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Fine Prints: December,
2006 Pastoral Confessions --3 December 2 Written in 1989 December 9 Intellectual Override - A Necessary Danger December 16 A Little Balance Goes a Long Way December 23 "...In the Name of Jesus, Amen December 30
Pastoral Confessions--3
In the past two Fine Prints I
described how years ago I got caught up in what turned out to be a raid
on the home of a church member being accused of adultery. It was a
mistake. The fact that the "victim" ultimately forgave me—and even
thanked me—isn’t the point. Bad procedure is bad procedure, irrespective
of the outcome. Fortunately, my midnight raid became
a watershed—a defining moment—in how I’ve determined to deal with church
members. I operate on the simple principle that I want members to always
have the chance to look their best in front of me. Let me explain.
I’m a pastor, not a reporter for the
National Enquirer If people voluntarily open their closet doors to reveal skeletons, the pastor-member relationship isn’t threatened. They’ve told me because they want me to know, and because they feel I can be trusted to know. But if I barge into their closet unexpectedly—whether by accident or design—it can wreak havoc with our relationship. Very early in my ministry I worked with a pastor whose express purpose was to "catch members out." He always visited unannounced—because he wanted to see how his members "truly lived," not just how they cleaned up when they knew the pastor was coming. He thought he could minister to them more effectively by having such knowledge. I disagree. I remember one Sabbath afternoon when we knocked on the door of a deacon ’s home. He met us with a bottle of beer in his hand and the football game blaring on the TV. That effectively ended our relationship with him. The deacon was forever embarrassed around us after that. I would have preferred to have his behavior change because he was inspired at church rather than because he was caught out.I remember once going to the home of a young girl for a Bible study. She ushered me in, and I sat down at the dining-room table. The mother, unaware that I had arrived, began shouting at the girl from another room, questioning her—in colorful language—about some chore left undone. When the mother arrived at the dining-room door . . . well . . . let’s just say that she wished she’d been aware of my presence a few words earlier. As you read the story of my midnight raid, you may have laughed nervously . But, like I, you no doubt grimaced as well. Fortunately, because of that grimace, I can assure you that you have a more sensitive pastor than you otherwise might have. Not that I don’t get it wrong still.My approach when church members have been accused of scandalous behavior—be they young or old—is to tell them of the accusation. I also tell them that I don’t want to believe what has been alleged. But out of fairness to them, I need to let them know that the allegation is circulating. And I also need to let them know that, were the alleged behavior ever to be substantiated, the consequences would be such and such. So it’s important that they never engage in that behavior.I’m not accusing, I’m simply reporting what has been alleged. And I’m offering fair warning about the implications of such actions. I started this trilogy of essays by saying that most of what I’ve learned, I learned from making mistakes. I still make mistakes, unfortunately. But the congregation can be glad that I got a few of the really big ones out of the way before arriving at Markham Woods! Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor
Written in 1989
The other day I came across a letter I wrote on March 3, 1989, to
someone who had taken me to task for not being sufficiently traditional
theologically. I decided that a few excerpts from my response might make
a good Fine Print. Thus the following: I grew up super-conservative. I went to college to study
theology for the express purpose of converting the world to a
super-conservative form of Adventism. Both ideologically and
practically, I listed heavily to the right. However, as I traveled and was exposed to new cultures,
as I exchanged ideas with people I met, and as I studied and listened to
my college lecturers (all loyal Adventists who were 100 percent
committed to the church), I discovered that things weren’t as neatly
tied up as I’d thought. It was a jolt to me. And I can tell you that every shift
toward greater openness came only when I couldn’t continue to accept the
positions I’d held as a youth and still look myself in the eye. In
short, to the degree that I’ve become more liberal, I’ve been dragged
into it, kicking and screaming, resisting it at every step. As I’ve continued studying over the years, I’ve become
increasingly convinced that life is far more complex than I’d at first
thought. I’ve become convinced that propositional truth is more elusive
than I’d realized, while practical truth is more discernable than I’d
realized. I’ve come to think that our respective experiences, our
personalities, our cultures, our unique systems of perceiving reality
mean that we’ll inevitably view things in rather different ways. I’m not out to make the church liberal; I’m out to make
the church tolerant. I believe that liberals and conservatives (for lack
of better descriptions) both have much to offer. Both help to provide a
balance we desperately need. But we must learn to "live and let live."
I see unity as an underlying respect and brotherly love–
not as uniformity in every detail. My goal as an editor and pastor
hasn’t been to defend understandings just because they were held by
people in our early church. My goal is to examine the whys and the
wherefores of those early understandings, as well to offer suggestions
concerning how we might progress even further. Throughout my pastoral ministry and in my editing, I’ve
tried to effect dialogue and better understanding. I’ve tried to accept
and minister to a broad spectrum. While I can cite numerous times I’ve
failed, I believe that my approach has been a great blessing to many.
I can understand how others can perceive religion
differently from me, how they might describe it in different terms, how
they might emphasize different aspects. But I find it nearly impossible
to understand how one’s love of "the truth" can cause a person to cease
relating positively to another simply because we don’t share the same
identical definitions and perceptions. What value is religion if that’s
its effect? If we disagree theologically, can’t we still relate to
each other as fellow Christians? Must any be viewed as traitors simply
because they honestly follow the dictates of their own conscience? Seventeen years after writing the foregoing letter, I
still subscribe to the same basic approach concerning spiritual life. Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor I grew up near an Amish community. You know, those people who shun cars in favor of horses and buggies. Who don’t use electricity and other such mod cons. Who dress in dark colors and eschew modern fashion. Well, during my youth, one of them joined the Seventh-day Adventist Church. Now Adventists are conservative, but nothing like the Amish. And when it comes to driving cars, we’re pretty liberal by comparison. For someone brought up strongly believing that it’s a sin to drive, driving is a pretty big hurdle to cross. I remember hearing the ex-Amish convert say about eight years after his conversion that he still couldn’t put his key into the ignition of his car without pangs of conscience. It’s rather scary to realize that as parents, as teachers, as a church, we can so program a youthful mind that there are certain things—be they truly right or wrong—that can never be done without pangs of conscience.The Bible says if we train up children in the way they should go, when they’re old they won’t depart from it. I would modify that statement somewhat. Train up a child (i.e. program the child’s mind with whatever you want)—be it good or bad, truth or error, love or hate—and to a great degree that child can’t ever get away from what you’ve put there. Minds are like
flypaper. So don’t put into them what you don’t want to stick forever. What do you do when your conscience has been so totally programmed that at a visceral level you respond instinctively and reflexively in a certain way, but at a mental level you know you were wrongly programmed? That’s where "intellectual override" comes in. And this is where I start talking about myself rather than the ex-Amish man I met in my youth. You see, perhaps in part by nature, but definitely by training (I’ll call it conscience-programming), I’m legalistic, perfectionistic, triumphalistic, dogmatic, judgmental and a long list of other such unfortunate characteristics. Those are my default settings. Those are my instinctive reactions. But with the passage of time, my intellect has told me that, my conscience-programming notwithstanding, I’m on the wrong track. Thus my
concept of intellectual override. The danger is that, instead of honestly and sincerely reassessing certain thoughts and practices that early on I was conscience-programmed to accept as essential, I’ll use my intellectual override just to get rid of any and every inconvenient call of conscience. Without some form of intellectual override, I’m in trouble. With an overactive intellectual override, I’m in even bigger trouble. Therein lies the danger. And therein lies the challenge. Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor
A Little Balance Goes a Long Way Recently I received the following in a press release: "Attorneys for The Rutherford Institute [a conservative religious-liberty organization] have filed a First Amendment lawsuit in federal court in defense of a Navy chaplain’s right to offer sectarian prayers in Jesus’ name. The lawsuit, filed on behalf of Chaplain Gordon Klingenschmitt . . . , charges that the Navy’s current policy places limits on how Christian chaplains can publicly pray and forbids them from praying ‘in Jesus’ name.’ Institute attorneys are asking the U.S. District Court . . . to declare that the Navy’s practice of censoring Christian prayers violates the U.S. Constitution as well as Chaplain Klingenschmitt’s First and Fourteenth Amendment rights." From my perspective, we’re dealing here with a double misunderstanding. First, the Navy misunderstands the nature of spiritual belief. Chaplain Klingenschmitt isn’t neutral when it comes to religion. He’s a Christian. And His understanding of Christianity compels him to always approach God "in the name of Jesus." While the chaplain may show respect for the beliefs of others, he’s limited in how much he can bend. I’m certain that he would never offer a prayer to Hare Krishna, even if he was trying to bring spiritual solace to military personnel whose leanings were in that direction. That’s not how religion works. By its very nature, there’s a significant degree of partisanship. It’s one thing for Chaplain Klingenschmitt to be willing to minister to anyone and everyone. It’s quite another to expect him to do something that for him violates a cardinal spiritual principle. Since he’s a Christian, the military shouldn’t be surprised if his religious expressions are highly Christian. I mean, would a Muslim chaplain be expected not to pray toward Mecca? Or not to kneel face-down on a prayer mat? The Rutherford Institute has a point: The military seems to be trying to force its chaplains into a kind of non-descript "Religion Lite." Perhaps they should rethink their expectations. Especially in light of the Constitution. Second, however, Chaplain Klingenschmitt may be forgetting about hospitality, neighborliness, graciousness and concern for the feelings of others. Let me offer an example. If our church, a Catholic congregation, a synagogue and a mosque were to come together for an inter-faith thanksgiving service, it would seem reasonable that we would try to find common ground that offered the greatest promise for inspiration and the least danger for antagonism. The Catholics might forgo prayers to Mary. The Protestants might pray directly to God (as happens often in the Old Testament). The Jews might refrain from reading scriptures about the Hebrews being God’s favored ones. And the Muslims might refrain from reading the Q’uran’s more strident comments about what should be done to non-Muslims. Is such an approach a spiritual compromise? Or is it just common sense and an attempt at friendship? I don’t want Chaplain Klingenschmitt to violate his conscience. By the same token, we need to remember that Jesus said that even certain important considerations shouldn’t be pursued to the exclusion of even more important matters. And I’m not so sure that Jesus wouldn’t place hospitality, neighborliness, graciousness and concern for the feelings of others ahead of the command to come to the Father in His name–at least in certain circumstances. Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor
". . . in the Name of Jesus, Amen" In last week’s Fine Print I told of a military chaplain who was fighting the government for the right to offer his prayers in the name of Jesus. And Christ definitely said that’s the way to do it. But what exactly did He mean? It seems to me that over the centuries many of Christ’s statements have been elevated to a level of literalness that He never intended. Take His statement about the bread and the wine used in the first communion. "Take and eat; this is my body" was a metaphor. Christ wanted the ritualistic consumption of bread to be an ongoing reminder of the true meaning of His sacrifice for humanity. The same with His comment about the wine. It was a straightforward and uncomplicated figure of speech. Nothing more. Yet for centuries Christian have fought over the exact meaning of Christ’s words. Are the bread and wine literally His body and blood? If so, when do they become such. If not, why did He say they were? I would suggest that the same is true of Jesus’s instruction to come to the Father in his name. He simply wanted the disciples to feel at ease in boldly approaching the throne of grace. Stop and think about it. In prayer, a created being is coming before the Creator to make requests. This created being has a pretty mixed-up view of what reality is all about—"we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror." Further, this created being has "sinned and fallen short of the glory of God." Recognizing all this, it’s rather intimidating to approach God. Overwhelming, maybe. So Jesus seeks to lay our fears to rest. "Tell my Father that you’re coming in my name–that I sent you." Back in the early 1970s Leonie and I were attending Newbold College (near London), as was Dan Jeffus. Dan’s parents were living near Aberdeen, Scotland, where his father was overseeing a couple of oil-drilling rigs in the North Sea. So Dan invited a group of college students to come to his home for Easter break. And we had a blast. His parents were gracious hosts who invited us to come back. The only problem was, Dan wasn’t at Newbold the next year. Still, because we were Dan’s friends, we took the bold step of actually contacting his parents to say, "We’d like to take you up on that invitation." Again we visited. And again we had a wonderful time. Had we not been Dan’s friends, it would have been sheer audacity to automatically assume that we would be welcome. But we were coming "in Dan’s name." Our friendship gave us an otherwise-inappropriate boldness. To me, that’s all Jesus was saying. "You’re intimidated about approaching God? Tell Him I sent you. Tell Him you’re asking these things only because you know me, and I’ve told you that it’s OK." There’s an even deeper, more cosmic symbolism in coming to the Father in the name of the Son. Through His incarnation, Jesus gave a tangible portrayal of the character of the God who defies human comprehension. So all Christians come to the Father through Jesus—whether we actually say we’re doing it or not. Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor
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