At one extreme, a church might be inclined to look the other way when they’re aware of an abusive father and husband, provided that “he’s trying” and he keeps repenting and keeps attending. On that basis, he must be forgiven by everyone involved, meaning no actions are taken to stop whatever form of abuse is going on. Somehow it’s presumed that any such action represents a lack of forgiveness. Never mind any legal requirements that exists to report certain forms of abuse. He’s absolved by attendance.

I’m not actually thinking of the extreme, though. I’m thinking of the more subtle idea that continued attendance absolves one’s responsibility for one’s own spiritual well-being, and that of one’s family. The biggest cry (in a rather appalled tone of voice) when one leaves the inherited form of church is “But what about the kids?” It seems to me that leaving the (”small-c”) church heightens one’s awareness of this responsibility that is so easily shuffled off to a program with the assumption it meets all needs. I acknowledge there are many different forms, but all-in-all, I wonder if “Sunday School” has really changed all that much since 1769. On the other hand, whatever one can say about its successes and failures, the educational system is always seeking ways to improve its form of educating children.

And for all of that, which kids do best in school? The ones whose parents taken an interest in and become involved in some way with their children’s education. Sure, I’m generalizing — but show me substantive proof otherwise. Why would religious instruction be any different? There is no absolution by attendance, despite what the actions and attitudes fostered by certain forms of church might imply. Sometimes it takes a deliberate removal of attendance to bring the realization home… where perhaps it belongs.

I don’t obsess over my stats and check them regularly (honest!), but I will take a peek now and then, especially at notable dates like this one. In the past year, it appears I’ve had over 100,000 vists from more than 90,000 unique visitors, with about ten and a half thousand regulars. Which leaves me with a lingering question… where the H-E-double-hockeysticks do you people come from, and is there nothing better on television? At any rate, my most popular post in that time frame was my Blog Interview: William P. (Paul) Young, Author of The Shack, which obviously contains someone else’s wisdom. I enjoyed doing that interview though, and I think I’ll look to do more of them in the coming year.

To celebrate the culmination of these past four years since I dropped out of programmed church and began blogging here, I think I’m prepared to make the controversial statement that I’ve got a new God. I suppose I’d better explain that… I guess I’ve been reflecting a little on some of the changes in my theological outlook over the past four years (though the shift began some time earlier, of course), and I awoke one morning last week with an image on my mind, from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. No, it’s not the “leap of faith” illustration, but it is related, I suppose, and it does occur at the “Temple of the Holy Grail.” One of the three major “tests” or traps that Indy must pass in order to reach the chamber where the Grail is located is to cross a section of tiled floor with various letters carved into the tiles. To pass the test, he must step only on the tiles which spell “Jehovah” in Latin, and in order. If he does this correctly, he will reach the other side safely. If he does not, the tiles fall away into oblivion, as does he. There isn’t much room for error, and in the movie he almost fails by forgetting to spell “Jehovah” with an “I” instead of a “J”.

The thing is, I used to follow God like that. Back in my charismatic days, mostly, there was an ongoing attention to the will of God in every little thing. It was felt that one needed to keep within God’s will in order to enjoy the full benefits of his blessing and protection. Stepping out of God’s will or his plan could subject one to the imminent danger of attacks from the enemy, curses of various kinds, and all manner of calamities. To keep step with his will, however, rendered one safe and blessed. Now, I have to say on this matter that charismatics don’t seem to understand the book of Job very well. Perhaps they’ve never read it, or perhaps they’ve allegorized it in such a way that it doesn’t actually mean what it means. Whatever.

It was very hard, nay, exhausting, to follow such a God. While one might think that the outpouring of God’s love and blessing for keeping in line would be a huge incentive and occupy one’s every waking thought and desire, the opposite is actually true — it’s the threat of punishment, or the removal of God’s protection due to his displeasure that occupied much more waking thoughts than the benefits. It was religion based in fear — fear of stepping on the wrong tile and having them all come crashing down as you are swept away into oblivion as the Evil One attacks you with every “right” to do so while you are out from under the Lord’s “covering.” Often this latter phrase refers to doing what your church leaders want and expect of you, as if their will were equated with God’s, so that one could easily fall prey to all sorts of evil if you didn’t keep in line with the church leaders. What’s more, with instructions in Latin, most of the clues for staying on course were cryptic, and many people found it easier just to ask their church leaders for the “answer” instead, as if God took delight in hiding his will from everyone. Except the church leaders, of course, who always seemed to have a direct line. Following God this way was not an easy yoke, and it was not a light burden. It was painful, stressful, and ridden with fear. And it was just plain wrong. Fortunately for me, I was never quite so immersed in this thinking that I blindly followed the leaders — my personality was always to challenge them and to assume I could hear from God and discern his will for myself. But there were still some pretty serious consequences for getting it wrong, as we all thought.

Now I follow a different God. Okay, it’s the same God, actually, but stripped of some very wrong conceptions about how he operates. He still expects me to step across a floor engraved with tiles that spell words in Latin, but he knows I’m not much of a Latin-speaker. And I have this image of God, but not watching me step across the tiles and waitng for me to make a mistake so that the tiles fall away beneath me. In this updated image, as I cross the tile floor, God is beneath it, placing a hand under each tile I step on — whether it’s the “right” one or not (and I’m doing the best I can), and he holds it up as I cross safely to the other side.

So I’ve got a new God, one who understands my shortcomings and is there to support me safely to the other side without consideration for my performance along the route. I’ve gained a gracious and compassionate God. And if I look back at the spiritual portion of my journey these past four years, I can easily say I’d do it all over again. Except I’d start sooner.

First a bit of background about me and then some thoughts about Life After Church: God’s Call to Disillusioned Christians by Brian Sanders. I’m a friend of Brother Maynard’s. (He’s a good guy in person too!) And with only a little bit of arm twisting I agreed to review one of the books from his stack of books. It wasn’t a hard decision, I enjoy reading and I got to rummage through the pile and choose the one I wanted. There were a number that caught my eye but Life After Church was the one that intrigued me and pulled me in.

You see, I am a leaver. An unresolved, but committed leaver. The unresolved part comes from the fact that I wouldn’t say the word “leaver” is one that describes my church experience. I attended for many years the small northern Pentecostal (PAOC) Church that introduced me to Jesus until I moved to the city I now live in and the non denominational church I attended for 17 years. It was there I made my vows to my husband of close to 18 years, it was there that we had our three children dedicated, it was there that I was on pastoral staff for 5 years and it was there that I volunteered in countless ways. “Loyalty” more closely resembles who I am in regard to my church commitment.

And yet here I am. I left.

Shortly before our family left I felt God give me a nudge and in essence the conversation went like this…

God: You’ve been having an affair.
Me: What do you mean? I’m not. I’ve never been unfaithful to my husband. What an earth (or heaven) are you talking about?
God: You’ve been unfaithful to me.
Me: How? (knowing it to be true, but unsure of what act of unfaithfulness he’s calling me on)
God: You have loved the church more than you’ve loved me. You are so busy serving the church; you don’t realize when you’ve stopped serving me. You are so keen to do what you perceive the leaders want that you have no idea what I want.

It was true. Fall to the ground in repentance true. And although some people could stay and work out a new relationship with the church that didn’t violate the sanctity of the relationship between them and their Father, I couldn’t. I needed to get away. Readjust my heart and ears and actions to my Father and then rebuild a relationship with Church.

That’s where Brian Sanders book comes in. I’ve had several books throughout my leaving trek that have helped me put words to what has rumbled around in my spirit. Now Brian’s book joins the ranks.

The title, Life After Church, drew me in but his content kept me reading. In part, because he’s written in a manner that doesn’t overwhelm the reader with a cold dissection of church with the ensuing technical jargon and in part because he adds his own story into the mix. I have the sense of this being flesh and bones reality. And most importantly, I kept reading because this is a book not about leaving church altogether but about wanting more for the Church. It’s about Life After Church As We Know It.

Sanders argues that if you’ve left the church, don’t abandon being the church, as many leavers leave it altogether. On the other hand, if you’re staying in your church, in spite of seeing where it needs to change, then be the change you wish to see. Either way, he says, fully participate in the kingdom of God. The book is helpful for both the stayers and the leavers, as there is value in both.

The book is about the stuff of God’s kingdom. After reading it, I felt gently cuffed upside the head with the reminder that I’m an alien, I belong to a different kingdom. In my obedience to leave the greenhouse that my old church had become for me, and my desire to be out in the field where the harvest is, I lose sight at times of the fact that while I am definitely “in” this world, I am not “of” it. I have gloriously been adopted into my Father’s family and the love He’s shown me, He is eager for me to share. Not the, “you need Jesus or you’re going to hell” kind of sharing but rather the “binding up the brokenhearted” kind of sharing. God has given me wonderful places to sow his love; I want to do that with authenticity, grace and sensitivity.

So if you’re someone who has a yearning in their soul for the Church to better reflect the heart of God, whether you’re a leaver or someone who’s called to be the change from within, this is a great read for you. You’ll feel your struggle acknowledged; your spirit encouraged. I feel like Brian Sanders doesn’t dismiss the concerns we have, but urges us to be involved in being the Church that we so long for. I really like that. We’re a part of the solution. And I really love that the solution isn’t for us. It’s for all of those the Father longs for and loves.

Thanks for the cuff upside the head Brian, I needed it.

Fear, Faith, and Religion

People who challenge and then change the status quo, do something that’s quite difficult. They overcome the resistance of people they trust, people they work for, people in their community. Every step along the way, it’s far easier to stop and accept the thanks of the balloon factory workers than it is to persist and risk the humiliation of failure.

So why do it?

Faith is the unstated component in the work of a leader and I think faith is underrated.

Paradoxically, religion is vastly overrated.

Stick with me (and Seth) now. Wait until he explains this, and you’ll see he’s right.

Faith goes back a long way. Faith leads to hope, and it overcomes fear. Faith gave our ancestors the resilience they needed to deal with the mysteries of the (pre-science) world. Faith is the dividing line between humans and most other species. We have faith that the sun will rise tomorrow, faith that Newton’s laws will continue to govern the way a ball travels, and faith that our time in med school will pay off twenty years from now because society is still going to need doctors.

Chris Sharma is able to do a dyno [(a leap into midair from one "hold" to another)] on a rock face one hundred feed above the ground because he has faith that it’ll work out okay. If you watch kids learning how to dyno, you’ll see that the secret to developing the skill isn’t about building their muscles or learning some exotic technique. It is merely about developing the faith that it’ll work. “Merely,” of course, is a huge step. It’s nothing but a few neurons’ worth of faith, just the knowledge that you can do it. But without faith, the leap never works.

Faith is critical to all innovation. Without faith, it’s suicidal to be a leader, to act like a heretic.

So far, so good, right? Faith, hope, and overcoming fear — New Testament stuff right there, isn’t it? An then there’s the “leap of faith” imagery that everyone loves so much. And whether you measure faith in mustard seeds or neurons, we know it stretches better than Bryl Creem. So we like the bit about faith… but let’s not confuse that with religion.

Religion, on the other hand, represents a strict set of rules that our fellow humans have overlaid on top of our faith. Religion supports the status quo and encourages us to fit in, not to stand out.

There are countless religions in our lives, not just the capital-R religions like Zoroastrianism or Judaism. There’s the IBM religion of the 1960s, for example, which included workplace protocols, dress codes, and even a precise method for presenting ideas (on an overhead projector). There’s the religion of Broadway, which determines what a musical is supposed to look and feel like. There’s the religion of the MBA, right down to the standard curriculum and perceptions of what is successful (a job at Bain & Company) and what’s sort of flaky (going to work for a brewery).

Religion Works Great When it Amplifies Faith

That’s why human beings invented religion. It’s why we have spiritual religions an cultural religions and corporate religions. Religion gives our faith a little support when it needs it, and it makes it easy for your peers to encourage you to embrace your faith.

Religion is at its best a sort of mantra, a subtle but consistent reminder that belief is okay, and that faith is the way to get where you’re going.

The reason we need to talk about this, though, is that often religion does just the opposite. Religion at its worst reinforces the status quo, and often at the expense of our faith. They had a religion at Woolworth’s department store, and sticking, without variation, to the principles that made the store great prevented them from turning it into a new, better kind of experience. The store is long gone, of course.

They have a religion at the country club down the street as well. A set of convictions and rules that is just too hard to change. As a result, an entire generation of professional women won’t join that club, and it’s going to fade and blow away soon.

Don’t get lost on the idea that humans created religion… largely, we did — at least as it’s used in this context. Faith, that’s another matter. Divine Truth, something else again. But religion, those rules to which we cling as though they, and not our faith, will save us… that’s religion. There’s a good kind too (more on that later), but the empty kind isn’t doing us any good, especially since we keep working against change, fighting for the status quo. And it’ll be the end of our religion — if not the end of our faith. But don’t get the two confused, because they aren’t the same thing.

Challenge Religion and People Wonder if You’re Challenging Their Faith

The reason it’s so difficult to have a considered conversation about religion is that people feel threatened. Not by the implied criticism of the rituals or irrationality of a particular religious practice, but because it feels like criticism of their faith.

Faith, as we’ve seen, is the cornerstone that keeps our organizations together. Faith is the cornerstone of humanity; we can’t live without it. But religion is very different from faith. Religion is just a set of invented protocols, rules to live by (for now). Heretics challenge a given religion, but do it from a very strong foundation of faith. In order to lead, you must challenge the status quo of the religion you’re living under.

Of course, religion and faith go together. You can remind yourself of your faith by wearing the company uniform or uttering the mantra of your current religion. You can embrace the support of the community by showing up at church or at the company picnic and following the rituals of whichever religion is being practiced. Without religion, it’s easier for faith to flag. It’s no wonder that religion has been around forever. It reinforces faith, and we can’t succeed without it.

So successful heretics create their own religions. Fast Company magazine was a new testament for a new religion. It brought together a new group of friends, new supporters, new rituals. The same thing happens at companies that embrace heretical behavior (like IDEO) and at blogs or even at Buck’s restaurant in Silicon Valley or the TED conference or other places where leaders like to hang out. These religions exist for one reason–to reinforce our faith.
…

And here we hint at the good kind of religion — that which helps not hurts our faith. Novel idea, eh? But alas, the process of switching over from the bad kind to the good kind is the work of heretics. Not real honest-to-God- heretics, but the kind that get branded with the label, only to have their execution rescinded 200 years later. A bit late, that. Change is a risky undertaking, but fortunately the stakes aren’t quite as high as when they used, well, real stakes.

Switching Religions Without Giving Up Faith

A recent study by the Pew Research Center for the People and the Press found that about a third of all Americans have left the religion they grew up with. The study mistakenly uses the word faith, but in fact, few of these people have lost faith. What they’ve done instead is change the system they use for reinforcing that faith.

When you fall in love with the system, you lose the ability to grow.

Faith is What You Do

If religion comprises rules you follow, faith is demonstrated by the actions you take.
…

This is some great stuff here. That last bit is pretty much straight out of the book of James, innit? And what about love of the system stunting your growth? Has it gone quiet in here, or are there some “amen’s” from the back of the room? We who have been called “church-leavers” know too well that religious systems and faith eventually become incompatible, and we find we have to give up one or the other. The pews in some churches are sadly filled with those who gave up the opposite option than what the church-leavers have. But the latter have a stronger faith while the former have nothing but attendance and numb buttocks from a hard pew once a week. Which of them are called heretics, disparaged and pitied, and which are called faithful?

A Word for It

Religion and faith are often confused. Someone who opposes faith is called an atheist and widely reviled. But we don’t have a common word for someone who opposes a particular religion.

Heretic will have to do.

If faith is the foundation of a belief system, then religion is the facade and the landscaping. It’s easy to get caught up in the foibles of a corporate culture and the systems that have been built over time, but they have nothing at all to do with the faith that built the system in the first place.

Change is made by people, by leaders who are proud to be called heretics because their faith is never in question.

In the year 1515, the Council of Trent wrote this about heretics: “Finally, all the faithful are commanded not to presume to read or possess any books contrary to the prescriptions of these rules or the prohibition of this list. And if anyone should read or possess books by heretics or writings by any author condemned and prohibited by reason of heresy or suspicion of false teaching, he incurs immediately the sentence of excommunication.”

Boy, are you in trouble. Better get rid of this book.

Well, that took me up to page 85. It’s a short book, only about 150 pages… and well worth the quick read that it is. Reading it is quick — implementing it may take a little longer. But that’s worthwhile as well. While Seth Godin is largely speaking here about business using a religious metaphor, I am not. And I guess I’m a heretic (which is, in fact, what it says for “Religious views” in my Facebook profile). And I’m okay with that. So I would urge you not to get rid of this book, or this blog, but to read on. It’s good stuff. The book, I mean — I can only hope the blog is almost adequate, or at least mildly amusing on some level.

But when you see Seth Godin’s words as directly applicable to the church, they are striking indeed. “When you fall in love with the system, you lose the ability to grow.” That’s a real gem. Religion is the system, the rigid rules which were never canon, and which belong to some other time and place. But criticize them, and you’re a heretic, undermining The Faith. *sigh.* I don’t think so. As I’ve said often enough, “It’s not a crisis of faith, it’s just a crisis of ecclesiology.” As I’ve described it though, denying the ecclesiological crisis will ultimately lead to a crisis of faith… like a cancer that slowly invades the entire body until it gets to the vital bits.

Lest we imbibe the worst of religion and it’s urging for the status quo, let’s not get caught up in the systems which have nothing to do with the faith that built them. I love the observation about religion being the system or rituals used to reinforce faith. I’ve talked as well about the “habits and practices” of spiritual formation, and I think this is the descriptor here. This is the reason why so many of us are looking into the past to the historical habits and practices of the church to find what has helped with spiritual formation and faithful journeying. The present ones aren’t working — too often now they’re getting in the way, reinforcing the status quo at the expense of our faith.

So what do you say to all that?

According to the magical practices of the witchdoctors in the North of Mexico, there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for our having stopped making progress. A trauma, a particularly bitter defeat, disappointment in love, even a victory that we fail to quite understand, ends up making us act cowardly and incapable of moving ahead. The witchdoctor, trying to connect with the occult powers, first of all needs to get rid of this “accommodating point”. To do so, he has to review our life and discover where this point lies.

Obviously I’m not suggesting that the churchless ought to consider the witch doctor… but the concept he describes has merit regardless of its source. The accommodating point can be a major trauma which halts much of the progress of our life, or it can be much more simple. Coelho:

For two years I tried to learn to play the guitar: I made a lot of progress in the beginning, until I reached the point where I could advance no further. Because I discovered that others learned faster than I did, I felt mediocre and decided that instead of feeling ashamed I was no longer interested in playing the guitar. The same happened with snooker, football, cycling: I learned enough to do everything fairly well, but then reached a point where I could go no further.

Why?

Because, according to the story that we were told, at a certain moment in our lives “we reach our limit”. There are no more changes to be made. We won’t grow any more. Both professionally and in love, we have reached the ideal point, and it’s best to leave things as they are. But the truth is that we can always go further. Love more, live more, risk more.

The truth is that we can always grow, always change… but the roadblocks to the next step may lie buried in our past. I left my CLB 3½ years ago, but the “trauma” of the events have lingered to greater and lesser degrees in parts of my life. If I look back on it though, the final “trauma” was just the straw that broke the camel’s back — the accommodating point would have to be some years before that even. The question remains in this post as in Friday’s, but fleshed out a bit more perhaps… in the retelling of our painful stories, do we help uncover the accommodating points which have stopped our spiritual lives? In what contexts should this take place, and how can it be facilitated safely? As for Friday’s question, is it even a necessary or fruitful practice?

So I’m thinking this time about the stories we have in exiting the church… our CLBs or whatever, and considering a passage from Coelho’s book (p.177-179). One of the characters is relating his account of a meeting between a journalist (Esther) and a wise old man, a guru of sorts.

“At last, we are ushered in. By acting as interpreter at that interview and by reading Esther’s article when it was published, I learn several things I needed to know.

“Esther asks why people are sad.

“‘That’s simple,’ says the old man. ‘They are the prisoners of their personal history. Everyone believes the main aim in life is to follow a plan. They never ask if that plan is theirs of or it was created by another person. They accumulate experiences, memories, things, other people’s ideas, and it is more than they can possibly cope with. And that is why they forget their dreams.’

“Esther remarks that many people say to her, ‘You’re lucky, you know what you want from life, whereas I don’t even know what I want to do.’

“‘Of course they know,’ replies the nomad. ‘How many people do you know who say: I’ve never done what I wanted, but then, that’s life. If they say they haven’t done what they wanted, then, at some point, they must have known what it was that they did want. As for life, it’s just a story that other people tell us about the world and about how we should behave in the world.’

“‘Even worse are people who say: I’m happy because I’m sacrificing my life for those I love.’

“‘And do you think that the people who love us want to see us suffering for their sakes? Do you think that love is a source of suffering?’

“‘To be honest, yes.’

“‘Well, it shouldn’t be.’

“‘If I forget the story other people have told me, I’ll also forget a lot of very important things life has taught me. What was the point of struggling to learn so much? What was the point of struggling to gain experience, so as to be able to deal with my career, my husband, my various crises?’

“‘Accumulated knowledge is useful when it comes to cooking or living within your means or knowing where particular bus and train lines go. Do you believe that your past loves have taught you to love better?’

“‘They’ve taught me to know what I want.’

“‘I didn’t ask that. Have your past loves taught you to love your husband better?’

“‘No, on the contrary. In order to surrender myself to him, I had to forget all the scars left by other men. Is that what you mean?’

“‘In order for the true energy of love to penetrate your soul, your soul must be as if you had just been born. Why are people unhappy? Because they want to imprison that energy, which is impossible. Forgetting your personal history means leaving that channel clear, allowing that energy to manifest itself each day in whatever way it chooses, allowing yourself to be guided by it.’

“‘That’s all very romantic, but very difficult too, because that energy gets blocked by all kinds of things: commitments, children, your social situation…’

“‘…and, after a while, by despair, fear, loneliness, and your attempts to control the uncontrollable. According to the tradition of the steppes—which is known as the Tengri—in order to live fully, it is necessary to be in constant movement; only then can each day be different from the last. When they passed through cities, the nomads would think: The poor people who live here, for them everything is always the same. The people in the cities probably looked at the nomads and thought: Poor things, they have nowhere to live. The nomads had no past, only the present, and that is why they were always happy, until the Communist governors made them stop traveling and forced them to live on collective farms. from then on, little by little, they came to believe that the story society told them was true. Consequently, they have lost all their strength.’

“‘No one nowadays can spend their whole life traveling.’

“‘Not physically, no, but they can on a spiritual plane. Going farther and farther, distancing yourself from your personal history, from what you were forced to become.’

“‘How does one go about abandoning the story one was told?’

“‘By repeating it out loud in meticulous detail. And as we tell our story, we say goodbye to whet we were and, as you’ll see if you try, we create space for a new, unknown world. We repeat the old story over and over until it’s no longer important to us.’

“‘Is that all?’

“‘There is just one other thing: as those spaces grow, it is important to fill them up quickly, even if only provisionally, so as not to be left with a feeling of emptiness.’

“‘How?’

“‘With different stories, with experiences we never dared to have or didn’t want to have. That is how we change. That is how love grows. And when love grows, we grow with it.’

“‘Does that mean we might lose things that are important?’

“‘Never. The important things always stay; what we lose are the things we thought were important but which are, in fact, useless, like the false power we use to control the energy of love.’

What I’m wondering is whether this is a true depiction of the retelling of our stories (verbally or blogging or whatever) — does the process distance us from the pain and loose their grip on us so that we can embrace a new story? Or does it just dredge up the pain and bind us to it more inextricably than before? I tend to think of it as a cathartic process, but is that universally true?

While we’re on the subject of the institutional church and the fallout therefrom, I’m dusting off my keyboard and declaring next week (Feb. 4-8) “Pagan Week” here at Subversive Influence. Monday through Thursday I’ll be blogging through Frank Viola and George Barna’s Pagan Christianity… the series is mostly written now, and you’ll want to tune in and follow along. Following the four days of blogging through the book, I’ll be doing an interview with Frank Viola and posting that on Friday. Lots of discussion fodder for certain!

I’ve riffed before about not equating the missional and emergent conversations, and I expect the same may be true for some of these other streams as well… e.g. missional is not monasticism. On the other hand, the fact that people can mistake the conversations at some points perhaps illustrates not only that each has much to learn from the other, but that the learning or “cross-pollination” is actually taking place? If that’s true, then events like this one are well-conceived as avenues for the exchange of ideas from the various “fronts of change” in the shifting landscape.

First we must consider what is behind this word shalom. (I will refer to ISBE III:732-3 and DJG:604-5 as well as Walter Brueggemann’s Living Toward a Vision: Biblical Reflections on Shalom, though I won’t cite them each time.)

Its basic meaning is “well-being,” but theologically it is one of the most significant terms in Scripture, having a wide semantic range that can stress nuances of its basic meaning, which includes totality or completeness. Nuances include fulfillment, maturity, soundness, wholeness, community, harmony, tranquility, security, friendship, agreement, and prosperity. We’re not talking about times between wars, nor about happy thoughts of contentment. Shalom is something far deeper, and carries an eschatalogical significance. For the Old Testament prophets, peace was a central concept associated with the messianic hope — Isaiah 9:6 where term “Prince of Peace” is used for the Messiah is but one example of many.

The proclamation of shalom is therefore connected with Messianic realization, with the Kingdom of God. For first century Jews who by our estimation misunderstood the kind of Kingdom that Jesus was announcing and establishing, this connects with political import in the destruction of Israel’s enemies. Jesus greeted his disciples for the first time as the Risen Christ in John 20 with the words, “Peace be with you” — and it is interesting to note that when he repeated these words in that same meeting, he followed them with the words, “As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.” In this joyous meeting and celebration of victory over death, we begin to understand more of the kind of Kingdom that Jesus is establishing. We do have peace, shalom, but not yet in a complete or unhindered fashion.

Walter Brueggemann introduces shalom by observing that in the Bible, “all of creation is one, every creature in community with every other, living in harmony and security toward the joy and well-being of every other creature.” He suggests that “the most staggering expression of the vision is that all persons are children of a single family, members of a single tribe, heirs of a single hope, and bearers of a single destiny, namely, the care and management of all of God’s creation.” He writes,

that persistent vision of joy, well-being, harmony, and prosperity is not captured in any single word or idea in the Bible, and a cluster of words is required to express its many dimensions and subtle nuances: love, loyalty, truth, grace, salvation, justice, blessing, righteousness. But the term that in recent discussions has been used to summarize that controlling vision is shalom. Both in current discussion and in the Bible itself, it bears tremendous freight—the freight of a dream of God that resists all our tendencies to division, hostility, fear, drivenness, and misery.

Shalom is the substance of the biblical vision of one community embracing all creation. It refers to all those resources and factors which make communal harmony joyous and effective.

He cites the “covenant of shalom which was spoken of by Ezekiel, and concludes, “The origin and the destiny of God’s people is to be on the road of shalom, which is to live out of joyous memories and toward greater anticipations.”

Now, we’ve changed the word and the imagery a bit, but doesn’t this sound like all the same things I’ve said in the last two posts? Here we’re being reminded of who we are and what we’ve been promised. Let’s connect them even further. Jeremiah, prophesying to an exiled people, talks about shalom, saying in 6:13-14 that it is a compromise to the vision to offer a substitute for shalom, calling it what it is not; this is merely a form of injustice. Shalom here is to be extended to “the other”, the outsider. Brueggemann explains,

Shalom is an enduring vision. It is promised persistently and hoped for always. But there are those occasions when it is an especially vital hope. One such time was during Israel’s exile. Among the eloquent spokesmen for the vision in that period was Jeremiah. And among the most extraordinary texts is this letter he wrote to the exiles urging the validity of the vision even among displaced persons:

“I will fulfill to you my promise and bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for shalom and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope…. You will seek me and find me; when you seek me with all your heart, I will be found by you, says the Lord, and I will restore your fortunes.”

—Jeremiah 29:10-14

On the face of it, the text is simply a promise that the exile will eventually end. But the structure moves from promise (verse 10) to land (place, verse 14). So again Israel is set on that joyous, tortuous path from promise to land, from wandering to security, from chaos to shalom. Thus, the experience of exile—like every experience—gets read as a part of the pilgrimage of this incredible vision of God with the people of Israel.

Jeremiah, Brueggemann points out, uses shalom even in the midst of exile, a surprising and powerful promise thrust into a place of despair and cynicism. History is bounded by God’s will for shalom and his accomplishment of shalom. IN Jeremiah’s telling, God still promises when everyone else has given up. His message is that God is there.

The vision of shalom is most eloquently expressed in times very much like our own, when resources for faith to endure are hardly available. Thus, for example, in Isaiah 65:21, shalom motifs come together; in 65:25, reconciled creation; in 65:24, assured dialogue. It is natural that the question of shalom should vex the church precisely when life seems so much a monologue.

The other use of shalom in Jeremiah’s letter to the exiles is in 29:7:

But seek the shalom of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its shalom you will find your shalom.

Imagine that! A letter written to displaced persons in hated Babylon, where they have gone against their will and watched their life and culture collapse. And they are still there, yearning to go home, despising their captors and resenting their God—if, indeed, God is still their God. And the speaker for the vision dares to say, “Your shalom will be found in Babylon’s shalom.”

The Babylonians certainly represented “the other” to exiled Israel, and they were told to seek shalom in the shalom of these “others.” It must have been almost too much — yet there’s that element of promise again, of assurance that all is not lost. Remember who you are, and what you’ve been promised. Get back on the road to shalom. Extend shalom to your captors… be agents of shalom.

The only shalom promised is one in the midst of historical reality, which comes close to saying “incarnation.” The only God we know entered history, appeared as a person. Shalom of a biblical kind is always somewhat scandalous—never simply a liturgical experience or a mythical statement, but one facing our deepest divisions and countering with a vision.

Shalom, then, is not so much “a peaceful, easy feeling.” Establishing peace is a disruptive process. Hard to accept, the language of shalom is laced with political overtones and a call to extend blessing to those who wrong you. It is an announcement of the end of the age, filled with messianic metaphor and announcement of the Kingdom of God. As Alan Roxburgh said in discussing Luke 10, “No wonder some people closed the door.” As people on peregrinatio carrying and seeking shalom, we offer this peace, this radical disruptive peace, seeking to find other people of peace. Although dispersed and in exile, it is these with whom we share familial identity, and we are members of commuitas in the same purpose of extending shalom and being people of shalom. To greet another at the door with the words, “Peace be to this house” is not nearly as flippant a greeting as, “Hi, how-are-ya?” It is, however, a vision of something to be lived into.