Jared Moore

I have lost most of my exclusionary tendancies towards people within the church–especially around the Lord’s table. So having read the Nashville Statement, written as a defense of traditional Biblical interpretation against LBGT behavior, I recognize within it a language I’m increasingly finding foreign. My question to the church is this, “But what are you willing to do to reach them?” Obviously holding the LBGT community off at arms distance isn’t working. It’s fostered hostility from both sides. Here’s my thinking; If holiness looks like a church having no simblance, stain, appearance, or apparition of brokenness, then no church is holy. When did the appearance of holiness become the mission for the church? It isn’t. It’s to minister the power of Jesus’s love and grace and mercy to those who feel unworthy or disqualified or marginalized. Which causes me to take a different posture. I would suggest the church recover the example of Jesus, who having dined with the prostitues, thieves, and men and woman of all manner of social “unholiness”, received direct and pointed criticism that he was too close to sinners.

“And as Jesus reclined at table in the house, behold, many tax collectors and sinners came and were reeling in with Jesus and his disciples. And when the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?’ but when he heard of it, he said, ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.’ For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.” Matthew 9:10-13 (ESV)

God was being accused of hobbnobbing with sinners too much. Just sit with that for awhile. Jesus dined with those who, according to Old Testament law, should have been stoned to death for their behavior.

Fidelity to Scripture, at least in the way Evangelical churches have defined fidelity for the last 50 years, is not a fidelity to the God we find revealed in Jesus Christ. It has not been faithful to Patristic teachings. It has not been faithful to the historic Church. It has not been faithful to one of the central themes of Christianity; that of being with the “least of these.” I know there is imagery of the church being white and blameless at the the coming of Jesus (which for me is a humorous double entendres especially here in my context of rural Ralls County, Missouri). I get that. But Jesus laid down his claim to whiteness (ahem…) and blamelessness in order to go and be present to the very people who were excluded and barred from the religious order of the day. The white linen of His garments were stained with the soil of people’s lives and circumstances. And it bothered Him none.

I would pray that churches open up space for those whom they deem are wholly unlike them. And for that to happen in a meaningful way, means that categorization needs to stop. And how this looks is specific to each community of faith. For the small mostly fundamentalist churches in my rural area, it must mean they practice recognizing the image of God in every person. It may mean, when they see someone that they harbor resentment towards, they speak a mantra to themselves, “they were worth Jesus dying for, too.” It may mean intentionally befriending someone who they considered to be “other” and sharing a meal with them. It may mean that as a subversive act against all our Ralls County “whiteness” and “rightness”, we intentionally make a friend of a black person, gay person, a muslim, or–and hold on to your seat–a Democrat. And if it starts in our life in small ways, it spills in to our faith communities in small and subtle, yet formative and beautiful ways.

I’ll take my cues from Jesus.

“But he said to him, “A man once gave a great banquet and invited many. And at the time for the banquet he sent his servant[a] to say to those who had been invited, ‘Come, for everything is now ready.’ But they all alike began to make excuses. The first said to him, ‘I have bought a field, and I must go out and see it. Please have me excused.’ And another said, ‘I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I go to examine them. Please have me excused.’ And another said, ‘I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.’ So the servant came and reported these things to his master. Then the master of the house became angry and said to his servant, ‘Go out quickly to the streets and lanes of the city, and bring in the poor and crippled and blind and lame.’ And the servant said, ‘Sir, what you commanded has been done, and still there is room.’ And the master said to the servant, ‘Go out to the highways and hedges and compel people to come in, that my house may be filled.” Luke 14:16-24

But back to the Nashville Statement.

There’s plenty of room at the banquet table–the table where we all come to eat of the body and blood of Jesus Christ to be formed by the power of the Holy Spirit. The questions the Evangelical church must wrestle within their community is this; How do we balance faithfulness to Scripture with faithfulness to the community around us? If they aren’t held together with wisdom and love, we get things like the Nashville Statement and other defensive postures that utterly cripples the Church from being faithful to the mission of Christ. If faithfulness to Scripture looks like exclusion of a people group, then I’m curious that if on the day of Judgement we will be condemned for a lack of faithfulness to the letter of the law or–and this is what I see in the teachings of Jesus–that we will be condemned for not entering into the lives of those around us–regardless of sexual preference or gender identity–with compassion and mercy.

Even as I type these words, my heart feels torn, because I don’t think I’ve captured it. I’m still saying words like, “‘we’ need to be more with ‘them.'” And I fear it just propagates an “us” verses “them” posture which is exactly the problem. Because the reality is, and this may be what Jesus was trying to get at, “We are ‘them.'”

Don’t feel sorry for us. We’re ok. And we’re going to be ok. But the last two years of our lives together have aged us and strained us and bent us into contortions befitting the ancient tradition of Kama Sutra. But unlike that—and we’ve all found a copy under our brother’s bed, haven’t we—it hasn’t been pleasurable or romantic or unifying or titilating.
I’m almost tired of talking about it. Or thinking about it. And if it weren’t for the occasional—probably more than occasional—tremors and aftershocks that follow such traumatic quaking of the heart’s firmament, I’d have taken the advice of many aquaintences and just “suck it up” or “get on with it” or “no pain no gain” and whatnot.

Having lived my life next to the Mississippi River, I’ve heard tales and stories of the 1812 earthquake that hit the New Madrid fault line the through Southern Missouri which caused the Mississippi River, at one point, to flow backwards.

It’s an improbable tale.

Come with me for a moment to the deck of a flat boat where a trapper is conveying his cargo of furs down the river towards Cape Girardeau. In an instant, the water begins to ripple and your eyes go to the shore where the large cottonwoods begin shimmering and the ones nearer the bank heave into the river with cracking roots and spectacular splashes. You move your rudder to take your creaking craft away from the shoreline. As you you make it further from the bank and nearer to the channel you stand and observe the landscape around you, looking for familiar landmarks. They aren’t there. You stand up to gain a better perspective and fear grabs your ankles like tentacles, fastening them to the rickety deck of this boat. The shore ceases its slow parade upstream as you cease being carried down with the current. There is no movement at all. And in a moment, the muddy water seems to groan as it takes a beleaguered breath. It’s chest heaves upward and you perceive a small wall of water like an ocean wave coming towards you from downriver. Your heart fails as you hit the deck and begin to grasp for whatever hold your fingers can find, pressing your pale face into the waterlogged wood of the rough deck. A water choked scream for rescue gushes from the bottom of your being.

Have you been caught in a vortex? Is this some legendary and wrathful whirlpool? Has leviathan finally come, wielding the judgement of its Creator?

The surge of water picks up your boat and pushes it, along with debris, junk, and other boats unfortunate enough to be here at this place at this time. The water is violent as it spins and tumbles you, half drowning you in its turbulence.

The maladventure was short-lived. In a few more moments, the wave subsides altogether, the water—although churned into a thick soup of river muck—resumes its long slow march towards the gulf, just like is has for thousands of years and just like it will for many more.

And so the story of the earthquake is not a long one. It is actually quite uncompelling in its shortness. In fact many doubt that anything spectacular happened and stare at you dumbly as you guardedly tell them your story. Maybe you did make it up? Maybe you are having some psychosis? Did you simply overreact to some wind whipped waves?

I don’t have proof, except for the aftershocks. Again, no one else can feel them. And even I think they may just be phantoms and ghosts of my imagination. But if that were true then why when I look at the water do I feel the pangs of suspicion and betrayal? Why when I see odd ripples crisscrossing a smooth sunset lit pond, do I feel the same anxiety and panic that carried me away that day.

There’s death in my soul and I don’t know how to cast it out.

But what we need in times like this is someone to say words of comfort.

“You did not die. You are still together. This quaking frame of a man is the same man who stood before. Two feet under two legs. You’re going to be fine.”

“But how and why?” The questions crash into my heart.

But what we need in times like this is someone to say words of reality.

“The tectonic plates moved. As one fault line sunk under the other, it created a depression in the river bed that, now being the lowest point in that portion of the river, disrupted the usual flow of the river as it temporarily reversed course to fill in the new void.”

That’s it, really.

Reality sounds cold and undramatic. Because it is.

So presently the task of a survivor becomes made aware to him.
-Stand up.
-Learn to trust the water again.
-Map the new landscape.
-Mark the channel.

But do take your time. There is no rush. Everyone’s heart beats at a different speed and rhythm. Everyone’s legs stop shaking sooner or later, if they stop shaking at all. But even shaky legs are sufficient to hold a person up.

And if you feel like you’ve drowned, washed up on the shore, laying limply in unpeaceful rest, there are but two consolations. Firstly, and most importantly—although you may dispute this—please know and trust that you are not alone. Secondly, if your heart has stopped beating, please know the resuscitation process is often just as violent as the quake that shook you to this place. But someone will come. Someone who cares and loves and sees and knows. How will they know? Do you still think you are the first one to experience the Mississippi River to flow backwards? (See number 1) But this person, whoever it may be, is coming. They will find you and you and will beat your chest so hard you will think they are killing you again. But, alas, your shattered heart will find itself once more and your water-logged lungs will breath again.

You will be ok.

You will live.

You will thrive.

And you will again rediscover the mystique and mystery of this river again.

You won’t need to find its current, it will graciously find you.

This post isn’t for you. It’s for me and for those who have found themselves lost at sea. It’s one o’clock in the morning. The wind is blowing outside and the hum of the box fan propped up in the window can be heard vibrating through the house. It’s 80 degrees outside. And it’s 80 degrees inside. The forecast says the weather is supposed to change and begin storming later in the morning. So be it.
I’m five months and nine days into a season that I never wanted to be in. I’ve lost my church. I’ve lost relationships. And I’m lost somewhere between Tarshish and Nineveh. I’ve been tossed overboard and there’s no whale in sight.
But it’s not just me. My wife and children were lashed to me when I was tossed and they tumbled overboard involuntarily.
And we’re clinging to driftwood.

So be it.

At first we sang songs of promise. We recited stories of redemption and salvation. It caused the salt water to taste a little sweeter.
But we saw mere potential and called it a promise.
Our songs have grown quieter. Our stories are fewer.
Silence is the glue that holds our hopes together.
And the salt water was never sweet.
It burns our throats as we swallow. It always had.
These hours melt into days and the days go by unrecognizable from one another. It’s Sunday again?
And so we cling to one another and we grapple for whatever grip and hold we can find among the drifting debri.
If I knew which direction to go I’d swim there.
I’d love to swim. Long strokes that stretch the back with the violent and controlled kicking that propels. I’d love to swim. I want to swim.
If I could get my bearings from the stars, l could know which way to kick.
But I don’t know how to get my bearings from the stars. None of the antique stores in Hannibal carried astrolabes.

So be it.

22 Sundays have come and gone. I’ve counted them. I’ve spoken them. And I’ll recite them again;

Epiphany
2nd Sunday after Epiphany
3rd Sunday after Epiphany
4th Sunday after Epiphany
5th Sunday after Epiphany
6th Sunday after Epiphany
7th Sunday after Epiphany
Transfiguration Sunday
1st Sunday of Lent
2nd Sunday of Lent
3rd Sunday of Lent
4th Sunday of Lent
5th Sunday of Lent
Palm Sunday
Easter
2nd Sunday of Easter
3rd Sunday of Easter
4th Sunday of Easter
5th Sunday of Easter
6th Sunday of Easter
7th Sunday of Easter
Pentecost

You didn’t read them all did you? I get it. It’s hard to do. The words melt together into a bland porridge in the brain.

How long did Jonah tread water? At what point in his struggle to keep his chapped lips above the water was he swallowed into mercy? How many times did his head sink below the waves?

Here’s the thing about salt water; it stings within the wounds, but it helps you see through the water every time the waves drag you under.

Eyes open to the monsters below. But not all monsters are there to kill. Some rescue.

So I’m learning to hold my breath as my head goes under, open my eyes, and watch for leviathan.

What happens when God doesn’t rescue?

The psalmist cries, “Hear my cry, o God, listen to my prayer; from the end of the earth I call to you when my heart is faint.”

I know, I’ve read those lines a thousand times, too. But, and maybe as with you, I didn’t trust the writer. I dismissed him as dramatic, too sentimental, words to be relegated as libretto in a Victorian era opera.

But nothing makes the heart panic like tasting saltwater. It’s only when I can find the tremble of terror in the psalmist’s voice that I get it. Only when I can smell the saltwater on his breath do the words pierce my spirit.

Because,
My heart is faint.
My rope is running out.
Disaster looms.
The end of my earth is near.

Rescue me.
Or don’t.
But let me know either way.

I don’t want to have to preach to myself. But there’s no other preacher spilling the words to soothe my pain.

Here’s what I would say if I had to say anything:
God isn’t rescuing you. God is with you.
The hell you are going through isn’t who you are.
Your location in the middle of a sea of destruction isn’t your true position.

The psalmist goes on to say,”Lead me to the rock that is higher than I,”
and “you have been my refuge…”
God was his refuge in the MIDST of the end of his hope.

And “a strong tower in the midst of my enemies…” In the midst. With.
“Let me dwell in your tent forever. Let me take refuge in the shelter of your wings.”

A refuge…shelter…strong tower…but not rescued.

This preaching doesn’t elicit amens. But hear it.

I think mercy swallows us just as we let go and slip under the surface of the water, resigned to death. It’s in the sinking. It’s in the freefall.

But I don’t know how to die. I don’t know how to inhale the water. I don’t know how to stop thrashing. I look around and those lashed to me stare back in wild-eyed panic.

How do I teach my family to die? What’s that pep talk? Where’s that children’s book?

We must learn to drown. We must learn to sink.

“I believe in Jesus Christ…He suffered under Pontius Pilot, was crucified, died, and was buried; He descended to the dead.”

So be it.

The next wave is about to crash and I swear I can see the dark outline of something just below the surface.

Hey, CoreConf16ers, here is the audio file to download. It’s 15 minutes long, which is a perfect amount of time for quieting your heart throughout the day. Use it as you will. -Pastor Jared