Author: Teddy Ray

Ministry: Calling and delight

I’m now in my 20th year of pastoral ministry. During my earliest years of youth ministry, I remember another pastor advising, “Only do this if you can’t do anything else.”

The implication was that ministry work is hard, that other routes would likely be more rewarding if they were options. “Only do it if you know you’re called. Otherwise you’ll never make it.”

I didn’t know I was called. Not for a long time.

I’m still not sure I’m called in any permanent sense, as if it’s pastoral ministry or bust for the rest of life.

Calling is a strange thing. At least in a lot of the ways we treat it today––as a personal certainty about our life’s work. Frankly, I think we give it too much attention in ministry world. We expect ministry candidates to articulate with clarity how they know they’re called to ministry. This usually carries the suggestion that this is the only proper path for their lives. To do anything else would be running from God’s will for their lives. There’s a popular testimony that goes that way: “I knew I was called ten years ago. But I spent the first five years running from it…”

Here’s an example of how I hear us commonly talk about calling:

I understand some of the bad reasons that linked article is trying to avoid, but the tweet paints a common, one-sided picture of calling and ministry. In church world, we spend a lot of time talking about (1) personal sense of calling, and (2) how hard ministry can be. Twenty years in, I’d like to offer an alternative perspective on calling and ministry.

1 – Another perspective on calling

How I ended up in ministry

I only even considered pastoral ministry because of Jerry Ernst. He asked me to lead our youth group during my last two years of high school, asked me to preach on youth Sunday during both of those years, and asked me to serve as the interim youth minister for the summer after he moved away. All of these came as surprises. Jerry entrusted me with much more than I imagined I could or would be entrusted with.

I considered it because Aaron Mansfield came to me after I preached for the first time and said, “If you do anything other than this with your life, you’re going in the wrong direction.” (I took it as kind encouragement. He has apologized several times since for coming on a bit strong.)

I started into pastoral ministry because Steve Drury at Trinity Hill UMC asked me to serve as an interim youth minister for a summer while I was in college. When I thought I’d finish out the summer and move on, he and a group of parents asked me to stay. That interim turned into three years.

I stayed in pastoral ministry because when I told Paul Brunstetter it was time for me to move on from youth ministry, he rearranged staffing structures and told me I could leave youth ministry but shouldn’t leave ministry altogether.

I stayed in pastoral ministry because Dulaney Wood heard I was making plans to move on, asked me to come to his house, and told me I was making the wrong decision.

I came back to pastoral ministry after a year overseas because after I had told Mike Powers I was moving on to something different, he came back to say, “Are you sure?” So I re-considered … and told him a second time I was going to move on. And he came back yet again.

Those are moments. A few people have supported and encouraged me beyond what any moment would adequately capture––Todd Nelson, Jonathan Powers, Chad Foster, my parents, and my wife. Early on, Emily said she’d do whatever it would require of her for me to do this––work less, work more, rearrange her schedule, recalibrate her expectations––and she has.

It’s difficult to stop once I begin naming names. There are so many others whom I should list. That long list represents a church that has consistently affirmed my role in ministry with their words and actions.

I worry that all of the above could come off as some kind of humble brag—if there were any feigned humility at all. And that would be the case if those people were affirming talent. But I don’t think that’s what was happening. Frankly, if people were judging by particular aptitudes, I may have had some people encourage me in different directions. Pastoral care didn’t come naturally to me. Preaching often was too academic to connect well with people. I was awful at remembering names. But I think these people had a sense about what God was doing—sometimes a sense enough to see past my inadequacies—and they were able to speak from that when they told me I was in the right place.

This is all very personal to me, but it’s also a reflection on what I believe is a healthier way of understanding calling. We get a few instances of miraculous calling stories in the Bible––Moses at the burning bush, young Samuel in the Temple, Saul/Paul on the Damascus road. But these are exceptions. The book of Acts gives us the more typical pattern:

Paul and Barnabas appointed elders for them in each church and, with prayer and fasting, committed them to the Lord, in whom they had put their trust.

Acts 14:23

Perhaps for a few people called to daunting tasks, a miraculous sort of calling is necessary––that kind of thing that leaves someone with an “unshakable call from God.” But for most of us, I expect the primary sense of calling will come from community. Others in the church community recognize that you should be leading and entrust you to lead. At the least, calling will need to be confirmed by community. The Israelites still had to choose to follow Moses. The people had to listen to Samuel. The apostles and elders of the early church had to confirm Paul’s calling.

(Some of the prophets seem to be exceptions. They followed God’s calling despite almost no positive reception from the people. But the calling to prophetic ministry is not the calling to pastoral ministry.)

I haven’t made it through hard times primarily because of a personal sense of calling. I’ve made it through them because of a community of people who continued to reaffirm that I should be there, even when I was less sure myself.

This is not to replace the role of God with the role of the church. It’s to identify how God was at work throughout. And at times, that came through other divine confirmations––an assurance from Scripture or in prayer, an unexpected occurrence at just the right time. But the primary way that I’ve experienced God’s calling has been mediated through the community around me––a community that I believe is better equipped to listen to God and interpret his will than I am on my own.

The Christian community’s role in calling

We tend to talk about and view calling like this:

But my experience has been closer to this:

This is actually closer to the historical pattern of calling to ministry. That inner, personal sense of calling is a rather new focus in the life of the church. Francis Dewar describes the more typical pattern in history:

Questions probing the candidate’s inner sense of calling do not appear in church ordinals before the sixteenth century.

…

[I]n the first ten centuries of the Church’s history, it was the local Christian community that had the chief part to play in the choice of its leader. In fact, the Council of Chalcedon in 451 forbade ‘absolute’ ordinations.

…

You could not be ordained unless you had been asked by a particular Christian community to be its leader. Conversely, if you ceased to be the president of your community, you automatically became a layman again.

Called or Collared? by Francis Dewar, pp. 9-10

This has enormous implications. I’ve seen some people go to seminary, devote years of their lives, and accrue up to 6-figure debts to receive an M. Div. degree only to learn that no church would entrust them with leadership. They had a personal sense of calling, but it wasn’t one that had been confirmed and promoted by the church.

In my dream world, seminarians wouldn’t pay for seminary. Seminaries wouldn’t allow you to pay (or even worse, take on debt) to receive an M. Div. degree. You could only go if you had a sponsor. Is there a church, a denomination, a Christian organization that believes in you enough to foot the bill? (To be sure I’m not over-speaking here, I don’t mean to suggest to you that if you’re currently in seminary and paying for it yourself, that you must not be called to ministry. Our systems aren’t currently designed to function according to this model. But I wish they were.)

A note to Christian communities: We have a crucial responsibility to listen to God on behalf of others, to speak to others about how God has gifted them and how God might use them. We have the beautiful opportunity to encourage people along in pastoral ministry, even when they may not be able to see that possibility for themselves. We have the difficult responsibility to speak honestly to people when they’re pursuing this path but, if we’re honest, we don’t see it going well for them.

An important caveat: Can a community get it wrong? Yes! It’s good that Moses didn’t take the Israelites’ initial rejection––and ongoing rebellion throughout his ministry!––as final indication that he should quit. I don’t mean to suggest that a truly called pastor should never meet congregational resistance. The Christian community does not discern the will of God with perfect accuracy. And sometimes a Christian community can behave in outright wicked ways toward a pastor. I’ve heard the horror stories, seen a few, experienced almost none (thanks again to my wonderful community).

For people trying to discern calling

If you’re considering a calling into ministry, who is affirming that calling? Who is affirming it by investing in you and entrusting you with responsibility? Has a church or Christian organization already hired you and shown they want you to be on their team? Is anyone pushing you to go to seminary? Anyone ready to invest in it? If the answers to many of these questions aren’t positive, I would urge you to find a way to serve in a church or Christian organization, talk to people about how you can grow, seek opportunities for more and more leadership. Do that before you start spending on seminary. If you have trouble receiving those opportunities, you need to take those as potential red flags. Not yet dealbreakers, but cause for further investigation.

And if you’re struggling to identify a clear and certain calling to ministry, might you listen to the people around you more than yourself? Is it possible they’re seeing what plans God has for you more clearly than you’re seeing them for yourself?

A pretty close rendering of several conversations I’ve had:

Person: I’m just not sure I could do this. I don’t think I’m cut out for it.

Me: So, you don’t think you’re willing to do the work? Not up to the challenge?

Person: No no. I would do the work. But I feel like, Who am I to do this?

Me: So … you would feel like a fraud? An impostor?

Person: Totally!

Me: Are you living in a way that’s inappropriate for a Christian to live? Doing things that if people found out, they’d remove you from leadership?

Person: No.

Me: What are you hearing from other people?

Person: They keep encouraging me to take more responsibility. They keep giving me more leadership.

Me: Are you intentionally deceiving them? Have you told them you have qualifications you don’t actually have?

Person: Uh… no.

Me: So you need to know a really clear distinction: You are not an impostor. Impostors deliberately deceive people. They try to convince people that they’re something different than they really are. Fake medical degree. Falsified résumé. Hidden things in their lives. Impostors have too little concern for the damage they’re going to do. They’re reckless.

You are not an impostor. You have impostor’s syndrome. You’re overly concerned about the damage you could do. To the point that it’s preventing you from contributing what everyone else thinks you can contribute.

When you have impostor’s syndrome, the best thing you can do is quit listening to yourself and start listening to other people. Really, you need to listen to God. And right now, I expect the Christian community can hear from God on your behalf better than what’s going on in your own head.

Now, again, what are other people telling you about yourself?

That’s all on the nature of calling. Now let’s talk about the nature of ministry itself.

2 – Another perspective on ministry

The “don’t do it unless you can’t do anything else” line is usually a reference to toil and hardship. It suggests that the only thing that will get you through the suffering of ministry is knowing that God won’t let you do anything else.

Even more, some people have the impression that whatever God would call them to, it should induce misery. We have a sense that “taking up our cross” to follow Jesus means that God’s chosen vocation for us must be something we hate doing. So you’ll hear a lot of people say, “I know this must be God’s calling because I never would have chosen it for myself.”

How I’ve experienced ministry

I’ve had some difficult and painful moments in ministry––days, weeks, one or two years that were pretty brutal. Some of these will come no matter what you’re doing. Some are unique to the role of pastor. I’ll write some more about those in the future.

But far exceeding those moments are the moments of tremendous honor and privilege and blessing and joy.

People let pastors into parts of their lives that only a privileged few get to be a part of––some of the moments of greatest joy and greatest grief. We have the honor to sit with people as they prepare for a wedding and as they grieve after a death and prepare for a funeral. We have the awesome privilege of being sent to the Scriptures week after week to ask what’s there for us and our people, and then to announce to them what the text seems to be saying for us. We have the blessing of getting to pray with people through some of their hardest times and most important decisions.

My experience of ministry doesn’t fit well with the narrative of suffering for Christ. Moments of suffering? Sure. But defined by suffering? Hardly. My experience fits much better with the type of calling Eric Liddell references in Chariots of Fire. “I believe God made me for a purpose,” he says, “but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.”

This is much less I’ll do it if I have to than it is I can’t believe I get to do this.

First Timothy 3:1 says, “Here is a trustworthy saying: Whoever aspires to be an overseer desires a noble task.” The words there are full of desire and delight language. What translates here as aspires is a word that’s translated in other places with craving or longing. What translates here as noble is translated throughout the New Testament as good or beautiful. First Timothy doesn’t treat the work of ministry as something to avoid unless you can’t. It treats it as something you might well desire and aspire to. Because it’s good and beautiful and delightful.

So for all the advice that says, “Only do it if you can’t do anything else,” I’ll suggest the opposite: If people will entrust you with this noble task, maybe you should do it … at least until you’re sure it’s not calling.

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The White Struggle With the Word “Racist”

I want to begin with all kinds of disclaimers, mainly in an attempt to absolve myself of any unintended offenses below. But it’s probably best for me to resist that urge and instead (1) invite your correction and (2) caution you that I have no expertise here. So accordingly, feel free to be quick with any correctives where I miss the mark and be cautious in reading the below as anything more than a personal reflection. I’m writing this primarily to other white friends who might relate and find something helpful here for taking a few steps forward.

If you had me list five words I hoped no one would ever call me, “racist” would undoubtedly make the list. Everything that word has meant to me for most of my life is directly opposed to who I want to be, and even more, if I’m honest, to how I want to be perceived.

“Racist” for most of my life has carried the kind of moral revulsion that “swindler” or “sexual predator” would carry. An accusation of racism would be the kind of thing that, if proven true, would be devastating. It would disqualify me from public leadership and, for many people, any kind of respect or friendship.

That’s the main way I heard “racist” used throughout the 2016 presidential campaign. A New York Times editorial that summer was titled, “Is Donald Trump a Racist?” Its opening lines: “Has the party of Lincoln just nominated a racist to be president? We shouldn’t toss around such accusations lightly.” The article concluded that Trump, indeed, was a racist. It suggested what many others claimed outright: because he is a racist, Trump should not become President. A Washington Post article that same summer was headlined, “For Evangelicals, the Question Has Become: Which Is a Worse Sin, Abortion or Racism?” The article suggested that the choice was between a racist (Trump) or a strong supporter of abortion (Clinton).

A new understanding of “racist” (for me)

It’s only in more recent years that I’ve become familiar with a different understanding of racism. This one doesn’t ask whether I’m racist; it assumes it. It starts by asserting that white people are characteristically, almost inevitably, racist.

Here’s what this understanding of “racist” suggests, as I understand it: Racism is no binary––something you have or don’t have. It’s a full pattern of assumptions about the world. It’s baked into the systems we live in. These can go from something as simple as what “flesh-colored” means on something like a Band-Aid, to various scenarios where black people live with a real and legitimate fear for their lives and white people do not.

This is also where “racist” defines something more than “prejudiced.” Racism is the combination of prejudice with power. With this understanding, it applies particularly to structures that have been established and protected––at times intentionally, at times unwittingly––primarily by the white people who benefit from them. People of any race can be racially prejudiced, and that’s an evil we should all beware of. But racism is particular to the race that has been in power.

In this context, it would make sense for someone to say that our society has ingrained racist patterns, ones that I may be unaware of even while I benefit from them. And because I live in this society as a member of the race that has held the most power, I almost certainly have racist assumptions, even if my intentions are good.

Racism as a vice

A friend and brilliant philosopher, Dr. Claire Peterson, recently suggested to me that it might help to re-frame the way we connect racism to morality. We’re more likely to acknowledge that we struggle with other vices. Though it may not be pleasant, we’re probably quicker to admit a tendency toward pride or anger or greed or envy. We might concede that our impatience or lack of self-discipline are problems, even character flaws. These are things that we can talk about “working on,” areas for “personal growth.” We might even go so far as to call them “sinful patterns” in our lives.

Several years ago, I read a brilliant book on the seven deadly sins, Glittering Vices. As I got to each new chapter (each covered a different vice), I thought, “Finally! This is the one I don’t struggle with. This will be a nice read about someone else.” By the end of each chapter, I was deeply implicated. It turned out I wasn’t free of any of these. As disappointing as that was, that new awareness was also freeing. It helped me recognize blind spots and begin praying and working toward growth. The book didn’t tell me I was a miserable excuse for a human being. It told me, though, that I was living in a world that would naturally lead me down paths of lust and gluttony and greed, and I needed to be armed with awareness and grace if I wanted to combat these.

The claim that I might be racist was jarring to me when I first encountered it. It was unlike the claims from Glittering Vices that I might struggle with vanity or sloth or envy. When you’ve always associated “racist” with moral revulsion, some of the worst kinds of evils, and then someone suggests that you’re racist, what do you do? The knee-jerk reaction: “I’m not a racist!” Probably to follow with proof––anything from that time you did a kind thing for a person of color to the fact that you’re married to a person of color.

If we were to think of racism in terms similar to the other vices, it may not require such strong knee-jerk reactions when we’re implicated. It might allow us instead to become aware of our blind spots and to talk in terms of growth and awareness and grace. It might also allow us to speak honestly about how racism is sinful, but how that sinfulness should be a prompt for growth, not shame. This understanding of “racist” wouldn’t disqualify someone from respect or friendship or public leadership. But it also wouldn’t let it go unexamined or uncorrected.

If we speak and think of racism in similar ways as we do the other vices, we also might be able to better address systemic problems. Just as you can identify the policies, patterns, and messaging in our society that promote greed or lust, you can begin to identify the ones that promote and sustain racial inequalities.

The strategic problem with “racist”

We run into a strategic problem when we use the word “racist” in this new (to many of us) way. To be clear, I’m not suggesting that it’s an inaccurate word to use or an unfair word to use. I’m only suggesting one of the reasons I think it may have been at times ineffective, even though accurate and fair.

Here’s why …

Good people / Bad people

A word becomes defined by its usage. And the primary way many (most?) white people have heard “racist” used is to suggest that someone who is racist is immoral and uncultured––ignorant, bigoted, prejudiced, and mean-spirited. “Within this paradigm,” writes Robin DiAngelo, “to suggest that I am racist is to deliver a deep moral blow––a kind of character assassination.”

When people were asking “Is Donald Trump a Racist?” in the lead-up to the 2016 election, they weren’t asking whether he struggled with a vice like lust or greed or anger. They were suggesting that he was morally compromised in such a profound way that he should not be elected, in a way that Hillary Clinton was, by comparison, not. Examples like this have trained us to see any suggestion of racism as the “deep moral blow” DiAngelo talks about.

“Racist” has so frequently been used to separate “good” people from “bad” ones that it has blinded us to racism’s more subtle realities. To borrow from Solzhenitsyn: If only there were racist people somewhere insidiously committing racist deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing racist and not cuts through the heart of every white person. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?

This is why DiAngelo (who identifies as a white progressive) says, “I believe that white progressives cause the most daily damage to people of color. I define a white progressive as any white person who thinks he or she is not racist, or is less racist, or in the ‘choir,’ or already ‘gets it.’1 White progressives can be the most difficult for people of color because, to the degree that we think we have arrived, we will put our energy into making sure that others see us as having arrived. None of our energy will go into what we need to be doing for the rest of our lives: engaging in ongoing self-awareness, continuing education, relationship building, and actual antiracist practice.”

Because the word “racist” has been so morally weighted in our usage, DiAngelo suggests that those who see it as abhorrent will spend more time virtue signaling to absolve themselves, more time trying to implicate others “worse” than themselves, and not nearly enough time continuing to listen and do the things that are most helpful.

Noun or adjective

Another problem we run into with “racist” is that it’s an adjective that also functions as a noun. You can have racist tendencies, but you can also simply be a racist. We do this with other adjectives––rich, famous, poor, homeless. (Think “Lifestyles of the rich and famous.”) When they become nouns, they become not one descriptor but the defining characteristic of those we speak about.

Most of the other vices I’ve mentioned don’t do this. We don’t speak of someone as a lust or an anger or a pride. These are things we struggle with, not things we are.2 And notice how it changes when we move these from struggles to defining characteristics. Someone might admit to struggling with lust but will probably not take kindly to being called a pervert or sexual deviant. They might admit to prideful tendencies but take offense if you call them a narcissist. We can (sometimes) handle acknowledging our vices. But nearly all of us react negatively when they’re used as our defining characteristics. Because “racist” can occupy the same space in our speech as “pervert” or “narcissist,” it’s liable to the same offense and knee-jerk rejections as those words.

Robin DiAngelo, whom I’ve quoted a few times above, writes about white fragility––this knee-jerk reaction of white people against any suggestions that they could have racist tendencies. I wonder if the move from adjective to noun contributes to that fragility. We can talk about struggling with a vice. But when the vice becomes our defining characteristic, we fight back.

Getting people to listen

I’m convinced of this––we need to deal with our racism more directly. Our nation does. Individuals do. I do.

I’m also convinced that our different understandings of the word “racist” and its implications are preventing a lot of people from dealing with these things seriously. I know it was the case for me. I needed to come to a different understanding of the word before I could come to a better understanding of the problem.

Strategically, if we had a different word for the problem, I wonder if we could deal with the problem more quickly. Some words are worth abandoning when they’ve lost the meaning we need them to have. Some are worth redeeming –– at nearly any cost. I’m not in any position to say which is true here. I just wish that we could deal with the serious vice of racism in ourselves and in our culture, and I worry that the word itself has prevented many people from giving the problem proper consideration.

Regardless of all this, “racist” is the word we have, and I don’t intend to propose a new one. For anyone (like me) who has had a knee-jerk reaction to this word and its implications in the past, I’m proposing that you give it a new hearing––not as something that calls you a moral monster or that is only about other people, but as something that needs careful attention from all of us.

Some next steps

If we take racism to be similar to other vices, we can understand the recent claims that being “not racist” isn’t enough. That’s because this kind of racism has been ingrained in our society for centuries. And being “not racist” is at once both unrealistic and insufficient. This is why you might be seeing calls for people instead to be anti-racist.

“Not racist” seeks easy absolution. Anti-racist names it as a constant problem to fight back, both personally and societally. “Not racist” overlooks important areas of needed growth––the same way I had overlooked some of the ways I struggled with other vices until I read that book. Anti-racist seeks to identify these things and work toward rooting them out. “Not racist” is passive and concerned about maintaining personal reputation. Anti-racist is active and concerned about changing personal and public realities.

As I’ve understood it, you can actually be both racist and anti-racist. Racist because those ingrained assumptions and behaviors still exist. Anti-racist because you’re actively working toward identifying and removing them.

My goal here isn’t to provide you with specific next steps. See my opening disclaimer: I’m far from any expertise in this. My goal instead is to help a few other people identify why they’ve had such a knee-jerk response to the word “racist,” if their experience is like mine, and then to move from that to something more positive and productive. If we get that far, there are plenty of expert resources available to do what DiAngelo suggested is necessary: “engaging in ongoing self-awareness, continuing education, relationship building, and actual antiracist practice.”

[A later addition: I’m thankful for a lot of good conversation from this post. There are many things I should probably add––especially a stronger emphasis on the corporate nature of racism, some more about vice, and another word on white fragility. I won’t add these to the body of the post but add them here so you can see some of the progress from these conversations.]

On the corporate nature of racism. I’ve noted in several places above that racism is not just a personal vice but a systemic evil, ingrained in our society for centuries. But most of my discussion above focused on the personal. This would be a better and more balanced piece if it gave equal weight to the societal/systemic evil of racism. This is not only about people’s individual sinfulness but long-established sinful structures. This is one of the reasons why it seems “anti-racist” is far better than “not a racist,” which I noted is at once both unrealistic and insufficient.

On vice. I think some perceptions of vice, along with the primary way I’ve treated it here, could suggest that I’m advocating an understanding of racism that is (1) more personal than societal, and (2) softer and less evil. This is my fault for not giving enough weight to the societal and deeply evil nature of the vices. To consider racism alongside other vices shouldn’t diminish its severity or its systemic/structural implications. I could and should have done more to address those here. One difference that does remain is that racism is a particular sin of the race that has long held power while the other vices are more universal in scope. I don’t know that this is reason enough to remove it from the category of vice, but it is a significant difference from all the others.

On white fragility. Some have pointed out that the kind of softening of our understanding of “racist” that I discuss above is a reflection of white fragility. I think they’re right. I think most humans have a fragility regarding how we speak about sin, in general. That’s not to let white people off the hook. It is to suggest that sin is, for all humanity, a touchy subject. And racism, as a particular category of sin for white people, has become particularly touchy for us. And at least strategically, I think I have a better chance of gaining a hearing with sinners if I talk to them about sin as a vice––one that is doing deep damage to them and the society around them––rather than labeling them with that sin as their defining characteristic. The former approach tends to focus on people’s guilt and complicity and looks toward change, the latter approach has a tendency to focus people on shame and is more likely to shut down the conversation before it begins.

This is where, pastorally, I think we may do better and get further if we acknowledge people’s fragility about sin and work strategically to root it out. If we instead tell them to get over their fragility, we more often lose them from the conversation at the start. White people have a unique fragility about racism. I’m not concerned about easing white suffering about this, but about engaging white people in the conversation in the first place.

Two problems with my approach here: (1) Some have argued that it could do nothing more than diminish the severity of racism and keep people from confronting its evils and their complicity. I think that’s a legitimate argument. I hope it wouldn’t be the case, but I can see where it could be. (2) Even this suggestion comes from a position of privilege. I’m able to begin with this admittedly softer approach in part because I haven’t suffered the negative effects of racism. I should be careful not to suggest this as the approach others take in how they speak about racism. I intend to suggest it more as a re-framing for people who have been unable or unwilling to think about it in a way that implicates them and could lead to change and growth. I understand why some people think even that strategic approach is too much of a power play at changing word meanings.

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Footnotes

1 A white progressive who read an early draft of this article told me she totally disagrees with this definition of “white progressive.” Perhaps white progressives are hearing and listening to enough voices like this that they’re changing and no longer properly fit this definition. I don’t know whether DiAngelo would agree with that or call the refusal to accept this definition as an indicator of the “white fragility” she writes about. Whatever the case, I’ll leave it here as DiAngelo’s definition and let others choose whether they agree with it or not.

2 Gluttony here is the near-exception, since we can call someone a glutton. I wonder if this could have any relation to why gluttony may be the vice we’re least likely to address head-on today.

Church Reopenings: The risks, the other risks, and one more that no one’s talking about

As some churches around the country begin to reopen worship services while others wait, I’ve been talking to several church leaders and members about the various things we need to be considering. We need to take into account a number of risks––both risks to opening and risks to staying closed. I write this to encourage church leaders to make decisions with all of these things in mind. And I write it to encourage church members to bear with us as we try to make good decisions when they aren’t easy or clear.

I’ve been impressed with the thoughtfulness and diligence of our church’s leadership and with the grace and patience of our congregation. Wherever you are, and whatever decisions you’re making, I hope you’re experiencing the same.

Health Risks

Disease Spread

Anyone talking about churches reopening has heard about the risks of disease spread. We bring a large crowd of people together––

  • people who love each other and haven’t seen each other in months;
  • people who, if they’re like me, never knew how much they valued singing together and want to sing;
  • people who all have different standards and awareness about things like physical distance and touch and masks and kids running around.

We bring these together and worry about becoming the next epicenter of infection.

As a pastor, I fear the news article that says, “75% of those in attendance that day have now tested positive, two have died, one is in critical condition. When we contacted the pastor, Teddy Ray, …” I don’t want to know how that line ends.

I’m concerned about the liability, the negative publicity, etc. But the much greater fear comes when I start to fill in the blanks with names and faces of people I dearly love. And I don’t even want to think about what it would mean if our congregation were to become an epicenter for a city-wide outbreak.

I don’t write this hypothetical to suggest it would be the likely outcome. I think it’s quite unlikely. Tens of thousands of churches are reopening. We’re hearing about the handful where these are the results. Nevertheless, it’s a possible outcome. And one that at least makes me take next steps with a healthy fear. Reopening of churches poses the risk of disease spread––both to our members, and then out into our community––however likely or remote that risk is. Churches must take that seriously.

Mental Health and Human Dignity

Then there are the other risks of quarantine to consider, those related to mental health and human dignity. These aren’t particular to the church, but they need to factor into our decisions. I admit that I’m frustrated by the ways some of these are being ignored or even scornfully dismissed. I’d love to see social workers and mental health experts standing alongside epidemiologists at press conferences and as key parts of advisory panels. Some of the major unintended consequences of quarantine have no reason to catch us by surprise.

Gov. Andrew Cuomo has been widely praised for his public handling of the situation in New York. And with good reason. He has been a model of class and measured response from most of what I’ve seen.[note]Some people have taken exception with this statement, especially citing Gov. Cuomo’s decisions regarding assisted care facilities. I wasn’t aware of those when I wrote this. I had seen many clips of his press conferences that impressed me and had seen general praise of his handling of the situation. Regardless, I’ll leave this in rather than editing after the fact. I hope one claim like this is neither the point of fixation nor enough to invalidate the rest of this article for reasonable people.[/note] But one of his most viewed moments was, in my opinion, his worst.

[Cuomo]: Economic hardship. Yes. Very bad. Not death. Emotional stress from being locked in a house. Very bad. Not death. Domestic violence on the increase. Very bad. Not death.

…

[Reporter, about people who aren’t receiving unemployment checks]: They can’t wait for the money. They’re out of money.

[Cuomo]: Yeah, we’re talking about a couple of days lagged on the unemployment insurance. And they will get the check from the date of unemployment. It does not cost them an extra penny.

April 22 Press Conference

It’s a privilege to be able to dismiss economic hardship, emotional stress, and domestic violence this easily. That kind of approach doesn’t recognize the personal hell these can represent. If someone has ever waited for a check to buy food, they won’t see it as just “a couple of days lagged,” something that “does not cost them an extra penny.” Critics of the pro-life movement have (rightly) contended that you can only call yourself pro-life if you care about someone’s quality of life while they’re living, not just whether they live or die in the womb. The same should apply here. It makes sense for disease spread to be the beginning of our conversations right now, but it can’t be the only part of our conversations.[note]An example of the tunnel-vision some of us have developed: I talked to a healthcare worker recently who was chastised for using PPE for a contact precaution patient because the patient didn’t have COVID-19. Even some people working in healthcare seem to have forgotten that other health concerns still matter.[/note]

For many of us, the unnatural way quarantine has us living is mere “disruption.” But for others, it’s devastating, at least verging on inhumane.

Here’s just one crushing example:

This isn’t an argument that we should be doing something different. But it’s an argument that we can’t dismiss things like this. We must ask questions not only about life and death, but about living and dying with dignity. The church should be on the forefront of asking those questions.

I live in a house with four impressively self-sufficient kids and a wonderful wife. I still have my job. I have daily human contact––both in-person conversation and physical touch. I imagine that my situation is about as easy as anyone’s right now. And even with all of this, I admit there are days when I’m just barely holding it together.

So I can’t imagine the challenge for anyone who is:

  • living in near- or total isolation,
  • responsible for young, not-at-all-self-sufficient kids,
  • going on months without a hug or human contact,
  • single parenting,
  • carrying deep anxieties about finances,
  • living in a home that’s physically or emotionally unsafe

    … to name just a few.

The church is the primary community and social support for a lot of people on that list. So long as we remain closed, we’re creating a barrier to much of that social support. Yes, we can do some things digitally and from a distance. But we can’t fool ourselves into believing they’re the same or even that they suffice. Staying closed does not come without risk to our people.

Spiritual Health

Some people have dismissed the importance of church gatherings, saying things like, “I think God will understand.” Yes, God understands. But we don’t gather for worship simply to appease God. We worship together because we’re made to worship.

God’s order to Pharaoh over and over in Exodus is, “Let my people go, so that they may worship me.” Of all the basic human rights denied the Israelites in Egypt, God identifies their ability to worship him as central. For any who would talk about “personal worship” or worshiping God “in our hearts,” any who contend that place and gathered community don’t matter, the treatment of worship throughout the Bible points us in a different direction.

If worship is really something we’re made for, it’s unsurprising to see that spiritual health has a significant relationship to both mental and physical health. This 2012 study is a helpful and interesting analysis of the best research on religion/spirituality and its connections to health. Here’s a summary table of its findings:

Church leaders who want to reopen churches aren’t just concerned about this for the survival of their organizations, as some have suggested. They’ve seen that their people’s spiritual health is related to their overall thriving, and they’re concerned, especially in a time of great adversity, for the well-being of their people.[note]To be sure, this is no suggestion that someone who suffers from depression or has a rocky marriage or is diagnosed with cancer must not have enough faith. This is no simple true/false relationship. But is a spiritually healthy person more likely to remain mentally, socially, and physically healthy? The research says yes.[/note]

Church Risks and Final Decision-Making

The Risks of Exclusion or Unwise Exposure

As we consider re-opening, we’ve begun to talk about all of the people who might be encouraged or required to stay home. We would encourage anyone in a high-risk group to make a careful assessment of the risk before coming. We would require anyone who poses a higher risk to others to stay home. That includes anyone who can’t follow the recommended social distancing precautions (masks, physical distance), anyone who has been in recent contact with someone who tested positive, or anyone displaying symptoms. Because of space requirements, we might even have to exclude people based on capacity issues.

I want to note here that this is not a new phenomenon. It’s just broader. Capacity issues and RSVP systems are unusual but not unheard of, even if the reasons for them now are different. We’ve always had at-risk people who would be wise to avoid large crowds at certain times. We’ve always had people who were excluded because they or their children posed a health risk to others. (I have a feeling churches from here forward will be much more direct about asking people with symptoms of illness to please stay home.) We’ve just not had so many who fell into these categories.

The risk of exclusion is real and much broader than it has been before. But it’s also not new. It’s something to grieve. It should cause us to look for as many creative solutions as possible. But I don’t believe we can choose to prevent everyone from worshiping because some, even many, may be temporarily and regrettably excluded. Kentucky’s governor, after noting that at-risk groups shouldn’t participate in social gatherings that he was opening to others, said, “That’s not fair, but the virus isn’t either.”

Leaders are also worried that some of our at-risk people might choose to come anyway. I don’t think we should prevent them or even actively discourage them in a way that would suggest they’re unwelcome. See all of the above. Our people’s physical health is a real concern. But so is their ability to live with dignity.

One other related risk here is that people will come because they think they should, out of a sense of duty or obligation, fearful that they might miss the grace of God, otherwise. The church’s worship and sacraments are real means of grace. We dare not say or communicate less. But we also, especially now, need to let people know clearly that we respect and support anyone’s decision to stay removed if it’s out of concern for their health or others’. Please don’t come out of any sense of obligation. Here’s where it might be appropriate to insert that “I think God will understand” line.

The Risk of Simplistic Decision-Making

“Would Jesus hide in fear instead of doing the work of God?” poses a slanted and simplistic question. So does “Would Jesus put people’s lives at risk just to do what he wanted?” You may not have heard these asked quite this simply, but many arguments about reopening churches go only about this far.

One side cites personal and religious liberty, deriding anything that seems like irrational fear. The other side cites the duty to be good citizens and care for others’ physical health by not going out, deriding anything else as selfish or uninformed.

Church leaders need to be sympathetic to both sides in this conversation. Preventing people from worshiping together is not a small deal, and we dare not treat it as such. Ignoring public health risks or public authorities (especially when their requests or mandates aren’t explicitly malicious), also no small deal.

The risk of making simplistic decisions is, after all, why I’ve written as much above as I have. Church leaders, I hope you’ll consider all of these together and not make a decision based on any simple slogan. Church members, I hope you’ll give your leaders grace and patience as they try to hold all of this in tension.

One Final Risk No One Is Talking About

Our national divisions about when and how to reopen are beginning to cut along partisan lines. Just-released survey results show Republicans more than twice as likely as Democrats to believe non-essential businesses in their states should be allowed to open (61% to 29%). A wide majority on both sides (about 80%) said they “feel strongly” about their position.

One of the poll designers noted, “What we have here is a very real partisan split that you don’t expect to find in a public health epidemic.” It really is unusual. A pandemic has become a divisive partisan issue.

As unusual as this is, it’s equally unsurprising. Partisan allegiances may have become the greatest idolatry of our nation. For a number of Americans, these allegiances have become a primary identity––the most likely association to determine what’s good and what’s evil, who’s friend and who’s foe, who we treat with charity and who we treat with hostility. They also determine the sources we trust for news and opinions. The news outlets that carry each party’s agenda feed it all.[note]In my first draft, I called them “false prophets of their political gods.” That sounds extreme, but I don’t take it back. I’ve moved it to a footnote because I still want to say it but don’t want it to distract from the body of my text.[/note] They’ve demonstrated much more interest in promoting their preferred political parties than giving us the full, verified truth. This runs from deception through silly and unnecessary distortions to promotion of unfounded conspiracy theories.

Whether for good or bad, churches have usually been able to avoid partisan politics if they chose to. Fox News and CNN viewers can sit side by side in the pews without either side getting too agitated. But now, reopening decisions may force all of us to inadvertently take a side.

Many churches are likely to have some members eager for reopening and indignant at any approach that seems slow or over-cautious. They’re likely to have other members firmly set against reopening soon, angry at any actions that could put public health at risk. Those divisions will probably fall along partisan lines. If we go several months with churches making different decisions on this, it could prompt a next-level partisan separation of our churches. I could see Republicans, frustrated with churches that open too slow, leaving for the ones down the street that opened early. I could see Democrats, ashamed of churches that opened too soon, leaving for the ones that have maintained a full #StayHome approach. This won’t likely happen if everyone makes the same decision over a month or two. But I could expect it if we go into the fall or longer without clarity.

What We’re Doing

So finally, here’s what my church is doing as we try to take these many things into consideration.

#1 – We’ve committed to following all guidance from our authorities––both government and denomination. We believe this is a Romans 13 “be subject to the governing authorities” moment, not a Revelation 13 “resist the beast” moment. We may or may not agree with our authorities’ full prescriptions, but we accept their authority and believe they’re trying to act in the best interest of the people.

#2 – My church community’s leaders don’t believe we can abide by the current guidelines and have meaningful, in-person public worship services. The current guidance prevents us from singing or celebrating Eucharist together. These have always been essential pieces of our worship. Without these pieces, we believe we’re able to facilitate better worship for our community online, where we can still sing and have even found a way within the current restrictions to continue celebrating Eucharist and distributing the elements. (To be sure – we are NOT encouraging virtual or online communion. Worship leaders are celebrating communion in the room, then we’re distributing the elements to those unwillingly absent––a long Christian tradition.)

#3 – Meanwhile, I’m advocating for a creative plan to follow our government’s guidance regarding other kinds of gatherings. Gatherings other than for worship services seem to be our best options right now, given the restrictions. Our leaders are talking about ways to hold Bible studies, prayer gatherings, simple outdoor social gatherings, and other things of the sort. Just last week, we were able to begin distributing communion elements at a local park again. It was so good to see people in the flesh, pray with them, and see them able to stand six feet apart and talk with each other. I hope to continue offering more of these opportunities in any creative ways we can find that adhere to governmental and denominational restrictions.

#4 – We’re not naming many plans in advance. Many changes in guidance have come with relatively short notice, and our church has done a good job of responding to change quickly. So we’re preferring to make quick decisions once we have all the necessary information, rather than trying to anticipate what will come next or when. As soon as enough restrictions lift that we can gather people for worship, I expect that we will do that quickly. I could see that involving the offer of several small gatherings in homes or outdoor gatherings.

#5 – We’re committed to streaming online worship services for the foreseeable future. We believe this is an important option to provide so long as anyone is unable or uncomfortable attending in-person.

#6 – As we begin holding in-person gatherings, we will communicate frequently that no one should feel pressure to come if they don’t feel comfortable. See above.

I’m interested to hear from other leaders what you’re doing and how you’re thinking about this, or to hear from you if you have questions or think I’ve missed anything here.

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