Eight Shades of Crayola

by Rebekah Mays 

As a child, I used to spend hours coloring paper doilies. I’d click my Lion King cassette into the tape player and line my markers up, single-file. I could sit like this for hours and color for a whole afternoon, filling in the spokes of those doily wheels with the shades of the Crayola rainbow. Beaming, I’d present the finished work to my parents, who would marvel over my creations and hang them on the wall.

I’m thankful to say I never had to worry about how they would react. I never had to worry they’d say it was a stupid way to spend my time, or that the doilies weren’t good enough for our refrigerator. I wasn’t afraid they would reject my gift – they were my parents after all, and they’d love whatever I gave them. It was my offering, and they accepted it.

It’s funny that I felt so confident expressing my love to my parents. When I later developed into a devout Calvinist, I became a big believer in TULIP and resonated in particular with the concept of total depravity. The idea was that I was so hopeless on my own that I needed God to swoop in and carry me, kicking and screaming, to the foot of the cross. After that, any good things that came out of my life were, apparently, all because of Christ and not any action on my part.

For a myriad of reasons, I’ve since distanced myself from my Calvinist upbringing. I’m Catholic now, and if there’s one difference in my faith, it’s how I see myself in relation to God. I still believe it’s God’s grace, not my own works, that have saved me. I still believe that ignoring Christ’s call and instead living only for my own desires would be an enormous mistake, to put it mildly.

The fundamentals of my beliefs are all the same. But here’s the big change: instead of seeing myself as a worthless sinner haunted by my past and future failures – which I tended to do in my early years – I now see myself as infinitely valuable. The world and I are extravagantly loved by God. And therefore I imagine that God doesn’t see our devotions and offerings as disfigured by our “total depravity.” We’re made in his image and glorify him by our mere existence. And when we love him, we glorify him even more.

A declaration of the Vatican described it this way:

“The good works of the justified are always the fruit of grace. But at the same time, and without in any way diminishing the totally divine initiative, they are also the fruit of man, justified and interiorly transformed.”

If you’re skeptical, think for a moment of the woman who anointed Jesus’s feet with perfume. The disciples were shocked, criticizing her for her wasteful actions. This expensive perfume could have been sold, they say. But Jesus didn’t rebuke the woman. He saw the extravagant ritual for what it was – an act of love, a “beautiful thing.” Certainly God’s grace working in her life prompted her to honor the Lord like this. But she was also a woman in love, interiorly transformed and willing to do something profligate. And the fragrance of her devotion, we are told, filled the entire house. 

Many denominations in the Protestant church, as well as many parishes in the Catholic Church too, for that matter, have long started moving away from language that focuses on how terrible we are and how imperfect our worship is. I think this a step in the right direction. By dwelling too much on our sinful habits instead of honoring God with the incredible lives given to us, we’re missing out on a host of opportunities.

The way I see it, God loves our limp, bleeding paper doilies. He takes them in his hand and examines them. He doesn’t criticize our offerings and our attempts to love him, and so we don’t need to dwell on how unworthy they are, either. Because the longer and more deeply we love him, the more intricate and the more gorgeous our lives will become. Our love won’t be confined to eight shades of Crayola, but to colors even the naked eye can’t see. 

Rebekah Mays is a Barnard College graduate originally from Austin, Texas. She currently works and writes in Prague, Czech Republic. You can find more of her writing on her blog The Prague BLOG or follow her on Twitter @smallbeks.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

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Grace Is Waiting

by Lyndsey Graves 

On a retreat this weekend, my mind wandered the way it can amidst the sudden freedom of escaping the city: I don’t have any idea what time it is, and it doesn’t even matter. It is “afternoon.” When you’re not so busy, it really seems ludicrous to measure and divide time the way we do in America. 

And we’re so proprietary about it. ‘He wasted fifteen minutes of MY time’. Like he stole something from me; like I would’ve cured cancer in that fifteen minutes if I had it back.

We build our lives around this belief in the scarcity of time.

But we’ve never wasted God’s time. Even when we miss our appointments with Her.

Grace is waiting.

This thought sprung out of my half-formed mental wanderings, and now, like some kind of fantastical companion animal, it’s been following me around for two days: grace is waiting.

I am an American and a problem-solver, a strategizer and planner, and I am a graduate student in Boston; all of which means I believe my time is extraordinarily important. I have a mental schedule for work and homework and exercise. I am ashamed to admit it, but I’m often that person in the long drugstore line making huffy noises about employees I suspect could be opening another register. I make calculating decisions about whether I have time for conversations with housemates.

I have no idea how to wait for anything. I can’t “be still” unless I’ve penciled it my planner. I can’t enjoy someone’s story unless I know the point of the story is coming soon. Grocery store lines remind me of my lack of control, and give me nothing but anxiety. Though I could be watching things unfold; taking in the process; reflecting on my day; connecting with another person; or thinking of a favor to do for a friend, instead I’m just stewing in a stew of irritability. And it hardly ever occurs to me to just be, simply a person standing in a line or listening to a story and letting events carry me along for a few minutes.

The real problem here, though, is not just that I need to change some habits and attitudes. The real problem is that, if I have definite ideas for how grocery stores should and should not be run, then obviously I believe that I know best how things should come to pass in churches. We all have our opinions and expectations for where the church is going, where it should be going, how it should get there, how it should not get there, what language should be used to describe it. And a little too often, I think, our perception of ourselves as correct or “forward-thinking” leads us to label our personal hopes and plans as the Movement Of The Holy Spirit, who is going to leave everybody else behind if they don’t Get On Board. Especially if we like to think of ourselves as Revolutionaries, then we expect other people to immediately grasp The Problem and The Solution, to drop everything and embrace our cause, because we are So Obviously Right. If they don’t, they are backwards, ignorant, uncompassionate, or grasping after power or traditions that are already dead, and we dismiss them as enemies.

Of course, most people wouldn’t describe their hopes and work for the future of the church that way, but it seems to seep into so many of our actions.  If we are going to avoid this attitude, I think we need to remember – grace is waiting.

How many times in my life have I been unable to see my own sin? How many times have I been able to see it clearly, and still found myself desperately unable to cross the gap between what is and what should be? How many times have I known I was doing wrong, and taken advantage of God’s grace by choosing not to face Him?

Seventy times seven times, God has walked with me through a slow, halting, wandering path of change while I remained willful, dense, pride-filled, self-absorbed, and childish; all the while nudging me gently into a better Way with the whisper: I love you. I am. I am here.

However exegetically correct and culturally astute I may believe myself to be, maybe this is a true test of whether I am Spirit-led – whether I can walk this path with others, without compromising the vision for a better future, but not grasping for control by proclaiming that The Future is Now when, in fact, the future is in the future. The future is unfolding of God’s accord, not being summoned of my will; and people are always learning, not springing forward another evolutionary step by next Wednesday. We are journeying together one step at a time, creating together one stroke at a time, and I believe that even the missteps and clashing colors will one day be resolved by One who sees better than I do.

And for as long as the days and the stories are still turning themselves over like a sunrise, grace will still be waiting. 

Lyndsey lives in Boston, MA where she is pursuing her Master's in Theological Studies at Boston University. She enjoys Community, Mad Men and Beauty and the Beast and her spirit animal is a sloth. She would like to know if this is some kind of interactive theater art piece. You can follow her on Twitter @lyndseygraves and you can find more of her writing at her blog To Be Honest. 

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

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On Love

by Lane Severson

As a Christian, I find it very difficult to say anything about love that is both true to experience and true to my religious convictions. The Bible seems to indicate that God is love and that we are identified as part of God's people by being loving. The entire law boils down to loving God and loving our fellow man. At the same time we seem to only experience love in a glimpse here and there and even then, it seems to be enveloped by the rest of life – there, but indistinguishable from everything else. Or, on our worst days, it seems to have only been a cruel illusion that was never true at all.

The worst way to talk about love is when we reduce the word to the idea of “niceness.” Loving our neighbor then means that we are nice to people even when they are mean to us. The result of this is usually that we begrudgingly “take the high road” and subsequently feel self-righteous about it. No one actually says that this is what love is, but this is what often passes for “loving our neighbor.” In my experience, this kind of love makes me more of a dick and less like Jesus, and that makes me think it isn't love at all.

What does love look like? (If you just answered “Jesus” in your head, I'm going to smack you.) I have a couple stories that sound like love to me.

Once upon a time, a friend of mine broke up with his on-again-off-again girlfriend of what seemed like decades. Then, they both signed up for eHarmony and were matched with each other. And now they’re married with a couple of kids. I haven't seen them in years, so it’s entirely possible they now hate one another. But when I think of that story, I feel like love won. 

Or, I think of the woman in my Dad's church who got remarried to her first husband after 25 years of separation. That is the most romantic story I know.

I can also tell you stories about how I've hurt the people I love and how they have hurt me too. Obviously, I know the difference between doing something hurtful to a person that I love and doing something loving toward them. But I don't know what being loving looks like outside of a relationship that includes being hurt and forgiven.

A couple years ago, I found myself walking wounded, struggling with inner turmoil. A part of it had to do with a difficult encounter with my parents; they’d dropped the ball on some stuff in life that was deeply important to me. I finally brought it up to them, and they realized then that they’d not held onto that ball very tightly at all. They apologized; they asked if there was anything they could do to make it up. But emotional scars aren’t exactly the sort of thing that can be patched up with a gift card to Banana Republic. I answered honestly; I told them I didn’t think so. Now, they weren’t trying to hurt me. I just got hurt. They couldn’t fix that fact, and neither could I.

“What now?” my Dad asked.
“I think this is where grace happens.” I said.

One of the things I can tell you about grace is that it’s something totally beyond what we’re able to offer on our own, even to people we think we love. Grace is God being sufficient in our weakness. It is a divine help that is sent to us when we need it. Or, to be more accurate, it is sent when someone else needs it from us.

The moments in my life that seemed the most like love had almost nothing to do with me or with my ability to love. They all seem like the story above: the unlikely overcoming of things that were going wrong. I'm obviously not talking about the vapid idea of “falling in love,” which is just total bullshit. I'm talking about an idea of love that could somehow be a connection with the love that God is, a love that requires his presence because it requires us to be weak and him to be strong.

Loving our neighbor can't just mean “be nice, even when they don't deserve it.” As I mentioned above, this is a surefire recipe for becoming a huge d-bag. Loving our neighbor has to mean that we don’t hide our weakness anymore. It means that we can be vulnerable with people who are different, even repulsive, to us.

Love can only be this way, this deep and radical vulnerability, when it is grounded in a faith that God’s strength really is motivated by love and really will be present in our weakness. This means that exactly at the moment when we assume love hasn’t happened – when we have exposed our weakness and actually been a dick - that God’s grace can happen and we can finally experience what we believe to be true, that God is love.

Lane Severson blogs at On Pop Theology and Out of Ur. He likes charismatic liturgy and listening to Kanye West or Jay Z with his wife and five children. Lane can be found at about.me/lseverson or on Twitter @_lxnx.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

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Image #3, Grace by davespertine 
  
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Failure, The Only Option

by Rebekah Mays

As a writer, I often wish there was some magic pill I could take that would instantly transform me into Flannery O’Connor. I’ll look at a page I’ve written, think it’s genius, read it again an hour later, delete the whole thing, and start over.

Supposedly, all writers suffer this inferiority complex, and logic and experience tell me that no one becomes great at what they do overnight. But the impulse to think otherwise is really strong. It tells me that what I write needs to be perfect the first time round and that any failure is an omen I won’t “make it” as a writer.

Two years ago, when I was first thinking about converting to Catholicism, I viewed faith a little like a ‘magic writer pill.’ I thought the sacraments would transform me in a way that Calvinism and charisma had not.

The sacrament that first got me considering Catholicism was confession, or “reconciliation.” I was eating pizza and discussing religion with a Catholic friend, and after I made some insensitive comment about the pointlessness of confession, my friend quoted John 20:23. Apparently, Jesus once said to his apostles, “If you forgive anyone’s sins, their sins are forgiven; if you do not forgive them, they are not forgiven.” How could I have missed this?

As an evangelical, I believed that to be absolved from my sins, all I had to do was tell Jesus I was sorry, ask for forgiveness, move on, and repeat when necessary. But it was never as simple as that. There were sins that, no matter how many times I confessed them in my prayers, I didn’t stop committing. Confessing in front of friends, which I tried a number of times, didn’t help much, either. There were a few moments which seemed like breakthroughs, for instance, that time at camp when we threw links of paper chains representing sin at the foot of a wooden cross. At first, it appeared successful. But the cycle would soon start over, and I’d fall back into old habits.

When I began studying the Catholic faith two summers ago, I was struck by how tangible everything was. The sacraments, the saints, the rosary – I realized that this wasn’t idolatry after all. These were tokens to help believers taste and see Christ, and I hungered for this kind of solid grace. I wanted to be a part of this faith, as old and rich as a bottle of wine, vintage 1 AD.

The day came for my confession. I was unbelievably nervous, but ready. Maybe this act would be the religious experience I wanted. Maybe receiving absolution would at last bring me peace and would once and for all free me from my guilt.

I opened the door to a small room. A priest was sitting there in a metal chair, facing the wall. There was no screen to separate us, and my stomach tightened into an even tinier knot. It took a few minutes for my confession to come bubbling out, but I told him everything – my sin, my shame, how distant I felt from God. The priest patiently listened. Then, he spoke about grace. He told me that the love of God is what really mattered.

A few minutes later, it was over; I closed the door behind me, spotless as a sacrificial lamb. But I didn’t feel so different. I was expecting the world to be brighter, my heart to be freer, the weight that had been pressing down on my shoulders to be gone. But I felt more or less the same as before. I was relieved, to be sure, but mainly that the priest was kind, and that the confession was over and done with. I’d hoped that partaking in the sacraments would change everything; it was disappointing to find I was the same messy person.

This was all about a year ago. And then, quite recently, I realized that God had been at the dirty work of sanctification all along. Last month, I managed to forgive someone. It was someone who’d hurt me, someone (like my writing, the sacraments, and a host of other things) through whom I’d tried to define myself.

I realize now that when I let go of my anger, it wasn’t just the other person I was making peace with. It was myself. It was relinquishing the idea that I’ll never be good, talented, or beautiful enough to make my life exactly what I want it to be. It was the unpleasant truth that there is no magic pill, that a lifetime of failure and faith is the only option. Solid grace is not some mountaintop experience that centers on the self – it’s living for others, forgiving them when they hurt you, and accepting God’s forgiveness when you hurt them.

And I was able to do this because of Christ, whom I’d met in the form of that priest. This was Christ, whom I’d received in my palms and dissolved on my tongue mere days before, at work in me. This was the sign of the cross over my chest, saying that despite my protests, I really am free. 

Rebekah Mays is a Barnard College graduate originally from Austin, Texas. She currently works and writes in Prague, Czech Republic. You can find more of her writing on her blog The Prague BLOG or follow her on Twitter @smallbeks.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

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On Pop Theology Podcast: Episode 42 - Stuffed Animals, Grace, and Being a Pastor in the City w/ Jes Kast-Keat

by Ben Howard

This week on the show Ben spends some time with Jes Kast-Keat, the associate minister of West End Collegiate Church in New York City. They talk about how Jes got into pastoring via her stuffed animal congregation, what reformed theology means to her, the meaning of grace, and the important lessons about being a pastor in the biggest city in the US. They'll also talk about the time Jes went shopping in Oman and made a life-long friend.

Be sure to follow Jes on Twitter and check out her website at JesKastKeat.com.

If you like the show, please rate and review us on iTunes. It's the first step in our secret mission to take over the world.

You can download the podcast by clicking here. Or you can subscribe to the podcast by searching "On Pop Theology" in the iTunes music store.

Also, remember to "Like" On Pop Theology on Facebook and follow us on Twitter @OnPopTheology for all the updates, posts, and links throughout the week.

Finally, if you'd like to stream the podcast, you can do that here: 

Peace,
Ben

If you have any questions, comments, or if you just want to say hi, you can contact us at onpoptheology [at] gmail.com.


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Remembering a Ragamuffin

by Rebekah Mays

On Friday, Brennan Manning, a beloved author, speaker, and former Franciscan friar, passed away at the age of 78.

He is best known for his book The Ragamuffin Gospel, which if you haven’t read, you should. The book’s subtitle gives you an idea of what Manning’s life was all about: “Good News for the Bedraggled, Beat-Up, and Burnt Out.”

It’s clear from Manning’s writing that he writes for himself just as much as for others. It is clear that he too needs God’s love, which is perhaps why his proclamation of the gospel is so effective. In his memoir, All is Grace, Manning humbly describes the detours of his life:

“Prone to wander? You bet. I’ve been a priest, then an ex-priest. Husband, then ex-husband. Amazed crowds one night and lied to friends the next. Drunk for years, sober for a season, then drunk again … I’ve shattered every one of the Ten Commandments six times Tuesday. And if you believe that last sentence was for dramatic effect, it wasn’t.”

As someone who occasionally thinks my screw-ups and destructive habits are beyond God’s healing and mercy, I relish Manning’s words. And I think for this reason, his writing couldn’t be more fitting for today’s believers and skeptics. Many Christians have finally realized that moralizing doesn’t convey the gospel well, and they are now admirably fumbling through a different way, the way of love.

The Ragamuffin Gospel tries to capture this lifestyle, with Manning both admitting his shortcomings and practically singing his praise of a forgiving and accepting Creator. Over and over he encourages us to look at Jesus, the God who loves us deeply despite our flaws, perhaps even because of them. And lest this message sound familiar or trite, Manning finds ways to catch our attention, reminding us that we can’t possibly comprehend the depths and wonder of divine love.

The wise man that he is, Manning also leaves room for doubt. In one passage from The Ragamuffin Gospel that brings to mind Paul’s letter to the Romans, Manning writes, “When I get honest, I admit I am a bundle of paradoxes. I believe and I doubt, I hope and get discouraged, I love and I hate, I feel bad about feeling good, I feel guilty about not feeling guilty … Aristotle said I am a rational animal; I say I am an angel with an incredible capacity for beer.” Who among us can say she is always sure, never doubting, never questioning, and never turning to material solutions that only temporarily release us from our pain?

There is nothing heretical or unorthodox about Manning’s books. His words could practically be lifted from the Bible itself, they resonate so deeply with Jesus’s teachings about forgiveness. Yet it’s sobering that the kind of radical love he speaks about isn’t easy to find in either secular or sacred communities. Some even find fault with Manning for opening the doors to the kingdom a little too wide.

It’s clear that now, as skeptics turn from religion and well-meaning but mistaken Christians strain to make the dividing lines between “us” and “them” ever more distinct, the need for the real gospel is greater than ever. Brennan Manning did his part, helping us remember what’s important: that we’re all bedraggled, helpless sinners, in desperate need of a whole lot of grace.

Rebekah Mays is a Barnard College graduate originally from Austin, Texas. She currently works and writes in New York City. You can find more of her writing on her blog Iced Spiced Chai or follow her on Twitter @smallbeks.

You can also follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.

 

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Review: Faith, Doubt, and Other Lines I've Crossed by Jay Bakker and Andy Meisenheimer

Jay Bakker

by Ben Howard

When I first heard Jay Bakker speak in January of this year, I was immediately captivated by his honesty, his vulnerability and his intense desire to find hope in love and unity. So I was more than happy to find out that Jay was releasing Faith, Doubt, and Other Lines I’ve Crossed in February along with his co-writer Andy Meisenheimer.

As a pastor’s son and, for lack of a better term, recovering evangelical, Bakker’s thoughts inevitably trace their way through the theological minefield that many like-minded people have also found themselves navigating. He begins with the struggles of doubt, the realization that doubt is a part of faith, rediscovering the Bible as a living document instead of a list of rules, and a recasting of what atonement and salvation really mean.

To be honest, the first five chapters reminded me of similar books, like my first experience with Rob Bell when I was in college, or Brian McLaren’s early work. Though they were familiar, I found myself drawn in by Jay’s openness. Whereas Bell and McLaren’s work showcased the positives of this new way of believing, Jay’s work shows the darkness and the pain of the struggle. He does not sugar coat the fact that this transition has been difficult, or really that life in general has been difficult, and this transparency helps to form a bond between reader and writer.

Read this book

Though the first half of the book may seem familiar, the final three chapters send the book into the stratosphere. In Chapter 6, Jay lays out his view of grace. He opens the chapter with the following quote from Brennan Manning:  “[Grace is] not cheap. It’s free, and as such will always be the banana peel for the orthodox foot and a fairy tale for the grown-up sensibility.”

From there, Jay begins to lay out an understanding of grace that is so self-evident and simple, yet simultaneously so difficult to swallow that it forces the reader to confront their own prejudices. He embraces the idea that when we say grace is for everyone, including those we hate, including those who hurt us, and including those who don’t deserve to be offered grace. Even if it offends us and we cannot offer grace ourselves, grace is for all.

He continues by showing that grace also extends to us, and that means that it extends through and beyond our own inability to accept what we find as “unacceptable” in our lives.

In my favorite passage in the book Jay lays out what happens when we accept ourselves:

“When we see and accept the unacceptable in our own lives, we recognize the unacceptable in other people’s lives and yet accept those people anyway. Then we are truly able to help others, to lead them to grace, to help them to grace, to help them discover transformation.”

This vision of grace and acceptance extends into the final two chapters which explore the world of the marginalized and the church’s call to seek the lost and the excluded. In these chapters he speaks over and over about how Jesus ate with the tax collectors, who were hated for their traitorous work for the Romans, and the sinners, who were ostracized by society. He loved people because society was allowed to hate them. He was on their side because they needed someone to love them too.

In the final chapter especially, Jay explores the need to accept gay and lesbian people into the church. He relates his own experience with this acceptance and how it led to him losing his job in Atlanta. How he did what he felt he had to do, because it was right, regardless of the pain and the cost.

Free, offensive and wonderful

That’s what I love about this book. It does not shrink from the pain of doing the right thing. It understands that a quest for loving unity, acceptance, and grace will lead to a lot of pain from those who are afraid of the implications. 

Additionally, I appreciated the way Jay came to his beliefs. He did not attempt to twist scriptures or re-contextualize them to make them say something that he wanted them to say (a temptation I am all too familiar with), instead he seems to have looked at them with fresh eyes and has been able to see through the grit and grime of a mountain of bad interpretations.

We love because it’s so obvious God loves us. We give grace because it’s so obvious the grace we’ve been given. We do what’s right because it’s so obviously the right thing to do, even when it hurts.

If this is what it looks like to cross the line, then I can’t wait to follow.

Peace,
Ben

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.

Contact us at onpoptheology [at] gmail.com.