As the church changes, I hold on to God tightly, and all else lightly
Though never mistaken for a conservative, I have some impulses that have me holding on to how things are, which stifles my imagination for what could be.
I recently got the chance to watch the 2019 biopic about the Swiss theologian, Ulrich Zwingli. This fictionalized account is fairly faithful to his actual life story. Zwingli was one of the key magisterial reformers of the Reformation, and, of interest to me, Anabaptist reformers splintered off from his movement, too. Zwingli’s conviction and passion about reading the Bible and using it as his sole authority is very moving. I watched as he bravely confronted the status quo, putting himself at some risk to do so. It's an emotive tale about changing how the world works for the sake of the “least” of our fellow humans.
At one point, Zwingli manages to convince some church leaders to sell the contents of churches—and the physical buildings that held the abbeys—to the city and use that money to feed and care for the poor. It is a radical idea that, in Zwingli’s mind, expresses the Gospel more thoroughly and authentically than those dusty buildings and ornaments ever could.
As I watched the churches being emptied of their paintings and symbols, though, I wondered if Zwingli really knew what he was doing. What followed the Reformation in Europe was a massive secularization of the continent. It is hard to say that that secularization was a goal of Reformers. It’s clear that the Reformation had unintended consequences. I’m a committed Anabaptist and so, ideologically, I agree with Zwingli and I also believe he didn’t go far enough, yet I often wonder if in letting go of the past, we risk losing something along the way.
Clearly, I’m not a fan of “high church” authority or hierarchy. My ecclesiology is very low. But I often wonder what the eagerness to reform and change things does to us now. Almost no one would call me a conservative, but I feel a bit like one when I cling too tightly to things of the past and try to preserve fading aspects of shared religious life together today. I don’t know what will replace what we let go of. I don’t believe in the myth of progress, I don’t think everything will invariably turn out OK, and I am not always sure that peace and justice will prevail. In the face of an uncertain future, we have bad actors all around us trying to make that future as unjust and authoritarian as possible. It’s hard to have faith in a future that is being preyed on by fascists and nationalists.
But in those moments, I remember a favorite prayer of mine: to hold tightly to God and to hold all else lightly. It is an aspirational prayer, because I like things as they are and I acknowledge that I may therefore hold on too tightly. I want to keep the church as it is, as it has had meaning to me, and I admit this is an area where I need to grow, because the church is always changing, and often for good reasons.
As a queer, divorced pastor, it’s clear to me that the changes in the church have benefited me! I am grateful for them and I long to make the church more LGBT inclusive, more antiracist, and more sensitive and inclusive of all minorities. Holding the tension of the benefit I’ve had from reforms of the church with my insecurity about what all those reforms may result in, puts me in a unique position. As I was reflecting on this with a friend who led a conservative conference in Mennonite Church US that threatened to split over LBGT issues, she remarked that my longing to keep things as they are, my fear of what could be next, sounded exactly like the fundamentalists she shepherded in that conservative conference. She went ahead to say that they would point to someone like me as the threat to the church that they’ve grown to love.
It was a fascinating juxtaposition and a humbling, one at that.
As these ideas were colliding in my mind, I was led to go on a prayer walk. The idea that God has always been present on the earth, to all people, prompted this walk on sacred indigenous land. I looked for God in the nature around me—and I tried to find reassurance that God would always be revealing God’s works to all people. As I turned a corner, I saw a cross on a church. God is here, God is present, and no one can take that away.
The title of my blog is “Contents and Containers.” I wonder what the content of our faith is and what the containers are. I believe that the content will always be present; I believe God will always be among us. But I also love and cherish the containers that hold God in the world and allow us to worship. My own “containers”—Anabaptism and the Mennonite church, notably—are ones I lean on and ones I have committed my own life to. I wake up every day imagining how I can help a new generation of people follow Jesus– even commit themselves to the Mennonite way. I usually end up with more questions than answers. But insofar as I am a Mennonite pastor, those are the questions that I need to answer.
As I step outside my role as clergy, as I listen to the birds around me, the streaming water, the sound of the spring breeze, I know that God will continue to be revealed, long after I’m gone, after the church I serve is gone, and the tradition that I follow changes into something else. The uncertainty of the future scares me. The reforms that these precious containers will inevitably undergo leave me confused. I’d love to know what will happen. All I can do now is faithfully serve and trust that God will continue to be revealed in the next era.
I want to hold on to God tightly—and hold all else lightly.