Leaving Salem

When I was a bit younger and a bit braver, a group of friends and I shot the rapids on the Ocoee River in southeast Tennessee. The Ocoee, which I think is the Cherokee word for “terrified rafter” is a world class whitewater adventure. It was the site of the 1996 whitewater Olympic events. Now, I’m no Olympic athlete, and that became evident on the river that day. I so feared being sucked out of the boat that I literally dug my toenails into the rubber boat I was paddling.

It was so petrifying that we shot the river twice in the same day. By the time we finished, I was on a first name basis with rapids named Broken Nose, Table Saw, and Diamond Splitter. If you’re up for a bit of excitement, it’s a recommended trip. Whitewater sports began quite accidentally on this mighty river. The Ocoee is dammed in three different places to produce electricity. The Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) has operated these dams for years.

For the longest, TVA’s production of electricity killed the river. Only a trickle of water, no more than ankle deep in places, flowed through the gorge. But in the late 1970s a portion of one of their dams broke, sending the full force of the Ocoee through the canyon for the first time in fifty years. Whitewater outfitters and kayakers jumped all over the opportunity. Even after the dam was repaired, legislation was passed to protect the recreation that had developed on the river. So, for 112 days a year the Ocoee River is “turned on” for kayaking and whitewater enthusiasts. The rest of the year the Ocoee produces electricity.

On the morning I arrived at the river there was nothing but rocks. “How are we going to shoot the rapids when I can rock-jump across the river and never get wet?” I asked my guide. Speaking like a cross between Yoda and some drug-empowered oracle he said, “Sweat it not, dude. The water is coming.” He was right. The water was coming. Thirty miles upstream, in the Georgia Mountains, the water had been released. It took a little while to get there, but I watched as the babbling stream turned into the roiling Ocoee River.

The power of those rapids was incredible. You didn’t dictate to the river what you were going to do with your little paddle and rubber dinghy. There was no control over the water. That was an illusion – regardless of what some peep-eyed guide might tell you. You went where the water pushed you. Sure, at times you could steer, paddle or even stop, hiding behind a huge rock; but when released over the rapids all you could do was scream, flay at the water and pray. The power of the water had been unleashed, and we were just along for the ride.

Living out the life of faith is a lot like whitewater rafting. We have our boat and paddle. We are in this boat with our friends on the same journey. What began as a dribble is now an unstoppable flood. We are paddling along best we can, moved by the unleashed Spirit of God. And sometimes we are more than moved. Sometimes life and faith are not placid escapades of reflection and peace. Instead, the journey of faith becomes a bone-jarring exercise in survival, crashing over the rocks and through the rapids, threatening to drown us.

We are often jostled from the security of our raft, forced to scream out of desperation for a rope or lifeline of rescue. We struggle and fight just to keep our noses above the water line. We may get the relieved opportunity to list in quiet pools, catching our breath and resting our muscles from time to time. But then, the water will pick up and we are on our way again.

Sure, there are things we can and should do along the way: Pray, hang on, watch out for our friends, and paddle like hell. But ultimately we are riding the wave of God as he does his good will and purpose. His power has been turned on in our lives, and all we have to do is let it take us where it will. All we have to do is hang on. What a great adventure it is.

On this day in history, October 18, 1970, the lives of Roy and Rita McBrayer changed forever. Roy, a shy boy and a month shy of his twenty-second year, and Rita, even younger, were two redneck kids weaving their way through life, Vietnam, and Nixon. When Rita awoke on this day more than four decades ago from a drug-induced sleep at Floyd Medical Center, she was given the good and glorious news by an anxious doctor: “Congratulations! You have a daughter…and a son.”

Yes, my twin sister and I celebrate our breaking into the world today, she two minutes ahead of me, and she has never let me forget it (she was also bigger and stronger than me for most of my life and took my presents away from me at every birthday party – I haven’t let her forget that either). We were born two months early and barely made to the hospital in time for delivery. Even though my mother kept telling my father she was in labor, he didn’t believe her. She is the excitable type, you know, but early labor it was (She has never let him forget that either).

Born in the foothills of the North Georgia Appalachians, I suppose I’ll be an uncultured hillbilly of sorts until the day I die. See, try as I might, I can’t shake my love for all things southern. Deep-fried cooking, Jeff Foxworthy, the sacred writings of Lewis Grizzard and Ferrol Sams, Georgia Bulldog football, grits, the Allman Brothers Band, the “See Rock City” barns, even this terrible twang when I speak: I can’t shake these off no matter how long I live.

Another southern thing I have had a hard time shaking is my religious upbringing. To be sure, there was a swarm of good and graceful people in my life. Still, I barely – and I mean barely – survived the fire-and-brimstone, fundamentalist, dispensational, hyper-legalistic, KJV-only, indoctrination of my hard shell Baptist-reared childhood. But in the great comedy of God, I have spent my adulthood in ministry, both preaching in and protesting against; both loving and leaving (sometimes loathing); both running away from and returning to the church. The faith I’m trying to keep isn’t in organized religion, however, God knows. It is in Jesus.

My experience with hard, graceless religion has rung a bell with many of you who read this every week. I hear regularly from those who have laughed, cried, and been challenged by my flimsy words here. And I also hear regularly from those have been angered by what I have to say. That’s okay too; I can bear a little hate mail because countless people have been ground into the dust of religious legalism, manipulation, guilt-bearing, and fear-mongering. And I say, enough of that. Absolutely enough.

Christ came to give us rest and peace, the light and lightness of life, not to exchange our slavery to sin and self-destruction for the equally heavy chains of religious domination. In fact, Christ came not to start a religion at all, but to change our lives and our world with boundless grace. In the words of a bumper sticker on my wife’s car (who is older than me, shhh): “Faith is a journey; not a guilt trip.”

So, for what it is worth, and with whatever years I have left, I’ll keep saying the only thing I know to say: “God loves you, just as you are, and true life is found in the grace of his Son, Jesus.” Don’t let religion (or any other brother or sister) take that gift away from you.

Do you know the three most frightening words in the English language? “Some assembly required.” You order something online; a toy or a bicycle for your children. Or you go to a big box store to get a grill or piece of patio furniture. When UPS brings it to your door or you find the item you’re looking for in the store, it’s not ready to go like you saw in the online catalog or the advertisement in Sunday’s paper. No, no, no. “Some assembly required,” the tag on the box says.

So, you lug this box the size of a queen-sized mattress out to the garage and open it up. You spill out bucketfuls of screws, connectors, rods and unidentifiable small pieces of plastic that you will never use no matter what the directions say. And for the next six weeks you attempt to put this thing together.

The worst case for me was construction of the dreaded children’s play set. Child’s play it was not. When I was growing up our swing sets were just tubes of light weight aluminum. If you were swinging too high the front side of the entire swing set would rise off the ground a solid foot. Now, we have these play sets made of concrete anchored, sequoia-like treated timbers, and screws the length of baseball bats. Assembly requires the assistance of a civil engineer and a Masters degree from MIT. When I bought one of these behemoths for my children I was in the back yard with a slide rule and a skill saw for the entire summer. And I lost all credibility with my neighbors. There was no way they were going to that pastor’s church, not with the raging four-letter obscenities flying out of my mouth.

When we moved, to my children’s chagrin, I left the play set there; not so much as a gift to the family that bought our house. No, there was just no way I was going to disassemble it and attempt to put it back together again. Once was more than enough. It was too much work.

Some assembly required: This is true of the products you buy, the relationships you have, the children you are raising, and the kind of person you are becoming. We are all works in progress, even as this relates to our faith. The Apostle Paul said to the Philippians: “Continue to work out your salvation.” We have been given this wonderful gift of grace – the gift of salvation. Christ has redeemed us, calling us to himself to follow and imitate him.

This gift is like getting a bicycle in a box. It’s like owning a swing set, but the materials are stacked up in the back yard. It’s like possessing a new piece of patio furniture but it’s actually in a half dozen pieces. You’ve got to work it out. You’ve got to put it all together. You can’t ride the bike if it stays in the box. You can’t play on the swing set if it remains disassembled. You can’t enjoy your patio furniture if you don’t connect the pieces. And faith will not be what it is intended to be – what God wants it to be in your life – if you don’t work it out, if you don’t open the box and put it all together. Maybe faith has become such a misery – a burden – for some of us because we’re lugging around on our backs the box full of assorted spiritual materials rather than putting it all together.

So much informs and shapes our spirituality: The reading of Scripture, prayer and fasting, meditation and retreat, good works done in the name of Christ, service of the poor, worship, periods of contemplation and reflection, times of doubt and frustration. Somehow these all come together to make us who we are. Somehow these things become transformational in our lives. Somehow these pieces fit together to form something useful, something valuable, something that looks a lot like faith.

So pop the bands on that box that’s been waiting for you in the garage. Put on your work gloves and break out the tool chest. Call your neighbor to lend a hand. Before you know it, all the pieces will fall right into place.

Sometimes everything comes together perfectly: In life, at home, even in church. I had one of those perfect Sunday mornings not long ago. The weather was warm and pleasant. The sky was clear. It was one of those days in which you could actually feel the life around and within you. Worshippers entered the sanctuary with smiles, hugs, handshakes, and laughter. Pew and heart were filled before the service of worship was even begun.

And what a worship service it was! Liturgy, Holy Communion, praise and worship music, scripture reading, a sermon. It came together perfectly. As the worshippers left the Chapel on this particular Sunday, many spoke of how moving and inspiring the words and music had been. They spoke of the warmness of the welcome and how freely the Spirit seemed to move. As worshippers trickled by me, deep within my heart, pride blossomed. Had I not helped in selecting the music for this day? Were not those life-giving prayers written by me? Didn’t I pick the Bible readings? And that sermon! Was it not an oratory masterpiece?

Sure, I coyly deflected the compliments that came my way. No one gets ahead by being too brazen. But inside I was one smug son-of-a-gun. The more people gushed the more “humble” I became. And the more people gushed the more my private arrogance grew. A lady approached me reading eloquently from the script of flattery. I felt my shirt collar tighten once more as my head continued to swell. But when she added, “However, I must tell you something,” I should have remembered that “pride goeth before a fall.”

With a dancing grin on her face, the kind of grin that said she already knew the not-yet-delivered punch line, she relayed to me her worship experience. As she sat through my illustrious sermon she happened to glance out the huge church window positioned to her immediate left. There, just on the other side of the glass was my four-year-old son, Braden, playing on the gravel and the lawn. The little tyke was in his own precocious world: Picking a flower here and there, doing cartwheels, tossing stones, lost in his imagination.

Then, nature called. This son of mine looked to the right and he looked to the left. When he was reasonably certain of solitude, he dropped his pants and relieved himself on the church wall, oblivious to the hundreds of worshippers behind the glare of the church windows. As this parishioner cackled, told her story and walked away, the loud hissing sound that filled the now empty sanctuary was my deflating ego. I was mortified.

The prophet Isaiah spoke of the future kingdom of God as a place where a “little child shall lead” around the ferocious animals of the jungle as if they were family pets. I am certain he did not have my son in mind. Still, the prophecy rang true on this particular Sunday. Inside the church I was committing the sacrilege of pride, taking tribute that belonged only to God. Outside, my son was lost in Eden-like innocence. The inside of my heart was filled with ferocious self-importance and overconfidence. The inside of his heart was filled with disarming purity and a clearness of conscience.

Which is worse? Indiscretion and poor manners performed out of innocence, or public showmanship that is driven by arrogance and pride? I learned all too quickly the answer: A pierced ego is good medicine for the soul. Yes, sometimes everything comes together perfectly: In life, at home, even in church. I had one of those perfect Sunday mornings not long ago. My little boy placed his collar around my neck and gently led me home.

I grew up with a lot of religious rules. To violate these rules was to subject oneself to the violence of God. You may be familiar with these rules. No drinking, no smoking, no dancing, no mixed-bathing (a prospect that always intrigued my teenage mind), no Sabbath-breaking (though we did not actually gather on the Sabbath), and absolutely no questioning of religious authority.

Religious authority was bound up in “the preacher.” The big Baptist and Methodist churches downtown had a pastor. The Presbyterians had an elder. The one fledgling Catholic parish on the edge of town had a priest. I didn’t meet a Jew until high school, so I didn’t even know what a rabbi was; but in my little ecclesiastical world, we had a preacher. He was the combined concoction of teacher, prophet, taskmaster, guardian, and enforcer. I’m certain he cut his grass in a three piece suit, didn’t know a single curse word, and all his children were probably adopted because to have sex with his wife was certainly too worldly, too carnal to consider.

See, the world in which the preacher lived was black and white with no shades of gray, no mystery, no ambiguities. There were only hard and fast rules. You were in or you were out.  If you wanted to know which you were, just ask him.  He would tell you, and he used the pulpit to do exactly that. On Sundays he became an inferno of Puritan proportions. Animated, wringing with sweat, almost always discarding his suit coat and loosening his tie, he implored and coerced us sinners down the isle to the mourner’s bench. It usually worked.

Someone “repented” most every service, even if it took thirty verses of “Just As I Am” to force the issue. I remember those altar calls as being more than lengthy. They were nerve rattling wars of attrition. Sometimes I felt compelled to go forward just so the whole thing would end.

It was this preacher who arrived at a Children’s Hospital on Saturday afternoon. My younger brother had been hospitalized with a faulty heart valve and a growing laundry list of complications. He had not yet celebrated his first birthday but already he had had his chest cracked open like a melon, his kidneys had failed, his lungs had collapsed, and a Staph infection in his right elbow had resulted in the amputation of his arm almost at the shoulder to save his life; a life that hung by a thread.

My parents certainly needed emotional and spiritual support, a pastoral presence. The preacher arrived on cue. But he was anything but comforting. I was at the hospital the day he visited and within ear shot when I heard the preacher say the most horrible words to my parents. In paraphrase he said, “Surely you have committed some terrible sin for God to visit this kind of judgment on you and your family.” Even as an eight-year-old, I was flabbergasted. To this day those words still burn my ears.

Is this the God of Christianity? Is this the kind of God behind our faith? Is this vindictive deity even worthy of our worship? I think not. While this might be the god of the preacher, it is not the God revealed to us in the person of Jesus the Christ. For in Christ we find truth and grace, not this kind of crass judgmentalism. Jesus doesn’t walk into hospital rooms, his fat belly pushing against the buttons of his tailored pen stripes, handing out indictments of guilt to the innocent.

No, this Jesus sits down and weeps with the suffering. He opens his arms to the brutalized and confused. And while he doesn’t always, if ever, provide us with the answers we long for, he walks with us in the mystery of life and death. I never accepted those words spoken in that ICU waiting room. Maybe I’ve spent the last thirty years trying to disprove them. I hope you won’t accept them either. The love of Christ always trumps the hardness of men’s hearts. And for that, I say thanks to be to God.

Churches are peculiar places. I have had the opportunity to serve a few of them. Some of my pastoral experiences have been awesome and rewarding – baptisms, weddings, the transformation of individuals and families. Some other experiences have been about as much fun as a sharp stick in the eye. And the churches which I have served have met in a diverse number of places:  In the hollow of a school gymnasium; in a leaky storefront on the wrong side of the tracks; in a multi-million dollar sanctuary with all the technological bells and whistles; in an old redbrick church so old it barely escaped the fires of General Sherman’s army. In fact, some of the deacons in that old redbrick church may have served in Sherman’s army. Speaking of a sharp stick in the eye, they certainly had the attitude and constitution for it. But I digress.

Here is one of the things that make churches peculiar: The most heated arguments in the church were not over our location or theology or future plans. No, the worst controversies I ever endured were over our style of worship. Should we use hymnals or modern worship music? Should drums be allowed in the sanctuary? Is it blasphemy to move the pulpit to accommodate the children’s choir? What would happen if someone clapped or raised their hands during the solo? These are the questions that send the pastor scurrying to his or her gastrologist.

See, with all these exotic locals came an equally exotic variety of worship styles. I’ve preached after a stately anthem performed by robed choir members and pipe organs. I’ve tapped my foot and clapped my hands to the cranking riffs of old hippies with electric guitars. I’ve listened closely to the tight four-part harmony of southern gospel. I’ve worn a suit and tie to church; I’ve worn shorts and sandals. I’ve delivered time-honored three point sermons with a poem and a prayer; and I’ve preached with the technological assistance of projectors and PowerPoint. I’ve witnessed the traditional Easter cantata; and I’ve even seen a few interpretive dance steps across the church podium. And all this worship diversity was in a single strain of the Protestant tradition! This doesn’t account for the truly wild multiplicity of worship expression that stretches across the Christian sphere from the Pentecostals to the Presbyterians. Praise the Lord and pass the Pepcid.

Which of these styles is “right?” I don’t presume to know. Our form of worship will always be dictated by our traditions, our culture, and our context. A look at how Christians from other countries worship proves this point. “Which worship style is right” is, after all, the wrong question. The better question is this: “Does our worship push us out of our church sanctuaries (or wherever it is we meet) to be Christ to the world?” In other words, “What happens when the worship service is over?” This is the more appropriate question.

If our worship moves us past ourselves to the risen and redeeming Christ sent to love the world, then the worship is “right.” If our worship sends us into the community as the Father sent his own Son, then it is empowered with spirit and truth. But if our worship focuses us, even in subtle ways, on ourselves, then it is selfishness at best and sacrilege at worst. It isn’t worship at all.

The final words of the old Latin mass were, Ite missa est – “Get out!” The priests who daily invoked these words over their congregations understood worship’s purpose. When the last song is sung, the last prayer offered, and the last homily delivered, the goal of all worship is to redemptively and missionally leave the sanctuary in service to others. So, take your pick: Sermons or liturgy; southern gospel or rock and roll; drums or pipe organs; corporate prayer or contemplation; kneeling benches or mosh pits. But if these things do not translate into loving action in the community, if these things do not force us out of the building and out to others, we aren’t being worshipful at all. Does worship style matter? Sure it does. But worship substance matters all the more.

“Be sure your sins will find you out.” That’s what the Good Book says. My mama said it a lot too. In fact, my mother once arranged for the public display of this proverb. I’m just glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of her righteous indignation.

It was during a time in my childhood we now call middle school; seventh grade to be exact. My bagged lunch was kept in my homeroom, and I returned from math class to retrieve it each day. Someone began stealing my lunch on a daily basis. My family was poor. We didn’t have a whole heck of a lot. My frugal mother could spread the family budget a bit further by spreading peanut butter on a couple of pieces of bread rather than buying school lunches every day. So the robbery of my lunch was like stealing from my father’s meager pay check. My mother did what you are supposed to do: She complained. Still, the thievery continued. That no one at the school seemed capable of correcting this wrong really sent her five foot, one inch frame into orbit.

So, she did something I have rarely witnessed in her since I entered the world. She took matters into her own hands. This was highly uncharacteristic. Understand, my mother isn’t timid, but she is a rule-keeper. A legalist at heart, she plays within the bounds. But not this time. My mother made a sandwich combining dog food and that greasy potted meat compost stuff. Knowing the thief would only get a bite or two of this down, she sweetened the deal with a nicely baked Ex-Lax brownie. The thought of my good Christian mother orchestrating and executing such a devious plan of revenge made my teenage heart leap with joy. By God, now we’re talking! Enough of this mamsy-pamsy “turn the other cheek” stuff. Justice would finally roll down like the waters!

Or at least said justice would be expulsed from every orifice of the offender’s body. Either way was fine with me.

On the appointed Day of Judgment I placed my lunch in its usual location and went on to math class. When I returned to fetch my lunch, to my sinister delight, it was gone. I nearly hyperventilated with satisfaction. I watched the absentee roll for the next several days. Dexter Wilkey missed three days in a row and finally returned to school with a peaked and poor look about the eyes. Mother and I had our man. The statute of limitations has expired so I reveal the identity of the bandit here for the first time. Shame on you Dexter.

When I reported this information to my Bible-reading, rule-keeping, daily-praying, no-card-playing, mama, her eyes fired up. She cocked her head back and crowed, “Hah! Remember this boy; be sure your sins will find you out!” I reckon they will.

How is it that our wrong-doings always float to the surface? They are like the continual reincarnation of some bad horror movie villain.  They just won’t go away. They won’t stay dead. Cheat on your taxes and lo and behold that’s the one year out of thirty you get audited. Cheat on your wife and that will be the miss-opportune time she decides to investigate the extra charges on your Visa card. Steal from your boss and expect a pink slip. Make purchases you never intend to pay back, and one night the re-po man will be sitting in your driveway. It might take a while to catch up with you, but catch up is coming nonetheless.

Sure, some will get away with it – whatever “it” may be – but there aren’t many. Call it sin, or the inescapable justice of the universe, or the law of karma, or bad juju – whatever. “It” has a way of catching up with you like so many persistent bill collectors.

So what is the solution? Wave the white flag of surrender. Stop skimming off the till. Stay faithful to your spouse. Cut up a credit card. Be honest at work. Quit stealing little boys’ lunches. It’s never too late to do the right thing. Never. Unless of course you’ve got that brownie half-way down your throat already. If that’s the case, well, Godspeed brave soldier. Your sins have caught up with you after all.

Today is World Communion Sunday. It is an annual event in which Christians worldwide celebrate our oneness in Christ, in spite of our many differences and traditions. We pause to pray for unity and peace, and we recommit ourselves to such efforts as we gather together around the Lord’s Table – the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper, Communion – forming the centerpiece of the worship.

At my church we observe Communion every week. It is such a nice change for me to take the bread and cup each Sunday. Because in the Baptist church of my childhood, the Lord’s Supper was never weekly; we might have appeared to be Catholic, God forbid. No, we took Communion quarterly, and typically we observed the ceremony at the end of a Sunday night service. We had those stale little wafers half the size of a postage stamp, and lukewarm grape juice – never wine – in tiny plastic cups. Rarely was this ritual ever explained and never was it central to our worship.  It was tacked on as an amendment, an afterthought, on a school night when folks seemed to rush through the motions.

Whether we come to the Lord’s Table each day, each week, or once a year, it’s how we come to the table that is more important. We must be careful in the familiar not to lose the wonder and sensation that Christ sits at the table and gives himself for his people as we take the bread and cup.

Not long ago I attended an Episcopal worship service where my friend serves as the minister. It was a wonderful experience of sights, sounds, and beautifully orchestrated liturgy. And it was unlike anything of my own Christian tradition. Sure, I attend and have participated often in ecumenical services, but to attend a Sunday morning Episcopal mass was new, confusing, and magnificent. I was amazed at small children who were far better acclimated to their surrounding than this free-group intruder. I sluggishly stood, always a few seconds behind the crowd. I found myself standing alone, dropping to the pew after everyone else took their seat. I fumbled with the Book of Prayer and the hymnal, never able to find the readings or the songs on time. I was a nervous wreck wishing I had read Episcopalianism for Dummies before darkening the door.

After the homily, and a number of other confusions for this Baptist-raised child, the invitation was offered to receive Holy Communion. Finally something I understood! I waited eagerly until it was time to go forward, kneel at the altar, and have the elements placed in my hands. Beside me at the altar was a young family: A dad, a mom, and their three small children. The youngest was probably four or five years old. He stood right beside me at the rail, too short to kneel. I looked at him and smiled. He smiled in return, trembling with expectation. He wiped his wet lips with the back of his tiny hand and coarsely whispered, in a voice that could have been heard at the back of the sanctuary, “This is going to be good!”

And it was.

It was a winter day as I waited beneath the funeral canopy. Still, drops of perspiration collected in the small of my back as my dark suit and nerves conspired to suffocate me in spite of the cold weather. Funerals, neckties, and mourners always raise my temperature. It’s probably due to the fact that as a minister I am sometimes forced into the impossibility of speaking a bit of comfort at the most difficult time.

Gathered under that tent was a new widow; mourning children; heartbroken grandchildren; and an eclectic collection of friends, distant relatives, and neighbors come to pay their last respects. The deceased was a near stranger to me. I did not know him well, but I was with him, his wife and son, when he died. As he drew his last breath we read from the Psalms and said our prayers. Now, we were repeating that ritual at burial.

After the service the family did what families often do at a time like this. They sat down to a great meal. Invited to join them, I accepted. At the table everyone began that healing ritual of eating and remembrance. “Pass me a napkin,” was mixed with the oft-invoked “Do you remember the time?” And “How does that pie taste,” rolled out in harmony with “Dad sure would have enjoyed himself here today.” Laugh. Remember. Eat. Cry. Heal.

As I was leaving the restaurant the son of the departed stuffed an envelope into my hand. I knew it was the traditional honorarium for leading the funeral service. After more than fifteen years of doing this sort of thing I still don’t know how to react to this kind of gift. Sure, if I perform a wedding ceremony, I’m happy to be compensated. That seems fair enough, especially with the rising price of gasoline. But a funeral always stumps me. So on this day I tried to give it back. The son refused.

“You don’t know how much I appreciate this,” he said. “Dad was a part of church for years but had not attended since he got sick. He and mom really don’t have a pastor. And me, well, I haven’t gone to church in years.” I suddenly felt comfortable enough to ask the obvious question: “Why don’t you attend church anymore?” He screwed up his mouth beneath his mustache for a moment and answered, “Understand, I don’t have anything against religion. The church and I just grew apart. Maybe, I outgrew the church.”

There are scores and scores of people just like this man who have unplugged themselves from the institutional church. They do so for various reasons. Some, a terribly small number, lose faith completely. Again, this is a minuscule number. Others get angry or hurt with church leadership, or they become disillusioned with the structure or a particular denomination. But some “leavers” – a great many I believe – depart with an authentic faith and develop a healthier, happier, more hopeful perspective than many of us who fill the pew each Sunday.

These leavers love their families and their neighbors. They are people of generosity, integrity and joy. They worship their God and cling to Christ. They simply have found church, in their experience, to be unhelpful to their spiritual well-being. Alan Jamieson has written extensively on this subject. In his book A Churchless Faith, he says, “We need to realize that God is in the questions as well as they answers and that living with the questions is part of the journey.”

We who feel at home in the church sanctuary must also learn that these beautiful lambs of God are still in his fold; even if they choose not to sleep in the barn every night.

Dr. Robert Cade and Dr. Dana Shires of the University of Florida are responsible for the one of the greatest inventions of the twentieth century. It’s not the computer chip, the television set, or the internet, but it was and is a technological breakthrough. In 1965 the coaching staff of the University of Florida came to the two good doctors needing help with hydrating their players. Cade and Shires invented a lemony electrolyte-filled drink that they affectionately named after the University of Florida football team – Gatorade.

Gatorade is the most researched sports drink in the world and has spawned an entire market of look-a-likes and wannabes in the last forty years.  Gatorade has hydrated millions of amateur and professional athletes in more than eighty countries. One of their marketing pitches is as genius as their product. An athlete is exerting herself, sweating profusely. She runs, lifts weights, kicks a soccer ball, or swings a bat. Huge drops of Gatorade-colored perspiration hang off her skin, and the question is asked: “Is it in you?” The implication is clear. You cannot compete, much less succeed, unless you have the right stuff in you. Of course the right stuff is their product.

Jesus rarely spoke systematically. Rather, he chose to use stories and word pictures. He used the veiled and elusive language of metaphor. He took common, everyday happenings and crafted a message for the masses. I wonder if he were here today, would he use the most recent Gatorade commercials in a parable? Would he ask you and me the same question: “Is it in you?” He came terribly close to asking that question in his own day. In the book of Luke, Jesus was asked, “When will the kingdom of God come?” Jesus’ response is the Gospel According to Gatorade. He answered, “The kingdom of God is within you.”

The word “kingdom” is a bit archaic. We don’t use it too much. We have replaced it with words like nation, country, or state. There are few kingdoms left in the world. But the word retains its meaning. The kingdom of God is his territory. It is where he reigns. God is building a nation, a country, a rule. Where ever he has subjects, where ever his people are – there is the kingdom of God. As it expands and grows, God delivers and liberates the victimized, the oppressed, the poor, and the marginalized. God’s kingdom is a very real thing.

When will this kingdom come? When will God extend his rule over all the earth? Jesus’ answer is clear: God’s kingdom is not about what is coming – out there somewhere in some world-ending vision – God’s kingdom has arrived in the hearts and minds of people today. Why do we Christians sit in the cramped, backrooms of our churches reading the theological tea leaves, hopelessly trying to figure out what is next on God’s apocalyptic calendar? Wouldn’t our time and neighbors be better served, if we labored to advance God’s revolution of grace, rather than living like the world has already died?

Returning to the symbolic speech of Jesus, he often compared the expansion of the kingdom of God as something secret, growing to fulfillment, beneath the surface. He said it was like a mustard seed – small, inconsequential at first, yet it grows into a great tree. He said the kingdom is like a farmer who plants his seeds. Only time will show the results. He said the kingdom is like a small amount of yeast, mixed into a bowl of flour. In time, it overtakes the entire batch of dough.

When you wipe the tears off the cheek of a child, the kingdom comes. When you feed the hungry in the name of Christ, the kingdom comes. When you offer shelter to a battered woman, the seeds are planted. When you lighten the load of your neighbor, the yeast mixes into the dough. When you stand up against injustice and right a wrong, God’s nation expands. When you point a person out of poverty and shame, you are quietly advancing the reign of God. It is in the small, insignificant actions you may not think twice amount, and truly, no one else may take notice of, that God does his best work. It is in you, and through you that we find the kingdom of God.