kerygmatic events and a crucial early theologian and church leader. She is "a space for the spaceless one," to quote an Orthodox prayer. Her womb was the physical site of the enfleshment of God. This leads Robert Jenson to a conclusion that may sting Protestant sensibilities -- we ought to ask Mary to pray for us.

Jenson argues that death does not sever the bonds of the body of Christ -- as even most Protestant eucharistic prayers makes clear. To ask for a departed saint’s prayer, then, is not in principle different from asking another Christian for her prayers. We hold that the saints are not simply gone but are ever alive to God, and so we ought also consider them to be available as intercessors, and powerful ones at that.

This is precisely the point at which Protestant theologians get most nervous. Such a request of prayer from Mary smacks of an effort to gain divine favor by some route other than Christ -- the height of idolatry. To prop the door open here even an inch threatens to bring back the medieval system of veneration of scores of saints in an effort to earn the favor of a distant and foreboding Jesus. Hence we slam the door shut. To honor Christ, the saints must be excluded.

Yet this needn’t be so. Jenson insists that "the saints are not our way to Christ; he is our way to them." Each saint’s particular graces can be seen as reflections of the grace of Christ, whose greatness grows in our eyes as we attend to the saints’ individual stories. The mstrengthening of the bonds of the body of Christ, stretching as they do across the divide between earthly life and death, should bring tribute to Christ rather than discredit.

Attention to Mary has been embraced by some theologians as part of a feminist strategy of overcoming patriarchy. They point out that the Protestant rejection of Mary has meant losing the powerful woman who gave birth to Christianity in the beginning. As Reformed theologian Christopher Morse notes, at the "most important event of all history the mighty male is excluded!" Simeon the New Theologian argued in the 11th century that God had already made a child from no parents (Adam) and had made one from a male with no female (Eve). God often makes children from two parents male and female (the rest of us). One thing only remained for God to do -- to make a child from a female alone. Hence it was fitting for God to work through a woman, Mary, without aid of a man. Perhaps God’s enfleshment in human history via a woman alone should be seen as a resource for feminism, if used carefully.

On the other hand, some theologians regard an emphasis on Mary’s submission, self-effacement and purity as a potential step backward for women. And there is always the danger of treating Mary as a "blank screen, a perfect canvas for our projections," according to the historian Shari Thurer.

If there is a common theme that resonates in Protestant attempts to recoup something lost in the rejection of Mary, it is the description of her as the archetypical Christian, the mother of believers. "We too are ‘virgins’ who are incapable of bearing God," until God deigns to be born in our ordinariness as in Mary’s, argues Presbyterian theologian Cynthia Rigby.

Sarah Coakley articulates a particular kind of mario-logical feminism by defending kenosis, self-emptying, against feminist objections. With mystical theologians throughout the history of the church, Coakley argues that self-emptying does not mean submission or loss of self; it means growing into the fullness of creation, becoming as radiantly full of the divine presence as was Mary at the ninth month of her pregnancy.

So what can we conclude? May a Protestant sing praise of Mary at compline, and "hail" her as a "holy queen"? Yes, we can participate in Marian liturgy that reflects her crucial role in scripture, that protects christological confession, and that directs our attention to Christ in new ways. Such a yes will necessarily entail a no to practices that ignore the rich texture of scripture’s portrayal of her, that attend to her instead of her son, and that offer hack doors for patriarchy’s return. In this area, as in others, Protestants have often thrown out the baby with the bathwater.

A friend of mine, speaking of the Catholic move to prune excessive Marian doctrine and practice after Vatican II by moving her statue to the side, observed that Protestants moved her out the door altogether. We can return Mary to the pew beside us, in the communion of saints, in our highest dogmatic confessions -- the apple of our eye as the first to believe in God’s new work in Christ. Not to do so is to lose something at the heart of things. As Reformed theologian Willie Jennings says, "Salvation begins with Mary’s yes."

If that’s true Protestants can talk about her at other times of the year than at Christmas and perhaps Mother’s Day. Lutheran theologian David Yeago suggests observing the other mariological feasts of the ancient church, such as the Annunciation on March 25 (nine months before Christmas) and her saint (lay on August 15. He also suggests we sing the Magnificat as often as possible.

Perhaps we might even say a Hail Mary or two. Luther objected only to the second half of the Hail Mary, not to the first. To pray "Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus" is merely to cite scripture, he thought. To say "Holy Mary, full of grace, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our deaths" seemed to him to express an extrascriptural accretion. But perhaps asking Mary for her prayers is not in itself un-Protestant. To do so may even guard christological dogma and defend against patriarchy. Who knows? Mary might just be key to the future of ecumenism after all.

The Impact of Orthodox Theology

Think of the standard theological debates in Western Christianity: Is conversion a matter of divine grace or human free will? Are theological disputes to be arbitrated by appeals to the Bible or to church tradition? Do the church’s authority and unity cohere in the pope, in a set of bishops, or in assemblies of the faithful?

These sorts of questions expose a traditional line of demarcation from which Catholics and Protestants generally break in opposite directions. Yet in none of these cases do Eastern Orthodox Christians feel obliged to choose sides, That’s a key reason why theologians in the West have recently been looking to Orthodox theology for help in getting beyond their theological impasses.

Orthodoxy has deeply influenced some of the most important Protestant theologians working today. Geoffrey Wainwright, Sarah Coakley, Rowan Williams and John Milbank (from Great Britain); Wolfhart Pannenburg, Jurgen Moltmann and Miroslav VoIf (from central Europe); Robert Jenson, Eugene Rogers and Kathryn Tanner (from the U.S.) -- these and many others have avidly turned to Orthodox sources. It is difficult now to do serious theological work without extensive reference to ancient and modern Orthodox sources.

Perhaps the most important dualism never foisted on the Orthodox is that between academic theology and worship. Theology is certainly an intellectual endeavor for the Orthodox, but it is more pronouncedly doxological. Theology is a loving word of praise to the God who first speaks his Word to us in Christ and by the Spirit draws us into the church. Orthodox theology is conducted in the first-person plural -- "we," not an impartial "they," are drawn to the Eather by the Son.

This vision of doxological theology is at odds with the standard fourfold division of seminary education in the West, which keeps "Bible," "church history," "theology" and "practical ministry" cordoned off from one another, For the Orthodox, theology is simply commentary upon the saints’ commentary on scripture for the sake of the church’s worship. As the fourth-century Orthodox monastic writer Evagrius of Pontus says, "A theologian is one who prays, and one who prays is a theologian."

This vision of the church and theology affects Orthodox interaction with Western Christians at a basic level. An advertisement for an Orthodox church in a rural American town full of self-proclaimed Bible-believing churches invites people to come to "a church that knows the Bible because it wrote the Bible" Top that if you can. This is how Orthodox believers view their dynamic continuity with the ancient church and scripture.

Orthodox theology is anything but individualistic. As theologians in the West have sought to recover a view of Christian community as more than a conglomeration of individuals. they have often turned to the work of John Zizioulas, a Greek Orthodox bishop and theologian. In his highly influential Being as Communion he argues that the inter-relationship of the three persons of the Trinity should serve as a model for human relationships.

Sarah Coakley thinks Zizioulas has been popular among Protestant theologians because they were already looking for a way past the "rampant individualism" of their culture. A vision of persons acting in self-emptying ways toward one another is deeply appealing in such a setting. Protestants’ embrace of Zizioulas also reflects a "renewed interest in liturgy as a source of ‘truth.’ The tug of an ancient, unchanged liturgical tradition becomes especially pronounced in this climate," says Coakley, a professor at Harvard Divinity School.

Many of the Orthodox bridges across Western intellectual divides would not have been built without the cataclysmic political events of the early 20th century. Westerners encountered Orthodoxy in the flesh when a wave of theologians and church leaders left Russia following the 1917 revolution. Some of these set up camp at the Institut Saint-Serge in Paris, a seminary for Russian 6migr~s presided over for a time by Sergei Bulgakov, who along with Vladimir Lossky was one of the beloved leaders and theologians of the Orthodox church of his generation. Other Russians fled farther west. George Florovsky first went to Paris, but went on to lead St. Vladimir’s Seminary in Crestwood, New York, and then to teach at Harvard.

The émigré generation remains enormously influential. Florovsky’s work has been available in English for some time. Translations of Lossky’s books are probably the most often read theological introductions to Orthodoxy. (The archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams wrote his dissertation on Lossky. Williams also has a helpful introduction to Eastern Orthodox theology in The Modern Theologians, edited by David Ford.) Bulgakov is now being translated at a furious pace. Non-Russian Orthodox such as the Greek Zizioulas and the Romanian theologian Dmitru Staniloae have also had wide influence.

Orthodox intellectual life in America has long been centered at St. Vladimir’s, where John Meyendorff and Alexander Schmemann produced writings on liturgy and theology that remain must-reading for theologians, and at Holy Cross School of Theology in Brookline, Massachusetts. Both school’s publishing houses remain crucial sources for Orthodox theology new and old. Kallistos Ware, Olivier Clement. Alexander Gollitzen and Verna Harrison are other theologians and church leaders whose influence goes beyond Orthodox circles.

Many English-speaking theologians have encountered Orthodoxy through the ecumenical movement. The Orthodox joined the movement early on -- much earlier than the official Roman Catholic involvement. Ancient orthodoxy has provided a starting point on which all parties in the ecumenical conversation could agree, and current Orthodoxy (of the Orthodox churches) has presented an incarnation of the ancient church from which all parties could learn. Further, the liturgical renewal of the past half-century has made Protestant worship more similar in form and in spirit to the ancient liturgy that the Orthodox champion and purport to continue uninterrupted.

The Orthodox have reminded Western churches of other key portions of Christian identity. Coakley notes that the Orthodox have helped members of the Church of England recall their "strong 17th-century tradition of engagement with the Greek patristic tradition," as evident in the Anglican divines and later in the Oxford movement. It was British church leaders who translated Greek patristic figures like Athanasius and John Chrysostom alongside Augustine and Gregory the Great in the Nicene and PostNicene Fathers collection, a series still much in use in semmanes and beyond.

The Orthodox also suggest a way for the Western church to peel back the enormous influence of the West’s greatest teacher, Augustine. On the doctrine of the Trinity, for example, William Placher observes that some modern theologians think Augustine stressed the "oneness" of the Trinity to such an extent that God’s "threeness" was, lost. For a corrective view, theologians look to Eastern church fathers, such as the Cappadocians -- Gregory of Nazianzus, Basil of Caesaria and Gregory of Nyssa.

Another Augustinian teaching, born of his clash with the Pelagians, is that salvation rests on the grace of God alone, not at all on the exercise of human freedom. The Orthodox, for their part, insist both that God is "sovereign" and that humans are free to embrace the love of God offered in Christ. When Catholic or Arminian or Calvinist theologians accuse the Orthodox of having it both ways, the Orthodox simply agree, and insist that God is mystery, beyond our knowing.

Indeed, a reliance on negative theology, an insistence on the human inability to know the God who is mystery, has remained central to Orthodox thought and practice. According to Pseudo-Dionysius, a sixth-century figure beloved in both East and West, God is "the inscrutable One out of reach of every rational process. Nor can any words come up to the inexpressible Good, this One, this Source of all unity, this supra-existent Being. Mind beyond mind, word beyond speech, it is gathered up by no discourse, by no intuition, by no name." After centuries of working In rationalistic categories, in the wake of the Enlightenrnetfl, Plotesants in the West have reason to welcome negative theology.

For all that the Orthodox have taught or retaught Protestants, there are potential problems in this rediscovery of Orthodoxy. To read Orthodox texts without much interaction with actual Orthodox believers and their churches, schisms and political difficulties can lead to an unrealistic view of Orthodox life. And Orthodoxy can also be embraced as a refuge for alienated conservatives; it offers a place where no one is going to be calling God "she."

While the West has struggled to come to terms with the relationship between modern forms of inquiry and ancient church dogma, the Orthodox seem to march on, untroubled by modern historical consciousness. Orthodox confidence (or potential complacency) on this point is captured in a joke: A Protestant, a Catholic and an Orthodox are discussing what Jesus would be upon his return to earth. The Protestant insists Jesus would be a Protestant, the Catholic insists he would be Catholic. The Orthodox looks puzzled and asks, "But why would he change?"

The more constructive role Orthodoxy can play is captured in another story; Protestant and Catholic theologians decided that they needed help in adjudicating their disputes. They decided to ask the Orthodox for advice. The two parties journeyed to the east and met with an Orthodox theologian. They explained their disagreements over faith and works, the location of church authority, the relation of scripture and tradition, and so on. After hearing the arguments, the Orthodox respondent asked each side, "Do you believe in the triune God exposited by the fathers of Nicaea?" Well, yes, of course. "Do you believe in the two natures of the one person of Jesus Christ?" Well, certainly. "Then embrace! You’re brothers."

Splitting Up

Last year the Church of the Resurrection in suburban West Chicago closed its doors and put its building up for sale. The Episcopal congregation had suffered membership losses 14 years earlier when some conservative members left to start their own church, also called the Church of the Resurrection, in nearby Glen Ellyn. The new congregation later aligned itself with the Anglican Mission in the Americas (AMIA), which is connected to the Anglican Church in Rwanda.

The new Church of the Resurrection later experienced its own split, with some members leaving to launch the Church of the Great Shepherd--also affiliated with AMIA--in Wheaton. The Church of the Great Shepherd eventually closed its doors, but not before a 2004 split led to the formation of the Church of the Savior back in West Chicago. During this time the ranks of St. Mark's, an Episcopal congregation in Glen Ellyn, had been swelling--until the Episcopal Church consecrated an openly gay bishop in 2003, whereupon many St. Mark's members left to form All Souls, still another AMIA church, in Wheaton. Meanwhile, another split at the original Church of the Resurrection in West Chicago, which had experienced renewed growth, led to the creation of the Church of the Resurrection Anglican, a church which is overseen by the archbishop of Uganda. So now there are two Resurrection churches in the area, both formed in exodus from the original--now defunct--Church of the Resurrection, and both affiliated with African Anglican bodies, not with the Episcopal Church in the United States, sometimes abbreviated as TEC.

Got all that?

Even for Anglicans in the vicinity it takes a long memory or a flow chart to keep straight all the Episcopal-Anglican divisions and acronyms that have developed in the well-heeled suburbs of DuPage County, just west of Chicago.

Many observers of the Anglican splits assume that the key issue is homosexuality, but a closer look reveals that several other factors are also at work. In fact, the local Anglican story is largely about charismatic leaders coming and going, and congregations growing in their presence or folding in their absence. Among the AMIA folks, the juiciest disagreements have been over the ordination of women rather than the ordination of gays. And the biggest fight to date has been over the relationship between church and state in Rwanda, not in the U.S.

The energy in all these churches comes to a great extent from the many evangelicals who have converted to Anglicanism, a phenomenon outlined some 20 years ago by Robert Webber in Evangelicals on the Canterbury Trail. For the most part, evangelicals joined the Episcopal Church out of an appreciation for its liturgy and tradition, not for its generally liberal approach to sexual ethics and scripture. Many of these people have an association with evangelically oriented Wheaton College, where Webber taught for many years.

The various conservative groups that have broken away from the Episcopal Church in the U.S. have conglomerated into Common Cause, a group that has formed an alliance with churches in the global South in an effort to reverse the long liberal trend of the Anglican Communion in the Northern Hemisphere. Its advocates champion a thesis advanced by historian Philip Jenkins and others: Christianity's axis of power is tilting south and east, with church membership growing rapidly in the developing world while it declines in Europe and America. The late Diane Knippers, a leader among conservative Anglicans, summarized the situation this way: "Today's statistically typical Anglican is not drinking tea in an English vicarage. She is a 26-year-old African mother of four."

And, Knippers might have added, the typical Anglican is strongly opposed to homosexuality. One of the leaders of Common Cause is Archbishop Peter Akinola of Nigeria, who readily uses the word abomination in reference to homosexuality. He likens homosexuality in the church to a "cancerous lump," compares same-sex coupling to animal behavior, and supports severe prison sentences for homosexual practice.

The alliance that conservative Anglicans in the U.S. have made with African Anglicans presents an unusual challenge to the liberal Episcopalian mainstream. It's hard to accuse AMIA members of being bigoted malcontents when they are, in effect, members of African churches. At the 1998 Lambeth Conference of world Anglican leaders, John Shelby Spong, the now retired über-liberal bishop of Newark, dismissed his African colleagues who were adamantly opposed to liberalizing the church's rules on homosexuality as "superstitious, fundamentalist Christians." In remarks that have been frequently cited by his detractors, Spong complained that African Anglicans had "moved out of animism into a very superstitious kind of Christianity" and had yet to face "the intellectual revolution of Copernicus and Einstein that we've had to face in the developing world." For AMIA and its friends, here was evidence that white so-called progressives were the real bigots.

At the local level, the growth of the original Church of the Resurrection in West Chicago was sparked in the early 1990s by its pastor, William Beasley. As a theological and moral conservative, Beasley represented a minority in the Episcopal Diocese of Chicago. One element of his congregation's revitalized ministry was a program called Redeemed Lives, dedicated to helping gays and lesbians reorient their sexuality around "biblical principles" so as to embrace either heterosexuality or celibacy. Meanwhile, the Episcopal bishop of Chicago, Frank Griswold, was ordaining openly gay and lesbian pastors (contrary to canons then in place in TEC).

But when I met with Beasley, who is now a church planter with AMIA's Midwest Anglican Awakening, I could hardly get him to talk about homosexuality. Almost every question I raised he used as an opportunity to talk about reaching the unchurched: "Our goal is to reach just one-one hundredth of the unchurched people in Chicago. Out of 6 million, that's a lot!" Interestingly, it was the Church of the Resurrection that sought divorce from TEC. The Diocese of Chicago was then willing to tolerate a church that touted gay reparative therapy.

Last fall the Church of the Resurrection in Glen Ellyn hosted a regionwide AMIA event in Wheaton, with Archbishop Akinola as the honored guest. Over 1,000 worshipers from Chicagoland's two dozen or so Common Cause churches attended. A small batch of protesters mugged for the cameras outside. Akinola's very presence was a sign of Anglican division, since Anglican bishops do not ordinarily invite themselves into another diocese -- and Akinola had not bothered to contact William Persell, bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Chicago.

The worship service that day was charismatic in nature--a reflection of Resurrection's normal liturgical practice (by contrast, Wheaton's All Souls AMIA church has a formal Anglo-Catholic liturgy). Hundreds of worshipers waved their hands at the high points in the eucharistic liturgy, giving the worship an almost Pentecostal quality. There were other evangelical touches, including a prayer ministry conducted by lay leaders after communion. The gathering was overwhelmingly young, with many hand-waving young mothers holding babies on their hips. Akinola made no explicit reference to homosexuality, but his challenge to the Episcopal Church was clear: "The gospel is the foundation of unity--there is no other. … Until we have obedience and transformation in ourselves, we can't have unity."

At a press conference afterward, Stewart Ruch, the pastor of Church of the Resurrection in Glen Ellyn, described the gathering as the fruit of grassroots-level friendships between African and American Anglicans. He would not respond to questions about protesters or about homosexuality. When I told Beasley that I was pleased not to have heard gay-bashing comments from AMIA people, he seemed puzzled: "Well, of course--that would be sinful." Ruch did say that a "true multiethnic gospel relationship" is like a marriage--each partner has different strengths and points on which correction and forgiveness are needed.

A split occurred at Church of the Resurrection (AMIA) when a group of members started the Church of the Great Shepherd, led by Lyle Dorsett, a professor of evangelism at Wheaton College. (Church of the Resurrection officially recalls this event as a church plant.) By all accounts Dorsett's charismatic personality and dynamic preaching were largely responsible for the church's growth. Great Shepherd put aside for missions half of every dollar it collected--an impressive commitment which allowed it to support mission work far beyond the capacity of most churches with 600 members.

But when Dorsett left Wheaton in 2005 to teach at Beeson Divinity School in Alabama, the future of Great Shepherd was put in question. The church closed its doors in 2007, with members scattering back to Resurrection or going elsewhere. Beasley puts a positive spin on the closure. For a church dedicated to mission, "It's no defeat to spend yourself out of existence." Resurrection's Web site blames the turmoil over Great Shepherd on the lack of episcopal oversight--now provided by AMIA and African bishops.

George Koch, pastor of Church of the Resurrection Anglican, views this history more simply: "Divorce breeds divorce." Bishop Persell, viewing the scene from the perspective of the Episcopal Diocese of Chicago, draws an even stronger conclusion: "If you're formed in opposition and negativity, you're bound to keep on splitting--there's always need for more purity, and you don't live with ambiguity very well, so you end up in a church of one."

When AMIA leaders talked to me about their departure from the Episcopal Church, they focused more on the doctrinal problems represented by Bishop Spong than on the sexual issues raised by the election of gay bishop V. Gene Robinson. Spong has been an outspoken advocate of gays in ministry, but as bishop he was also the author of several books on Christianity that present a sharp critique of Christian tradition and a decidedly unorthodox view of Jesus and Mary. Elizabeth Sausele, who was an associate pastor at All Souls, said that what prompted her to leave the Episcopal Church was that she didn't believe that "the faith once delivered to the apostles was being guarded by the House of Bishops. For a bishop of the church to say that Jesus didn't bodily rise from the dead and that the atonement is child abuse …" For her the lack of theological oversight was obvious.

Bishop Persell, however, downplays Spong's importance in this family feud: "He's one bishop among hundreds in the U.S., retired, with no vote in the House of Bishops or the convention." He added, "And most of what he says makes sense."

AMIA is determined to bring about a return to Anglican tradition. That makes Sausele's position all the more extraordinary: she is AMIA's only woman priest. A task force set up in AMIA's early days considered the issue of women's ordination and ruled against it (though women can be ordained as deacons). Sausele, having been ordained a priest in TEC, traveled to Rwanda and offered to resign her orders. Archbishop Emmanuel Kolini, primate of the Church of Rwanda, delined to accept her offer. Kolini has ordained women priests in Rwanda for years. though AMIA, the North American mission he oversees, does not. Common Cause churches speak of women's ordination as an issue on which they can agree to disagree, but AMIA's stance against ordaining women has, if anything, grown stauncher. Not a few dissident Anglicans joined the group specifically because of its stance on this issue.

"I'm grateful to my core that I left TEC before 2003," Sausele says, referring to the fact that her departure happened before the election of Bishop Robinson and therefore was not about homosexuality. "It's far more grievous that the church hasn't censored people like Spong for their contradiction of foundational Christian teaching," she argues. Her critique of the Episcopal Church extends to its current presiding bishop, Katharine Jefferts Schori. "The primates pleaded with the U.S. church not to do anything inflammatory" when it elected its presiding bishop, she recalls. She says her problem isn't that the church chose a woman but that its choice was a slap in the face to the churches of the global South. "She's been ordained only two years longer than I have," she said. It might have been different if the U.S. church had chosen someone with, say, a quarter of a century of experience and a Ph.D. in theology, not someone "from a tiny diocese, and she's, what, a biologist?" (Jefferts Schori is actually a geologist.)

On homosexuality, Sausele mostly faults the way that sexuality is talked about in TEC. "I'm a 42-year-old single person," she said. "I understand that I have to be celibate, and that's not always pleasant." So she dismisses the argument, which she says she hears advocates of gay ordination making, that people cannot be expected to resist their hard-wired sexual desires. Sausele also disapproves of the way that the denomination handled women's ordination. It was done, she says, without theological grounding and solely on the basis of "rights" language: "'I can be a CEO, and you can't stop me from being a priest,' they said. The church never did the theological and biblical work that needs doing."

Nevertheless, one detects a certain loneliness in Sausele. She fled TEC liberals to join AMIA traditionalists who oppose women's ordination. The recognition of the validity of her ordination by Archbishop Kolini -- and some hints of openness toward women's ordination from Akinola himself--coupled with her being called to All Souls in Wheaton suggests that women's ministry may be an issue in the future for Common Cause. Will its adherents ordain women--and do it on better grounds than TEC did? Or will it be an issue on which people agree to disagree? (If so, why couldn't they have remained Episcopalians?) When I asked Alan Jacobs, a lay catechist at All Souls and an English professor at Wheaton, about women in ministry, he defended Sausele's ordination with another mention of Spong: "I don't have any problem with ordaining women. I have a problem with ordaining heretics."

Last fall, All Souls, a parish with some 150 worshipers, pulled off a coup: it announced that it was bringing Paul Rusesabagina, a hero during the Rwandan genocide, to speak. Rusesabagina is the compassionate Hutu hotel manager who rescued hundreds of his compatriots--Hutus and Tutsis--and whose story was the subject of the movie Hotel Rwanda. Rusesabagina had heard of All Souls' work to build a school in a Rwandan village and wanted to thank the congregation personally.

At the last moment, however, All Souls canceled the event, responding to a directive from Archbishop Kolini. The decision was presented to Martin Johnson, pastor of All Souls, in no uncertain terms: "There was no invitation to dialogue," he said.

The reason for the archbishop's request? Rusesabagina, a critic of Rwanda's president Paul Kagame, has maintained that Kagame's government, which claims to seek ethnic reconciliation, is made up of an elite group of Tutsis. The Anglican Church in Rwanda, which wishes to present itself as a conciliatory force as well--especially since many churches (itself included) failed to protect their people during the genocide--is closely allied to the government. So Rwanda's Anglican Church is not eager to push Rusesabagina's point of view. Rusesabagina has pointed to retaliatory killings engaged in by the Rwandan Patriotic Front. Kagame's government in turn has accused Rusesabagina of extorting money from people who took refuge in his hotel.

Much of this complex history was lost on conservative American Anglicans who had fled TEC for AMIA. Sandra Joireman, a professor of international relations at Wheaton College, says of All Souls: "A little church in Wheaton avoided the Scylla at home but not the Charybdis of African ethnic politics."

The situation is especially ironic because AMIA often uses invocations of the Rwandan genocide to its advantage. Archbishop Kolini even compares TEC with the perpetrators of the genocide, accusing it of engaging in a "spiritual genocide of the truth." He also says, "Ten years ago, when Rwanda cried out to the world for help, no one answered. So when we heard the American church crying out for help, we decided to answer." Western guilt is invoked, African heroism is lauded and AMIA can feel good about itself. But the whole narrative depends on a romanticized vision of church and state in the African country.

I asked Johnson of All Souls if his church can be accused, at best, of being ignorant of church-state relations in Rwanda or, at worst, of having a romanticized view of African Christianity. He said both accusations are fair. "We can only assent to our critics," he said. "But where we are is where we are."

Anglicanism has generally been a faith that is allied with the state. But the obvious ethical messiness of being involved with Rwandan tribal politics brings up again the question of whether AMIA can justify its departure from the Episcopal Church. "We don't exult in all this," Johnson said. "We pray God would forgive us for breaking off again, and we pray that we might reunite." Then, sounding even more like a member of TEC: "I can't stand the loss of diversity. I like a wide tent." But he stands by the decision to ally with the Rwandan church, quoting a story common in AMIA circles about an African bishop who asked his Western colleagues, "You brought us the gospel 150 years ago--why are you not preaching the same one now?"

Speaking with these former Episcopalians, I was struck that each gave me a slightly different rationale for separating from TEC. Sausele and Jacobs of All Souls focused on doctrinal issues raised by a figure like Spong. For Koch of the Anglican Church of the Resurrection the problem was what he sees as TEC's relativism in matters of salvation. For Dorsett of the now defunct Great Shepherd, it was what he calls the denomination's disdain of scripture. For Beasley, who left TEC in the early 1990s, it was liberal views on homosexuality--though he downplays that now and emphasizes issues of scripture and doctrine. Jacobs also points to what he calls TEC's elevation of tolerance as the sine qua non of the church. He told me that if TEC were in the habit of advancing theologically rigorous arguments like those offered by orthodox (and gay) theologian Eugene Rogers in Sexuality and the Christian Body, he'd still be in the denomination -- "part of the loyal opposition" but still in communion, he said.

Theologians from Augustine onward have insisted that the effort to leave one church to start a better one results not in a better church but a worse one--and it also fosters the bad habit of defection. The history of Western Christendom attests to the wisdom of this view. The question for the Anglican Mission in the Americas is whether antagonism toward the Episcopal Church is enough to shape a coherent Anglican identity in a complex global setting.

 

 

Three Resources for Christian Formation

You pays your money and you takes your choice." Several generations of students at Duke Divinity School have heard James "Mickey" Efird use those carnivalesque words to conclude debates over the meaning of a biblical passage. The words take on a new resonance now that students of the Bible can pay their money and receive Efird's own interpretations via the Efird Bible Study Series, which features videos of Efird teaching and provides accompanying study guides (see efirdbiblestudies.com).

As a biblical scholar, Efird is something of a throwback. These days most seminarians do not serve as student-pastors, but Efird began working as a pastor when he was an undergraduate. He joined the Duke Divinity faculty after he graduated in the early 1960s and secured tenure at a time when one still could do so without having a long résumé of works written for other academics. Almost all his publications have been aimed at laypeople.

Efird has a passion for teaching churchpeople, a passion perhaps born from his experience leading a congregation as a teenage college kid. Four or five nights a week, the septuagenarian Efird can still be found at a church on some godforsaken highway teaching why the rapture is not part of the book of Revelation or showing that Calvin's doctrine of double predestination isn't found in Romans. Efird pretty much teaches what he learned in the early 1960s: a faith-informed, historical-critical approach to the Bible. For him, hearing what God says to us today is dependent on rightly understanding the context in which God spoke in the scriptures.

I remember one aphorism I heard Efird use with seminarians during the day and with laypeople at night in response to the question of how to preach both Isaiah and Amos. Asked how "Comfort, comfort ye my people" can be reconciled with Amos's angry, almost violent denunciations, Efird would reply: "If you got a church that's down on its luck and hurting, give them Isaiah. But if they're fat and happy and satisfied with themselves, give 'em Amos. With both barrels!" In a few memorable words, Efird summarized a swath of the prophetic literature.

Graduate students eager to engage the cutting-edge theories of internationally famous professors often chafed when asked to serve as Efird's teaching assistants. He's not up on the latest scholarship, or at least he doesn't choose to share it with students. He would have no problem going toe-to-toe with the newer stuff, but he has chosen to expend his efforts where most of his students will expend theirs--in the congregation, among the saints in the pews. His teaching manner both in the seminary and in the local church is expository: he analyzes the text verse by verse and comments on what interests him. When his students return to the text, they will know their way around--more like pilgrims who've prayed in a place than like tourists who happened to visit once.

Efird's down-home humor and witticisms make his lectures enjoyable, even when they're laced with stories about Hebrew verb forms and New Testament text criticism. It's no wonder that the Carolina Broadcasting System, which normally produces TV programs on politics and public policy, saw fit to produce videos of Efird teaching all 66 books of the Bible. Many of these are now available in sets for Sunday school use; more are on the way. Watching Efird on video, I wondered how audiences outside the Bible Belt would take to his drawl and his eagle-like visage, which intimidated me in spite of his avuncular manner. My guess is his self-deprecating manner will play as well in Peoria as in the rural Carolinas.

The purchase of a $220 set of lessons on Genesis will bring you the DVD, a facilitator's guide for a layperson to lead questions after each session, and participant workbooks that offer questions after each lesson, homework for next time, space for note-taking and highlights of the lecture.

Is torture ever justified? Where is God when disaster strikes? What do Methodists believe? What's my child doing on the Internet?

These headlines of studies available from The Thoughtful Christian (TTC) show that this Web-based curriculum aims for the gut (at thethoughtfulchristian.com). For $10 a study can be downloaded Saturday night in time for teaching Sunday school the next morning. The courses are written by an enormously diverse group of respected scholars. Two of the studies mentioned above are by David Gushee, a conservative moral theologian who teaches at the Baptist Mercer University; another is by Wendy Farley, a liberal theologian at Emory. These two scholars may not be able to meet with you for coffee, but both are available for your next Sunday school class.

TTC gathers its all-star cast largely by paying them well and by offering academics and other experts the chance to write directly to people in congregations. Writers put together a leader's guide to help the teacher conduct the discussion. The curriculum includes participants' handouts, which ideally are read by class members beforehand (though the writers are told not to expect this; we all know how much homework is ever done for Sunday school). The studies offer teaching suggestions--asking students to offer a one-word response to what was just presented seems to be a particularly popular one--and include alternative ideas designed to enable a leader to go in a completely different direction from the primary one. Since TTC is Web-based, it can travel quickly and stay light on its feet. Within days of an international event, like the execution of Saddam Hussein or a natural disaster, TTC has a related study ready and available for purchase.

These strengths could also be TTC's greatest weakness. What church will keep such Web studies around for future use after Sunday school class? These TTC lessons can be used and quickly discarded. Yet they are rigorous studies of very high quality. For example, a study on Celtic Christianity includes historical background but also suggests a broad lesson: "'I don't understand you' can become 'How can I learn from you?' and 'How can we be the body of Christ?'"

The so-called new monastics have gotten a lot of press coverage. Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, a visionary of that movement, worries that capitalism has shaped us all "to desire the next new thing"--and if that's all the new monasticism is, he isn't interested. "Movements don't move me," he says, quoting Peter Maurin, cofounder of the Catholic Worker movement. But if the new monasticism is part of God's work of raising up people to live a distinctive form of life, a form in conflict with the fusion of Christianity and empire, then people should pay attention.

In New Monasticism: What It Has to Say to Today's Church (Brazos), Wilson-Hartgrove tries to show what the wider church can learn from the new monastics, and vice versa. A companion volume is Sam Ewell's Building Up the Church: Live Experiments in Faith, Hope and Love (Cascade).

Not all Christians will follow the lead of the new monastics to create intentional communities in abandoned places of empire, but those that do, such as the folks at Camden House in New Jersey, can teach the rest of us a lot--for example, about environmental racism. New Jersey's burning of garbage causes health problems for kids in Camden, who live in a city that doesn't have the political muscle to resist. If you're not ready to join a community like Camden House, you can study the Bible with homeless people in your area (buy them lunch if you need to). Doing so will give you new eyes for reading the Bible. Ewell's book is chock-full of suggestions like this, which are intended to indicate that the new monasticism isn't meant for spiritual heroes. There is no "don't try this at home" label, as Ewell notes.

Wilson-Hartgrove writes beautifully. "All those yous in our Bible are y'alls," he says, as a way of telling us that scripture is addressed to a community, not to individuals. Every church has a "few folks who love selflessly and shine like stars with the gentle glory of God made flesh." Monastics are like a root system of the church, working underground, growing quietly and slowly--but hard to remove. "All the bishops of the church couldn't have organized such a movement."

Wilson-Hartgrove insists that it is "hard to be a Christian in America." He's not interested in making it any easier. He is interested in helping the church use its best resources to cut against the grain of conventional wisdom.