There’s several different theories as to why Wright emerged from his press hideout to throw grenades at America, the media, our political system, and Obama’s campaign. On one extreme, pundits posit that Wright knew exactly what he was doing: throwing himself under the bus of public opinion so that Obama would have to completely cut off their relationship. According to this theory, Wright’s imploding was an act of martyrdom for a parishoner, and for America’s best interest. One other other extreme, the theory posits that Wright was out totally for personal gain and his ten minutes of mass media fame–and to sell his upcoming book. While this theory is familiar, it doesn’t seem to jive with what I know of the man in terms of the Christian circles in which he hangs, the theology which he reads, the social justice programs which he organizes. Overall, I don’t subscribe to either of these theories. I’m just confused.

But Carol, over at Tribal Church, asked me specifically,

When a member leaves a church, it’s always difficult. And watching this pastoral relationship dissolve in such a public way has been particularly painful. What are you learning, as in intern and seminarian, about the relationship between pastors and members?

Carol tends to write beautiful blog posts with a illustrative story intro and her brilliant perspective at the end. Not so with me, especially with three evening commitments this week and my parents in town. At A Wee Blether you get ugly, simple, boring, but hopefully somewhat helpful numbered points.

What I am learning–and what I still need to learn–about the relationship between pastors and members.

1. Pastors and members don’t need to be best friends, but they need to respect one another as fellow sojourners in the Christian faith. In any community, some folks will bond quickly with some, and not become fast friends with others. In a congregation that’s fine, that’s probably healthy, and it’s at least to be expected. The pastor’s job is not to become everyone’s best friend, but to be a pastor. A pastoral relationship is based in mutual respect, dialog, kindness, and love. That said, a pastor must also be careful not to distance some members because of her relationship with others, or to allow cliques to function unchallenged. If mutual respect is a governing doctrine, many a predicament may be averted.

2. Pastors are people too, but they’re still pastors. It’s a fallacy–functioning in some seminary circles–that pastors can be “on” from 9-5 plus Sundays and meetings, and then be islands unto themselves for the rest of the time. Perhaps this sounds appealing on paper, but it just doesn’t work. Congregation members shop at the same stores, drink at the same bars, and are on the other line of the phone when you’re angry at the local government. How a pastor treats her son’s soccer referee reflects on herself, and on her congregation. If a pastor writes an editorial, or endorses and political candidate (in her public citizen part of life), or sends an angry email, the pastor will find it very difficult to explain to the session, “But that had nothing to do with you, it was after hours.” Politicians get this; old school pastors too.

3. When you screw up, say so. Mike Huckabee, though I disagree with many of his positions, is a decent person and was probably a great pastor. When he screws up, he says so. I love his line, “That’s not the first stupid thing I said, nor will it be the last. I’ve apologized to _______, and reiterate that apology again now.” It’s not just effective politicking, it’s faithful to the gospel. When we sin, we should confess. Pastors who admit their many faults to their congregation contribute to strong, real, and faithful relationships with members.

4. Finally–because it’s weird to preach about pastors when I’m not yet ordained and have only served as one for 11.5 months–I’ll leave with my questions about this subject. How has the role of pastor changed as society as a whole has become more educated? (A pastor’s master degree is not as impressive as it once was in smaller town pre-21st century America.) To what extent, in a society suspicious of institutions, is a pastor’s relationship with her denomination helpful or hindering in pastoral relationships with members? When is it okay for pastors to accept gifts from members? When is it okay for them to ask for a favor?

I’ve greatly enjoyed this blog tit-for-tat with Carol regarding Jeremiah Wright. Many thanks to Carol for her wise words, and for you readers. Until the next religion-related controversy–or Wright flare-up–I’m going to take a break from Jeremiads.

image used by permission from Gabrielle Nowicki

Carol at Tribal Church and I are having a conversation about the Rev. Dr. Jeremiah Wright. Most recently, I asked Carol: How do you approach a sermon with which you deeply disagree? If you don’t agree with it, does that mean it’s not God’s word, or not God’s word for you?

Carol responds….

You know, I like to see our presidents to go to church. I wouldn’t ever vote against someone for not attending, but it does make me feel a little better knowing that the most powerful man in the world can take an hour to seek guidance from someone other than the political and military experts. It’s good when a leader is a part of that complicated community that seeks to know God, that listens for God’s word.

Bill Clinton didn’t miss too many Sundays. George W. Bush talks a lot about his faith, but he doesn’t darken the door of any church on a regular basis.

Barack Obama was an active church-goer, of a UCC congregation. He donated his gifts and money for decades. Which would normally help him in the running, but not this time. His pastor, widely known as a great religious mind, said things in the pulpit… things that are difficult to hear.

Of course, we know that Republicans have been supported by religious men like Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, and James Dobson, who regularly said things that horrify us. They pepper their broadcasts with vitriol against gays, lesbians, women, and even the poor. Michael Gerson addressed this recently:

Didn’t George Bush and other Republican politicians accept the support of Jerry Falwell, who spouted hate of his own? Yes, but they didn’t financially support his ministry and sit directly under his teaching for decades.

Okay, so Gerson only addresses Falwell, who is conveniently dead. Gerson’s explaining that religious right candidates have received the abundant money, the votes, the grass-roots organization, but they would never subject themselves to any sort of guidance from these men.

I wonder…how does that make the religious right feel? Do they feel played with this stark admission from one of Bush’s former speechwriters? Gerson outlines the harsh reality of the conservative/religious/political stew. It is not a quid pro quo, something for something. It is something for nothing. There is no relationship here.

Gerson says Obama’s case was different. Obama didn’t just have a supporter, he had a pastor. Obama was not receiving money from Wright’s organization. He was giving money to a church. And when the words came out of Wright’s mouth, Obama did not leave.

Why didn’t he leave?

As Barack Obama explained in his speech, the church was more than a place where he could garner support for his promising political career. Obama was part of a relationship, a community, a family. The words of his pastor made him cringe. But he learned something very important there. He learned to listen to the generations who came before him. And through those words, he learned who he was and who he was not. Obama is not casting Wright off as a batty old uncle (as Gerson proclaims), Obama is explaining that sacred, intergenerational understanding that forms in our spiritual communities.

In the Reformed tradition, Karl Barth writes that the Word of God refers three things: Jesus Christ (the Word made flesh), the Scriptures (as they point to Jesus Christ), and the Word proclaimed (which means our preaching. Gulp.).

I don’t think that everything that comes out of my mouth on a Sunday morning during my 12 minute time slot is the Word of God, but I will say that there is something about that relationship between the words and the congregation that is significant. There is something about how those sermons are held in a community, how the syllables sink into our bellies and then come out through our hands and feet, in the amazing work of reconciliation and peace. There is something about how the stories are understood from generation to generation that make them the Word of God.

But that is not the complete answer to Adam’s question. Because there are those dark times when slavery and oppression have been condoned from our pulpits. When racism, segregation, misogyny, and abuse has spewed from the mouths of preachers. And, at those times, I have to say, that has nothing to do with the Word of God.

So how would you answer Adam’s question? How would you approach a sermon with which you deeply disagree? Is it the Word of God?

And my question for Adam:

When a member leaves a church, it’s always difficult. And watching this pastoral relationship dissolve in such a public way has been particularly painful. What are you learning, as in intern and seminarian, about the relationship between pastors and members?

photo’s by babasteve

Carol at Tribal Church and I have been blogging back and forth on some of the issues the Jeremiah Wright furor. Carol’s most recent question is:

what are the theological implications of Wright’s words?

Wow. Well let’s see. I could talk about black liberation theology, or prophetic witness, or hermeneutics of humility, or diversity and worship, but I’m going to narrow the discussion to one on preaching, specifically, preaching on politics in America today.

In my Reformed Theology class a few years ago, the professor described a Reformed view of the Word of God. There’s plenty of ways to put this, but in class this day we were discussing three ways the word comes to us (Barth, if you care). First, the Word is fully revealed in Jesus Christ. Second, God’s word is revealed to us in holy scripture. And third, God’s word is revealed in the proclamation of the word through preaching in public worship.

We noted the emphasis of the inspiration of Holy Spirit in the process of revelation of the word, and in the back of the room, a hand shot up excitedly. In an astonished almost unbelieving tone, a student explained how gob-smacked he was that a sermon given in public worship is understood as God’s word. He’d preached the previous year in his home church without any sort of thought to his human words as the word of God revealed. He was taken aback, to say the least.

It is an astonishing claim, that God’s word, through the power of Holy Spirit might be proclaimed from pulpits all over the country each Sunday. By measly people like you and me, God can somehow make our words affective, and by the power of Holy Spirit and the community’s discernment, reveal God’s truth and love.

Sure, there are lots of nuances here and plenty of places to be careful. It’s a concept that should bring the preacher to her knees in humility, not inflate her ego or decrease her effort in sermon preparation. But it’s a big claim: the preached word is God’s word revealed as it witnesses to Jesus Christ, God’s word incarnate.

Christians of at least the Reformed tradition place a large emphasis in the proclamation of the word in sermon. Jeremiah Wright surely does too, as his church seems to concur by selling Wright’s sermons on DVDs. So, theologically speaking, it makes sense that it’s so very difficult to discuss sermons on the evening news. Sermons, in their context of corporate worship, are not mere personal reflections or after dinner speeches, but means through which God reveals God’s word and witnesses to Jesus Christ.

In recent years, the IRS has investigated several churches to determine whether they should be able to keep their tax-exempt status. As I understand the 1954 Internal Revenue Code regarding nonprofits and political action, the code explicitly prohibits nonprofit organizations from directly endorsing or opposing a candidate. Sure, if you’re a nonprofit with explicit political purpose, you can do so but you’re then classified as a 501(c)4 nonprofit and donations are not tax deductible. Churches are assumed to have 501(c)3 nonprofit status and donations towards their work is tax deductible. So according to the IRS, churches must not endorse specific candidates.

According to some random article I found online by Mathew D. Staver, Esq., pastors can personally endorse or oppose candidates, personally contribute to them, personally work for them even, publicly advocate for them on basis of personal conviction, but not personally endorse a candidate while in the pulpit. [Pastor Dan notes a new tack here.]

I have never personally endorsed a candidate from the pulpit – heck, I’ve only preached 50 something sermons – but these restrictions certainly seem to me to censor the word of God proclaimed.

Several churches and the IRS are fighting in court at the moment over the gray areas. If I preach in favor of universal healthcare and an African American in the oval office, and against 100 more years of war in Iraq, is that endorsing or opposing candidates? Or further, what if I say Jesus would vote for the democratic party without saying the congregation should (remember, it’s only a hypothetical)?

The IRS restrictions amount to censorship, but that’s because churches have certain nonprofit status. I don’t think the IRS understands the theology of the proclamation of the word. I don’t think congregational accounts should be held hostage by what the pastor preaches. And I don’t think Wright should have to worry how his preaching will affect his parishioner’s political future.

To make a controversial claim: to fix congregations being bound to these IRS regulations, I’d advocate – though I doubt my congregation would agree – that churches should just drop their 501(c)3 status and not be beholden to governmental regulations. While there are benefits of churches enjoying nonprofit tax exempt status, it’s dangerous to censor God’s word proclaimed.

So, regarding Wright’s sermons, one of the theological implications is a certain censorship of the word proclaimed.

My question, then, to Carol is: How do you approach a sermon with which you deeply disagree? If you don’t agree with it, does that mean it’s not God’s word, or not God’s word for you?

image by madmaven

Carol over at Tribal Church and I are having a conversation regarding Jeremiah Wright. My introduction to the series is in this post. My first question to Carol was:

With our current media situation, can we in America have a responsible public conversation on race, religion, and politics or are we destined to the lowest common denominator of ten-second sound-bites?

Her answer found here, follows:

I was serving a small church in Cajun Louisiana. Think The Apostle, Robert Duvall’s masterpiece from eleven years ago, and you’ll know where I was. It was literally filmed down the road from my church.

When I was doing some community organizing, I made friends with Prophetess Perot. She asked me to preach at her revival at the House of Prayer, and I (of course) accepted.

I had no idea what was in store when I drove up to the tiny clapboard house. The building had been transported from a plantation and its walls were soaked with history. Houses of Prayer were the one place on the plantation where slaves met, without any oversight or fear of their owners.

This House of Prayer was where the Bible was read and preached, where revolutions were planned, where hope was reignited. Within those walls, in that safe place, men and women told their stories. They could cry about the beatings, they could whisper the truth about the rapes. The sanctuary was a refuge in every sense of the word.

Upon entering, I found out that the walls were now filled with posters, with the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. written on them, next to the words of the biblical prophets, Elijah and Jeremiah. I read them as the heat from the room enclosed on me.

The series of services was not a revival in the sense that they were out to save anybody. It was a week to revive the pastor. All the speakers and singers were there to encourage the congregation and the prophetess in her work. The congregation was made up mostly of women, and when we talked, I found out that most of them were professional cleaners.

The deacons had starched white coats on. They lined the walls to make sure everyone was helped. I was thankful that I wore a dress, and my husband was in a suit, otherwise we would have felt quite out of place.

We began the service with singing praise choruses and spirituals. And there’s so much I could write about-how the prophetess entered twenty minutes late and was seated in a large wicker chair, how the singers were a family act who traveled about from revival to revival-but I need to get to the point, so I’ll skip all that and tell you about the deaconess who got up to pray.

She was beautiful. Thin, black, with perfect posture. I was about 27 at the time, and she was the same age. When she opened her mouth, there was some sort of power behind her words. A force I can’t explain. But, the preachers reading this know what I’m talking about. She prayed through every part of her body, that her mouth, and nose, and ears, and hands, and feet would all serve God. It was poetry. It’s a prayer form that I’ve tried to copy a hundred times since I first heard it. Except for one part. When she referred to God… at first I didn’t understand it… I couldn’t figure out what she was saying.

And then it hit me. She was saying, “Massah.”

Oh no. It can’t be. I thought. And she said it again. And again. She’s my age. She grew up in the same country that I did. She’s smart. This can’t be.

I had this gut-wrenching urge to plead with her, “You can’t do that! You cannot refer to God as your Master. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t. You are God’s daughter. You are not God’s slave.”

I recall the incident frequently in my mind. And sometimes I still wish that I had been brave enough. But I wasn’t. It was not my place to enter into that sacred house and begin telling her what to do. To tell her how to talk to God. I didn’t think myself as a descendant of slave owners, but she knew that she was a descendent of slaves.

That history was in the walls, and it was in her veins. And she would pray to God, who was her only Master, in the way that she wanted. It was not my turn to speak. It was my turn to listen, and to pray with her.

There was so much in those walls. We were sitting in a context of history that I could never understand.

And, so to answer the question, I’d say that we cannot have a responsible discussion on race in America in the media, by extrapolating sensational sound bites and listening to them over and over again. It’s not just the full context of Jeremiah Wright’s sermons that we are missing. We are missing a beautiful and complicated history, an entire tradition of people who could speak freely in their sanctuaries without the fear of censure.

I do not agree with Jeremiah Wright. I am saddened by the damage he has done to Barack Obama’s campaign. I shudder at what he has said about AIDS. I fear when he says, “God damn America.” There’s just something deep within me that worries that God will hear him. That God will honor his plea. I watch the National Press Club clips and shake my head. Rev. Wright has been flippant he should have been serious.

But I also acknowledge he’s speaking in a context that I will never understand, one that pulses in this country, and goes far beyond the context of the sermon. It is a tradition that began in those houses of prayer. In the one place where people could speak freely. Where no one could tell them what they ought to say, and how they ought to pray, and how they ought to sing, and how they ought to talk to God.

And so, it is again my place to listen. Not only to Wright’s sermons, but to the vital tradition of liberation that scares me and gives me hope.

We cannot have a responsible conversation in the media. But we can have it in our spiritual communities. And the words of Rev. Wright have stirred up that opportunity.

So, Adam, let me ask you, what are the theological implications of Wright’s words?

Thanks for the fantastic post, Carol.  I’ll think on these things, and post right back at you.

So Carol over at Tribal Church and I have both been thinking about blogging and Jeremiah Wright, but stymied over the best blogging approach. Now that the furor had died down a bit, we’ve agreed to have a bit of a blogging back and forth, asking each other probing questions and reflecting with our brilliant wit – ok, well at least the first part. I’ll give my overall impression of Wright, and then the questions.

In many ways, Wright speaks out of a theological perspective that speaks to me. Jesus delivered people from oppression. He did not lead folks to financial prosperity, nor to easy answers, nor to cuddle up to corrupt systems. Jeremiah Wright gets this, so my initial thoughts on the controversy were that Wright was being slammed unfairly by the media in a slow news week.

Did you notice how seldom the media refers to him as “The Rev. Dr. Jeremiah Wright?” Did you notice how one sermon was taken out of context without regard for the rest of Wright’s ministry? Did you notice how his service in the US Marines is seldom mentioned? These complexities make it easier for the media to portray Wright stereotypically rather than with complexity. The stereotype was one with which many Americans have great difficulty: un-educated rabble-rousing preacher, anti-American, angry black man.

Anyone who knows anything about Wright’s church knows this stereotype is a sad indictment of religious, racial, and political dialog in America.

So when Wright went public a few weeks ago, initially I was cautiously optimistic that he would transcend these stereotypes and heighten the level of conversation. I watched Bill Moyers interview, and thought this might be the case. I watched the Detroit NAACP speech, and got a bit worried. I watched the National Press Corps presentation – especially the Q and A – and knew the moral high ground was lost, as was any salvageable credibility, forever.

So here’s my first question to Carol:

With our current media situation, can we in America have a responsible public conversation on race, religion, and politics or are we destined to the lowest common denominator of ten-second sound-bites?

image by mishahu 

If you have six minutes, Moyers’ sermonizing below is just first-rate.