It may seem like a cop-out to say that great preaching cannot be defined, you just know it when it happens, but so it is. In all great Christian preaching, however, at least this is true: It is an Emmaus-like experience in which the scriptures are opened and you recognize Christ, and in him, with a fresh sense of discovery, you see the truth about yourself and your world. “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the scriptures?” (Luke 24:32). Underscoring the unity of the verbal and sacramental Word, this experience prepared the disciples to recognize their Lord in the breaking of bread. Wherever this happens, there is great preaching.
Were one to indulge in paradox, it is not too much to say that the most relevant thing about worship is its irrelevance. True worship is an act of liberation because it defies every criterion of utility by which our lives are too much bound.
I’m reminded of Marva Dawn’s A Royal Waste of Time. To justify Christian worship on the grounds of its usefulness is to evacuate it of any integrity or meaning. Which is easy for me to point out, but it is astounding how deeply embedded are such notions of utility, even for ministers of the gospel.
The sign on the front of a Presbyterian church in Indianapolis reads: “Join Us For Worship. You Will Feel Better For It!” It is far from obvious that worship will make one feel better. To be sure, in a very ultimate sense, surrendering oneself to God in thankful trust will make one be better. But along the way to being better the Christian is sure to go through times of feeling worse. Repentance, after all, involves a painful loss of self, an abandonment of false securities, and the travail of new birth. It is also true with respect to what happens on Sunday mornings: Woe to you when they say it feels so good.
If we are honest with ourselves, such signs of really making a difference are very ambiguous. So also with the signs of institutional growth, although, sorry to say, this seems to provide a basis of confidence—or, conversely, a cause for despair—in many ministries. Institutional growth is the last refuge of ministries that are spiritually sterile. Anniversary sermons regularly point to statistical growth or to the new education wing as evidence that “God has richly blessed this ministry.” But the question that keeps erupting within us, as to whether our ministry really makes any difference, cannot be answered by reference to a debt-free “church plant”—to use the ugly term of the managerially minded.
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Our ministries are not liberated, and we cannot be signs of liberation to others, as long as we are captive to the criterion of effectiveness by which the world would bind us. By “the world” we mean in this instance what Paul describes as “the flesh.” The conflict is not, in the first place, between us who are the saved and others who are the unsaved…. The conflict is within ourselves; it is a conflict between living according to the flesh and living according to the Spirit. Nor is the struggle aimed at our achieving some decisive spiritual victory, although the military metaphor is frequently used in biblical and classical literature. The achievement involved, however, takes on a meaning quite different from our usual talk about achievements. It is always a matter of living out the gift already given. This is the heart of liberated and liberating ministry: to know that our ministry and the goal of our ministry are gifts. We do not need to sniff around the secular criterion of effectiveness in order to be assured that our ministries are legitimated. We and the work we have been given to do are already legitimated and justified by the grace of God. This is God’s sacramentum in Christ and the community he has called into being; it is the premise and the promise on which alone we can act in confidence.
Chapter Four of Neuhaus' Freedom for Ministry, entitled “Authority for Ministry,” deals with the question of ministerial authority and the temptations toward professionalism. The last few pages of the chapter (pp. 67-71) provide the most moving account I’ve ever read of how self-doubt for the minister can be, if not overcome, at least properly contextualized. As alluring as it is to look to various “existent realities” for authorization (say, credentials or certification or competence), Neuhaus says the minister ultimately finds his authority rooted in Christ’s own authority. This causes a level of angst since Christ’s authority is contested in this age and not backed by conventional forms of power or prestige. Thus, the pastor is left in an ambiguous spot. As Neuhaus concludes, “We are premature ambassadors, having arrived at court before the sovereignty of our king has been recognized. It is awkward, of course, and our authority is very much in question. We must resist the temptation to relieve the awkwardness by accepting a lesser authority from another kingdom.”
Christian theology consists of variations on common themes. What makes one theologian or system distinct from another is not always a substantive difference; often it is the eloquence or beauty on display, or the particular articulation of a doctrine, or an especial emphasis on a certain aspect of the whole rather than another.
This is an under-appreciated aspect of doing theology. If every systematic theology sets out to offer something substantially new, we’re in trouble. When you read a work of theology, the author is treading on very well-worn paths. Many others have already covered this terrain. What other book has generated the level of commentary and secondary literature that the Bible has? That doesn’t mean it is wrong-headed for a theologian to take his or her best shot at it. But it does suggest that the author shouldn’t be aiming for—and we shouldn’t be expecting—theological innovation or novelty. Emphasizing a certain overlooked element, articulating a doctrine with fresh verve and clarity, demonstrating its coherence with other aspects of truth—these are more modest and appropriate goals.
Finished reading: The Politics of Gratitude by Mark T. Mitchell 📚
The prose was a little formulaic at points and Mitchell was given to some broad generalizations. I had the sense that he was trying to squeeze his entire political philosophy into the book, which made it a little unwieldy.
Nevertheless, it’s certainly a useful book. Mitchell argues for a “politics of gratitude” rooted in four key concepts: creatureliness (which implies limits), gratitude, human scale, and place. In many ways, Mitchell is projecting a religious/metaphysical vision of reality that ought to inform one’s understanding and practice of politics. It is certainly quite a ways upstream from policy discussion and the like. Whether you view that as a strength or weakness will likely depend on how much you resonate with his theological vision of political life.