Am I Pro-Life or Just Anti-Abortion

I'm definitely anti-abortion. The thought of a baby losing its life in utero saddens me deeply. But does the fact that I am against the termination of an unborn life automatically make me pro-life?

I'm beginning to understand how my pro-choice friends can be put off by my hypocrisy, just  as I am by theirs. 

If I say I'm pro-life yet protest the entrance of refugees and immigrants into my country; men, women and children just looking for a safe place to live, can I honestly say I'm pro-life? Am I pro (for) the lives of these people?

If I say I'm pro-life and translate my "pro-life" stance into legislation that forces a mother to bring her baby into this world but then protest policies and legislation that would provide that child with better food, better education... a better shot at a better life, can I honestly say I'm pro-life? Perhaps I'm no more pro-life than Cain, the biblical character who famously asked, "Am I my brother's keeper?"

If I say I'm pro-life yet fail to protest the execution of a living breathing human being on death row, a human being who bears the image of God just like me, can I honestly say I'm pro-life?  I may wear the "pro-life" moniker proudly, but am I pro (for) the life of that person waiting for his life to be extinguished?

If I say I'm pro-life yet consume and abuse the earth's resources like there's no tomorrow until my great grandchildren are literally cheated of all their tomorrows, can I really, honestly say that I'm pro-life?  Will a future generation believe my pro-life claim?  

I could list more "If I say I'm pro-life" examples, but you (and I) get the idea.  If I'm really honest with myself I must at least admit that being pro-life is complex.  Being pro-life includes more than just one spiritual, political and social issue. If I'm really honest with myself I may have to admit that maybe, just maybe I'm not as pro-life as I like to think I am. 

Maybe, just because I'm anti-abortion doesn't necessarily mean that I'm pro-life. 

Silence

“Silence is golden.”  A well known saying used by everybody from college librarians to overwrought parents.  I’m thinking a mother made it up while traveling with her kids in a car or covered wagon. 

Whatever its origins, I think the saying shares truth.  Silence is valuable.  But why? 

I went camping a while back.  For two weeks my dog Meg and I lived in the Pisgah National Forest.  I needed to get close to heaven so I went to the mountains. 

While I was there I was silent (for the most part) and I practiced silence as a spiritual discipline every morning.  Every morning I rose long before the sun, made my coffee, prayed my prayers and sat in silence.  Every morning I was sitting in silence as the darkness slowly, reluctantly surrendered to the light.

I think there is no time and place more void of sound than the pre-dawn hour in the middle of the woods.  The temperature drops a degree or two, the nighttime creatures are going to sleep, the daytime creatures are still dreaming…and silence fills the void.   

It’s the kind of noiselessness that can be felt, like a heavy mountain fog.  It grows into your psyche like kudzu grows into a tree until the tree can no longer be seen.  It gradually fills every part of your being like the slow rains fill the river till it overflows its banks.

Then, in that silence, you sense that God has invaded every single space in your soul.  And in that space you know him.  To your surprise you commune with him.  

I believe in meeting God in the voluminous worship of the gathered church, but my intuition tells me that God inhabits the silence as much as he inhabits the praise and the prayers and the preaching of his children…sometimes maybe even more.  That’s why silence is golden.  Because you will likely meet God there.       

If you’ve never practiced silence as a spiritual discipline, perhaps you would consider it.  Maybe turn off the noise makers, put down the devises and be silent…listen…wait.  Who knows, in silence you may encounter God.    

Mountain ridges and manmade towers

 

Today Meg and I hiked to the top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest.  (Meg is my dog.)  The climb was steep, at times forcing me to mimic Meg… all fours.  In the end we made our way up and up until finally, we were at the top. 

The view from the top is incredible.  I’ve always been fascinated by trees and from here I can see an ocean of them; red oaks, white pines, silver maples.  Trees are the kings and queens of the mountains.  With laurel at their feet (attendants in waiting) the trees line the ridges and stretch upward, proud rulers of the highlands. 

As I looked out across the valleys to opposing peaks my eyes were drawn higher to the clouds just above those peaks, patting them on the head like little children as they passed by.  They were the remnants of a front that passed through last night dumping a couple inches of rain, swelling creaks and washing out roads.  They were traveling fast, as if trying to catch up with their brother and sister clouds out ahead of them.

At the top of this particular ridge stood an electrical tower, a great pyramid of angle iron, bolts and brackets.  Leaning against a bottom brace I wondered out loud how in the world those linemen managed to get the necessary tools and materials to this remote location.  Meg offered no plausible explanation. 

Yet, in the shadow of a great human achievement of cold steel and bare wires, I couldn’t help but notice how insignificant and ugly it was.  Standing on that ridge, that tower and others like it, formed a great electrical highway through the Blue Ridge Mountains.  But alongside those blue mountains the towers were overwhelmingly unimpressive. 

In college I took Geology 101.  So I know a little bit about tectonic plates shifting, butting into one another like bulls trying to lay claim to territory.  Over millions of years this heated debate resulted in the great upheaval of rock and earth we call mountain ranges.  I’ve been told that this one, the one my ancestors called home, has actually been eroding for quite some time. 

So I know just a little bit about the science behind the mountains.  And I know just a little bit about the engineering behind the towers.  (To borrow a saying from one of my mountaineer friends, you can take all I know about either of those subjects, put it in a thimble and it will roll around like a BB in a boxcar.)  Still, when I’m standing on one of those mountains I feel something that college geology can’t explain.  One word for it is “awe.”  I’m impressed by the tower and the engineers who put it there.  But I’m in awe of the mountains and the creator who put them here.

Standing on the top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest I lean against a manmade tower and worship the one who made man and mountains.  I worship the one who created the brains that can create towers and skyscrapers and I worship the one who created beauty that eclipses the best those brains can imagine.

Standing on top of a mountain ridge somewhere in the Pisgah National Forest I worship the same one that an ancient Jewish poet worshiped when he wrote, “O Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.  Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.”  (Psalm 90:1-3)

Stillness: A Worship Exercise

The earth is blanketed with snow; at least the earth in my back yard.  When it snows in the south everything screeches to a halt, even Sunday worship.  So today most churches in my very southern city of Shelby, NC are not gathering for worship.

I’m not saying this is a bad thing.  In fact, it could be very good.  The past three days of snow paralysis has given me the opportunity to do something I don’t do enough of… be still.  I’ve been spending long periods of time meditating, listening, being quiet, being still (at least more than I normally do) and I think it’s been a good thing.

Here’s a phrase from one of the ancient song writers of Israel.  “Be still and know that I am God.”  Psalm 46:10

Somehow when I get still, when I become silent, when I let my activity filled world come to a dead stop, God shows up.  God invades stillness.  Personal, intimate, transcendent knowledge of God happens in the stillness of my soul.

Perhaps it is fair to say it this way.  God… the deepest and most profound personhood of God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit… is simply not knowable apart from stillness. 

Kyle Murphy, the worship leader at my church, and I have had several conversations about what it would be like if we put this instruction into practice one Sunday morning by having a “Be Still Sunday.”  When our church gathered for worship we would announce that the worship hour would consist of no songs and no sermon.  For one hour we would be silent and still so that we can know that Yahweh is God. 

I wonder how our people would respond.  Would our people step into the stillness?  Embrace the silence?  Would they bolt for the door?     

So here’s my challenge, especially for the Zoar Church family.  Be still as a worship exercise.  Since we’re not gathering for worship this morning what if you took an hour (the worship hour) to be still.  For an hour just be still, be silent.  Listen.  Don’t talk.  Don’t ask God for anything.  Just be still and know God.

Start the hour with this prayer.  “Speak Lord for your servant is listening.”  Then be still and silent for an hour.  When the hour is over end with this prayer.  “Thank you…Thank you…Thank you.  Amen”

 

 

 

 

Do Muslims and Christians Worship the Same God?

This seems to be a “hot button” topic these days.  Some prominent Christian leaders have weighed in.

At the very real risk of over simplifying the issue, may I point out something that seems pretty obvious to me?  As monotheists we believe in one God.  That means that there is only one God to worship.  There is no competition between rival deities.  There is only confusion among worshipers.

As Christians we believe that the ultimate revelation of the one true God is found in Jesus Christ, God in the flesh.  Jesus is the Word made flesh (John 1).  Jesus is the Word of God.  "Jesus is what God has to say." (Brian Zahnd) 

Tragically, some Muslims are far from the God revealed in Jesus Christ.  They resort to violence, intimidation, fear and hatred to further their cause.  Tragically, some who use the name “Christian” are very far from the God revealed in Jesus Christ.  They resort to violence, intimidation, fear and hatred to further their cause.    

Neither of these groups are worshiping the one true God revealed in Jesus.  Ironically, both groups are worshiping the same false god, the god of violence, intimidation, fear and hatred.

Some Muslims seem very close to the God revealed in Jesus Christ; like the Kenyan Muslims who protected a group of Christians from Islamist militants.  And some Christians seem very close to the God revealed in Jesus Christ; like the ones responding to Ed Stetzer's call to love and care for refugees.  Sadly, some still miss the heart of Jesus.

The gospel writer Mark records a conversation that Jesus had with a very religious man.  He agreed with Jesus’ teaching that the greatest commandment is to love God and neighbor.  Then Jesus said to him, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.”  (See Mark 12:28-34) 

Perhaps Jesus would say the same thing to the Kenyan Muslims.  And perhaps he would say the same thing to some Christians.  This Christmas may we all move closer to the heart of Jesus.  

 

One Pastor’s perspective on Refugees and Risk

Most of us agree that following Jesus is risky business.  But how much risk is reasonable? 

Right now devout followers of Jesus in our nation find themselves on both sides of the current refugee crisis.  Some believe we should freely open our borders to the seemingly endless flow of humanity streaming out of Syria.  Some have advocated restricting that flow or cutting it off altogether.

The arguments for the later are convincing.  What about our responsibility to protect our own citizens?  What about the very real possibility that terrorists will slip in undetected?  Is it not irresponsible, even immoral, to jeopardize the safety of our own children?

Of course the recent tragedy in France proves that those arguments are not without merit.

Personally, I want to come down on the side of self-defense.  There’s a part of me, a really big part, that says, Close the borders!  Build walls!  Erect razer fencing! Station armed guards at every entry point! Low risk seems reasonable to me.         

But as a person trying to follow Jesus I have a couple problems... 

1.      One problem is Church History

Rodney Stark, a noted historian, points out that the outbreak of epidemics was not uncommon in the ancient Roman world.  In overcrowded cities, lack of sanitation and limited medical expertise rendered ancient people defenseless against the invading diseases.  In an effort to reduce the risk of infection, many abandoned their infected family members in the streets. 

During the second great epidemic, around 260, Christians responded differently.  Instead of discarding loved ones in the streets, they rescued those discarded by others.  Stark quotes an Easter letter written by Dionysius, the Bishop of Alexandria.

Most of our brother Christians showed unbounded love and loyalty, never sparing themselves and thinking only of one another.  Heedless of danger, they took charge of the sick, attending to their every need and ministering to them in Christ, and with them departed this life serenely happy; for they were infected by others with the disease, drawing on themselves the sickness of their neighbors and cheerfully accepting their pains.  Many, in nursing and curing others, transferred their death to themselves and died in their stead.  (Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity, page 82.)

Because of their faith in Christ and commitment to his teaching, these Christians put themselves at great risk and apparently thought it reasonable to do so.

Some may deem this example invalid.  After all, ministering to sick people in your own city is not the same as opening your city (or state or country) to outsiders who may intend to do you harm.

Maybe a closer correlation would be the Christians, like Corrie Ten Boom and her family, who hid Jews from the Nazis prior to and during WWII.  The risks they took were multiple.  Among those were the real possibility that Nazi sympathizers would pose as Jewish refugees seeking sanctuary.  Every time the Ten Boom family opened their doors to a Jew they were risking their own lives.  Of course, for the Ten Boom family, that risk became reality.  Their hiding place was discovered.  They were arrested and placed in German prison camps.  All but Corrie died in those camps because being followers of Christ compelled them to take risks, very great risks.

2.      The other problem is Jesus

I think it is safe to say that Jesus was a risk taker and he taught his disciples that following him involved risk.  Actually, maybe “risk” is not the best word.  Jesus taught that following him would result in certain suffering. 

Repeatedly he told his disciples that they would be taking up their own crosses if they followed him.  In other words, following Jesus requires a willingness to die.

The apostle Peter who, according to tradition, was himself crucified upside down wrote, “if you suffer for doing good and you endure it, this is commendable before God. To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps.  (1 Peter 2:20-21)

In our modern western world we think that risk should be eliminated.  But we must remember that following Jesus is inherently risky. 

I want to keep my family safe.  Low risk sounds good to me.  But the teachings and example of Jesus Christ compel us to risk everything to do the right thing.  Making room for refugees who need a safe place to live is the right thing.  Is it risky to open our doors to these neighbors?  Yes, it is.  But for Christ followers, it is right to take the risk.   

 

Is the Confederate Flag a Convenient Scapegoat?

Perhaps the confederate flag should be removed from the grounds of the State Capital in South Carolina.  I think it probably should be taken down, but I make that statement with some hesitation.  For one thing, I’m afraid that many of you will stop reading after that sentence.  For another I don’t think that removing the flag will actually decrease our racism or the violence that all too often rises up out of it. 

The ancient Israelites practiced an annual ritual on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.  The high priest would place his hands on the head of a goat, symbolically transferring the sins of all the people onto the animal.  The goat would then be led into the wilderness and released.  It’s where we get our term “scapegoat.”    

I wonder if we’re using the Confederate Flag as a type of scapegoat. 

Think about it.  This whole flag thing seems to have taken on a life of its own.  It seems to me that the nine innocent people who lost their lives have taken a back seat to conversations about the flag.  It seems like a piece of cloth has somehow been animated by our anger, given life by the sins we heap on it.  Now it can be safely lead away into the wilderness.  

Those of us on Facebook and Twitter campaigning to take it down, and those of us campaigning to leave it up, both seem to gain the same benefit.  If I’m focused on the flag I don’t have to look into my own heart.

You see, if I’m really honest I have to admit that my real problem is not the thing attached to a flag pole.  My real problem is the thing living in my heart. 

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn famously said, “The line separating good and evil passes not through states, not between classes, nor between political parties, but through every human heart.”

The truth is I can’t get rid of my sin of racism by placing it on the Confederate Flag.  

But if I can turn my attention (and the attention of others) to a debate about a flag, then maybe I won’t have to face the contents of my own heart.  I won’t have to face the fact that I don’t have any really close friends of a different ethnicity than my own.  I won’t have to confront the feelings of condescension that sometimes well up in my heart standing in the grocery store checkout line.  I won’t have to face the loathing in my heart when the crime was committed by a person of a different race.  I don’t have to extract the two by four from my own eye because I’m so preoccupied with the splinter in the eye of the other guy.  I can complain about the racist living across the street instead of confronting the racist living in my house.  

According to the scriptures, Jesus Christ became the scapegoat for every human being, including every racist of every race.  Followers of Jesus believe that we can be honest with ourselves about the sin that resides in our own hearts because Jesus has already absorbed it into his being and exhausted it of its power.  We can step into the shame we all share because Jesus has borne our shame.  We can share one another’s sorrows because Jesus has shared all our sorrows.  We can forgive each other because he has forgiven us.   We don’t have to find any other scapegoats.