Amidst all my current thinking about friends and enemies, agonism and antagonism, impeachment and fundamental splits, I'm trying to create an opening meditation for a meeting tomorrow. Some Louisiana Methodists who lean to the center and left are gathering tomorrow for a time of updates, learning, connection, and encouragement. We're between crises: the sorrow of the 2019 Conference, the uncertain future of the 2020 Conference.
I present this in a little over 12 hours. I have, right now, only a few inklings about what I'll do or talk about. I'm tired. It's been a long day of meetings, three classes in a row, more meetings. I need to work in a work out. Also I need to eat. It doesn't help that, when I think about the United Methodist Church, the energy and hope drains out of me.
Two plans for the denomination appear to be in competition for General Conference 2020, at least from USAmerican Methodist perspectives: the "Next Generation UMC" plan and the Indianapolis Plan.
The Indianapolis Plan is, essentially, a plan for separation, creating two (possibly more) different Methodist denominations: Traditionalist and Centrist. The Wesley Covenant Association stands poised to institute its vision of the Traditionalist Methodist Church. It has already drafted a "Doctrines and Disciplines" document, outlining a new "leaner" and more "nimble" expression of Methodism, essentially weakening connectional structures in favor of congregational ones. LGBTQ people are not mentioned at all; the document simply affirms that monogamous marriage between men and women is the only proper expression of human sexuality.
The Next Generation UMC Plan smooths pathways out of the denomination but defaults to staying a united church. It repeals the Traditional Plan passed at the 2019 Conference and removes all restrictive language regarding homosexuality from the Discipline.
I'm generally for staying together. But I suspect that, of the two plans, something like the Indianapolis Plan is more likely to get the votes necessary. I do wonder how delegates from the Central Conferences will perceive the two plans; their support is essential for anything to happen. The Next Generation Plan seems to contain more provisions for continued support of Central Conferences. The Indianapolis Plan, as I skim it, provides for General Conference funding of Central Conferences only through 2024.
I suspect, however, that the Traditionalist/Wesley Covenant Association's hard-line heterosexuality-only stance will move most Central Conferences to vote for Indianapolis, since that offers the more robust expression of straight/cis-only positions. Righteousness defined by sharp boundaries between Us and Them has historically proven more appealing to humans than messy coexistence amidst disagreement.
Then again, the Central Conferences may simply balk at any change, insisting on keeping the Traditional Plan version of the UMC. We'll get more messy (and legislatively murky) coexistence for a while--but not forever.
Nothing will prevent the exodus of churches wishing to join the new Wesley Covenant Association denomination, however that appears. They have made the decision to separate, arguing--not without basis--that the "quarrel" in the UMC year after year over homosexuality has made for a "caustic" atmosphere. They've been wanting to go. They just need the path to let them keep their properties and monies. "We will release one another to joyful obedience to Christ's call on our lives," reads the Indianapolis Plan.
In my tiredness, I must admit that there's part of me that wonders if separation isn't just better after all. Psychologist Harriet Learner quotes a sign a counselor friend of hers had prominently posted: "You've got to learn to leave the table when love is no longer being served." Or, more colloquially: if you love something, let it go.
I can't make you love me if you don't.
I can't make your heart feel something it won't.
I wish I could make hearts and minds more open, break what I see as bounds of fear that manifest as exclusion and discrimination.
I wish that openness for my own heart as well, for those times when it becomes hard for me to empathize with my sisters and brothers in Christ when I see their stances as harming the least, the lost, the left-behind.
I wish I could be patient enough for the turn of generations to do its slow work of adjusting us to new worlds.
I wish I could look at 2020 and see hope and noonday sun rather than trepidation and twilight.
Here in the dark,
In these final hours,
I will lay down my heart,
'Cause I feel the power.
There is Power even in the dark, we're told. "If I ascend to Heaven, you are there," writes the Psalmist (Psalm 139), "if I go to sheol, you are there. . . . Even the darkness is not dark to You."
The essence of the Wesleyan tradition is grace, especially Wesley's own innovation of prevenient grace, the "grace that goes before." Before we knew God, God knew us.
I find it helpful to imagine prevenient grace as something that persists beyond our conscious commitment. Even as we struggle with God's grace on the path to perfection, God's grace continues ahead of us, preceding us into the future, into the darkness.
May God precede me tomorrow morning, helping me to get out of the way of God's Spirit before a group of loving Methodists in crisis.
Showing posts with label grace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grace. Show all posts
Friday, November 15, 2019
Monday, September 21, 2009
Indelible
Fun fact: people excommunicated from the Roman Catholic Church are still technically considered Christian and Catholic. Mind you, excommunication isnt' a desirable state, as the excommunicant is denied the confession, absolution, and the Eucharist. But somehow I always thought of excommunication as a permanent condemnation, the Catholic version of Steven Anderson's reprobation, where God decides that you as a sinner have simply gone too far and removes forever any hope of salvation.
Not so for Catholics. Why? Because of baptism, which occurs for Catholics in infancy (generally) and which they consider indelible.
I like that word, indelible. I first heard it in relation to Methodists' understanding of baptism. To be sure, Methodists and Catholics understand the rite of infant baptism differently. But for both, the inclusion into God's care that it implies cannot be removed. Like their understanding of communion, Methodists see baptism as something God does, a sign of God's welcoming, prevenient grace. The understanding with baptism is that the rite activates the child's family and church community into a realization of their responsibility to nurture that child in his or her faith. Ideally, the child grows in such nurture until such time as he or she is able to make a commitment to Christ him or herself (a ceremony called Confirmation).
Crucially, however, baptism does not brainwash the child, nor does it bind people magically to a Christian fate. It is entirely possible, for instance, that a baptized infant will grow up not to be a Methodist or not to be a Christian.
Nevertheless, the baptism is indelible. God's loving invitation remains as open as the communion table, as intimate as water. I have spoken of other faith traditions within Christianity that see the primary attributes of God as Sovereignty or Righteousness. I'm hesitant to select a single divine attribute that all Methodists embrace as primary, but grace seems close.
But grace for Methodists isn't a passive forgiveness or forbearance, nor is it restricted to the singular acts of Christ's incarnation and atonement. Grace is constant and lifelong, not concentrated into one or two high moments. Grace is prevenient--pre-existing our awareness and laying the foundation for our encounter with it. Grace is sovereign, overcoming barriers that defeat mortal emotions and commitments.
And grace is indelible. Its mark cannot be removed. Its invitation cannot be rescinded by any except God, and I am unaware of any Methodist doctrine that suggests that God is ever inclined to do so. Reprobation--the permanent loss of grace--is simply not on the radar screen for Methodists.
This insight has formed the basis for many efforts by LGBT people in the United Methodist Church to achieve equality with heterosexual members. We Were Baptized, Too by James Preston and Marylin Bennett Alexander is the go-to example here. The 2004 General Conference featured a variety of actions by pro-inclusion members and organizations inspired by the idea of being "Watermarked," baptized and thus welcomed by God.
I regret to say the argument has not succeeded. The Methodist Church remains one of many denominations struggling mightily over the issue of inclusion for people who are LGBT. As a gay man, I may not be ordained. I may not be married to my partner by a Methodist minister or within a Methodist church. And, most disturbingly for me, I can be denied membership in any local congregation on the basis of my status as a "self-avowed, practicing homosexual." Somehow my baptism is not enough. I can be excluded from the community Methodist even though the baptism suggests that I have been included from the Body of Christ.
That confusion drives the question I posed yesterday about the degree to which the Church (as opposed to a local congregation) is a voluntary organization in L. Gresham Machen's sense. That is, must the Church, like any distinctive community, practice a heightened degree of intolerance, selecting who's in and who's out carefully so as to maintain its coherence? At first glance the answer appears to be "of course!" No one is forced into church membership or Christianity.
But I wonder, then, about the indelible (and unasked-for) grace that God bestows in baptism (and, though this may depart from Methodist orthodoxy, I would argue the grace comes in more ways than that). If God issues the invitation and welcomes the infant, and if God's invitation is constant, prevenient, sovereign, and indelible--can the community of Those God Welcomes be considered voluntary?
More tomorrow,
JF
Not so for Catholics. Why? Because of baptism, which occurs for Catholics in infancy (generally) and which they consider indelible.
I like that word, indelible. I first heard it in relation to Methodists' understanding of baptism. To be sure, Methodists and Catholics understand the rite of infant baptism differently. But for both, the inclusion into God's care that it implies cannot be removed. Like their understanding of communion, Methodists see baptism as something God does, a sign of God's welcoming, prevenient grace. The understanding with baptism is that the rite activates the child's family and church community into a realization of their responsibility to nurture that child in his or her faith. Ideally, the child grows in such nurture until such time as he or she is able to make a commitment to Christ him or herself (a ceremony called Confirmation).
Crucially, however, baptism does not brainwash the child, nor does it bind people magically to a Christian fate. It is entirely possible, for instance, that a baptized infant will grow up not to be a Methodist or not to be a Christian.
Nevertheless, the baptism is indelible. God's loving invitation remains as open as the communion table, as intimate as water. I have spoken of other faith traditions within Christianity that see the primary attributes of God as Sovereignty or Righteousness. I'm hesitant to select a single divine attribute that all Methodists embrace as primary, but grace seems close.
But grace for Methodists isn't a passive forgiveness or forbearance, nor is it restricted to the singular acts of Christ's incarnation and atonement. Grace is constant and lifelong, not concentrated into one or two high moments. Grace is prevenient--pre-existing our awareness and laying the foundation for our encounter with it. Grace is sovereign, overcoming barriers that defeat mortal emotions and commitments.
And grace is indelible. Its mark cannot be removed. Its invitation cannot be rescinded by any except God, and I am unaware of any Methodist doctrine that suggests that God is ever inclined to do so. Reprobation--the permanent loss of grace--is simply not on the radar screen for Methodists.
This insight has formed the basis for many efforts by LGBT people in the United Methodist Church to achieve equality with heterosexual members. We Were Baptized, Too by James Preston and Marylin Bennett Alexander is the go-to example here. The 2004 General Conference featured a variety of actions by pro-inclusion members and organizations inspired by the idea of being "Watermarked," baptized and thus welcomed by God.
I regret to say the argument has not succeeded. The Methodist Church remains one of many denominations struggling mightily over the issue of inclusion for people who are LGBT. As a gay man, I may not be ordained. I may not be married to my partner by a Methodist minister or within a Methodist church. And, most disturbingly for me, I can be denied membership in any local congregation on the basis of my status as a "self-avowed, practicing homosexual." Somehow my baptism is not enough. I can be excluded from the community Methodist even though the baptism suggests that I have been included from the Body of Christ.
That confusion drives the question I posed yesterday about the degree to which the Church (as opposed to a local congregation) is a voluntary organization in L. Gresham Machen's sense. That is, must the Church, like any distinctive community, practice a heightened degree of intolerance, selecting who's in and who's out carefully so as to maintain its coherence? At first glance the answer appears to be "of course!" No one is forced into church membership or Christianity.
But I wonder, then, about the indelible (and unasked-for) grace that God bestows in baptism (and, though this may depart from Methodist orthodoxy, I would argue the grace comes in more ways than that). If God issues the invitation and welcomes the infant, and if God's invitation is constant, prevenient, sovereign, and indelible--can the community of Those God Welcomes be considered voluntary?
More tomorrow,
JF
Sunday, September 6, 2009
All the Time, For All People
Yesterday, I suggested that the image of "grace" I had from my Southern Baptist days was tarnished by a feeling that grace was a code-word for the capricious forbearance of a bully (isn't Biff graceful for not beating me up today, even though I clearly deserve it?). If that's Baptist grace, what's the alternative? Of course, a whole host of alternatives exist, many of which are likely taught and practiced by Baptists themselves. Nevertheless, as my family moved into the United Methodist Church, I had a whole new understanding of what grace can be.
This being the first Sunday of the month, I experienced a bit of that grace today through communion, which Methodists refer to as a "means of grace." Without knowing anything about the theology (reason, scripture, tradition, experience) underlying the ceremony, any observant visitor would note several key features that distinguish the Methodist practice of communion from the Baptist "Lord's supper."
First of all, there's the fact that Methodists celebrate communion often. Once a month is standard, but I've been part of many congregations that celebrate it weekly. Baptists, on the other hand, tend to celebrate (at least in my experience) once per quarter-year. On the surface, Methodism's comparative frequency bespeaks its closer ties to older, Catholic traditions of mass. Yet, while these ties exist, the focus of communion as common practice throughout the year binds the service closer to the regular life of the church.
In Baptist churches, I recall that communion (Lord's Supper, I should say--I rarely if ever heard it referred to as communion) interrupted the usual order of things. The sermon was shorter or done away with altogether. We sang fewer songs. Daddy (as minister) would read some sobering scriptures about the need to examine oneself to make sure that one was ready to receive the symbols of Christ's sacrifice and new covenant. People were very quiet, concentrating on remembering the proper conventions for a fairly rare event.
When I first encountered the Methodist preference for frequent communion, I had a moment when I thought oh, now it won't be special any more. In a way, I was right. Methodism makes the grace of God in Christ more ordinary, more accessible. God's grace isn't rare or singular but constant. Indeed, Methodists talk of God's grace not just in terms of Christ's passion and death on the cross but of every loving outreach by God toward humanity. For Methodists, this outreach--this passion of God to be at one with humanity (and for humanity to be at one with God) isn't the exception but the rule. Methodists even speak of prevenient grace--the "grace that goes before"--as a way of describing how God reaches out to us, shapes our lives and selves, and provides for us even before we are aware of God's doing so. This grace continues throughout mortal life, not descending at once in a singular conversion event, like some massive, Divine Download. No, grace is constant, as regular as breath, as heartbeat, as food.
The other major difference between Baptist and Methodist communions: in communion, Baptists perform a communal act of distinction from those not in their community. Only people who have been saved and baptized (by full immersion, preferably) may take communion.
I remember my pre-salvation days as a youngster, sitting next to Mama as she selected and held a pellet of cracker-like bread from the silver platter as it was passed around the congregation. Another platter followed, this time serving tiny cups filled with grape juice, and Mama would take one of these as well. Baptists wait until all have been served before--following the pastor's lead--taking the bread and "wine" together. As she waited, Mama would let my sister and I hold the cracker-pellet and the cup. I'd feel the smooth texture of the odd wafer (think of those rectangular, breath-freshening gum pieces that have hard candy coats--that's what the pellet looked and felt like). I'd sniff the juice as if it were fine wine. But only my mother could actually drink and eat them. I remember, too, the first time I got to hold and eat the bread and juice for myself.
Again, it can seem somewhat disappointing to shift to Methodism, where everyone gets bread (often real bread) and wine (still typically juice). But I've grown to love this feature of Methodism perhaps best of all. I wonder sometimes if lifelong Methodists realize the power of the simple institution of the Open Table. My father, fully cognizant of the differences between Baptists and Methodists, generally gives what I take to be the best explanation. I paraphrase the words he says at every communion, standing before the elements, facing outwards to the congregation, arms and hands stretched wide:
"My friends," he says, "this is God's table, not mine, not the church's, not the congregation's--God's. It is God who offers the invitation, and God offers it to all. You do not have to be a member of this or of any church. God invites everyone. Would you come?"
Thus the other major difference between Baptist grace and Methodist grace: not only is grace all the time; it is for all people. I remember explaining to my agnostic partner about this practice. He was incredulous. "What if someone came and wanted to take communion but was not a believer?" They are welcome to come. "But they don't believe. They'd be taking it ironically. Or cynically." Provided they didn't hinder anyone else, no one would stop them. We don't test people for integrity of belief. That's not our place in communion. God's invitation is to all, for all. Whether they believe or not is a matter for them to work out with God.
There's much more to Methodist grace, of course, but in communion the key features--features that among other things keep me a Methodist--remain central: all the time, for all people.
More tomorrow,
JF
This being the first Sunday of the month, I experienced a bit of that grace today through communion, which Methodists refer to as a "means of grace." Without knowing anything about the theology (reason, scripture, tradition, experience) underlying the ceremony, any observant visitor would note several key features that distinguish the Methodist practice of communion from the Baptist "Lord's supper."
First of all, there's the fact that Methodists celebrate communion often. Once a month is standard, but I've been part of many congregations that celebrate it weekly. Baptists, on the other hand, tend to celebrate (at least in my experience) once per quarter-year. On the surface, Methodism's comparative frequency bespeaks its closer ties to older, Catholic traditions of mass. Yet, while these ties exist, the focus of communion as common practice throughout the year binds the service closer to the regular life of the church.
In Baptist churches, I recall that communion (Lord's Supper, I should say--I rarely if ever heard it referred to as communion) interrupted the usual order of things. The sermon was shorter or done away with altogether. We sang fewer songs. Daddy (as minister) would read some sobering scriptures about the need to examine oneself to make sure that one was ready to receive the symbols of Christ's sacrifice and new covenant. People were very quiet, concentrating on remembering the proper conventions for a fairly rare event.
When I first encountered the Methodist preference for frequent communion, I had a moment when I thought oh, now it won't be special any more. In a way, I was right. Methodism makes the grace of God in Christ more ordinary, more accessible. God's grace isn't rare or singular but constant. Indeed, Methodists talk of God's grace not just in terms of Christ's passion and death on the cross but of every loving outreach by God toward humanity. For Methodists, this outreach--this passion of God to be at one with humanity (and for humanity to be at one with God) isn't the exception but the rule. Methodists even speak of prevenient grace--the "grace that goes before"--as a way of describing how God reaches out to us, shapes our lives and selves, and provides for us even before we are aware of God's doing so. This grace continues throughout mortal life, not descending at once in a singular conversion event, like some massive, Divine Download. No, grace is constant, as regular as breath, as heartbeat, as food.
The other major difference between Baptist and Methodist communions: in communion, Baptists perform a communal act of distinction from those not in their community. Only people who have been saved and baptized (by full immersion, preferably) may take communion.
I remember my pre-salvation days as a youngster, sitting next to Mama as she selected and held a pellet of cracker-like bread from the silver platter as it was passed around the congregation. Another platter followed, this time serving tiny cups filled with grape juice, and Mama would take one of these as well. Baptists wait until all have been served before--following the pastor's lead--taking the bread and "wine" together. As she waited, Mama would let my sister and I hold the cracker-pellet and the cup. I'd feel the smooth texture of the odd wafer (think of those rectangular, breath-freshening gum pieces that have hard candy coats--that's what the pellet looked and felt like). I'd sniff the juice as if it were fine wine. But only my mother could actually drink and eat them. I remember, too, the first time I got to hold and eat the bread and juice for myself.
Again, it can seem somewhat disappointing to shift to Methodism, where everyone gets bread (often real bread) and wine (still typically juice). But I've grown to love this feature of Methodism perhaps best of all. I wonder sometimes if lifelong Methodists realize the power of the simple institution of the Open Table. My father, fully cognizant of the differences between Baptists and Methodists, generally gives what I take to be the best explanation. I paraphrase the words he says at every communion, standing before the elements, facing outwards to the congregation, arms and hands stretched wide:
"My friends," he says, "this is God's table, not mine, not the church's, not the congregation's--God's. It is God who offers the invitation, and God offers it to all. You do not have to be a member of this or of any church. God invites everyone. Would you come?"
Thus the other major difference between Baptist grace and Methodist grace: not only is grace all the time; it is for all people. I remember explaining to my agnostic partner about this practice. He was incredulous. "What if someone came and wanted to take communion but was not a believer?" They are welcome to come. "But they don't believe. They'd be taking it ironically. Or cynically." Provided they didn't hinder anyone else, no one would stop them. We don't test people for integrity of belief. That's not our place in communion. God's invitation is to all, for all. Whether they believe or not is a matter for them to work out with God.
There's much more to Methodist grace, of course, but in communion the key features--features that among other things keep me a Methodist--remain central: all the time, for all people.
More tomorrow,
JF
Saturday, September 5, 2009
The Grace of Queen Z
Prior to my family's switch from the Southern Baptist Church to the United Methodist Church, I had never give the idea of grace much thought. I knew that grace was a central part of my faith. We sang songs about how amazing was God's saving grace. But, in my Baptist upbringing, grace served at best as an adjunct to God's righteous judgment. Grace was God's withholding of our just deserts, i.e., hell. Being sinners, we deserve eternal hell. God, without having to, intervenes, offering us the chance to turn to Christ. That's grace for Baptists as I understood it.
The problem is that grace, in this configuration, gets mired in the same problems I've long had with hell-based evangelism (and hell-based faith) in general. Grace, in the Baptist view, works within a larger context of a God willing--even eager, depending upon the verses you choose to look at--to punish those who reject God. We are sinners in the hands of an angry God. God's forbearance is the grace for which we are to praise God.
Here's what rubs me wrong about this: suppose that you lived in an autocracy, under absolute dictatorial rule of an absolutely powerful ruler. Suppose that this ruler (Queen Z, let's call her) promulgates an endlessly complicated, intimate, and impossible-to-keep-perfectly set of rules for her subjects. It is illegal, for instance, not merely to make speeches against Queen Z in public but also to say anything subversive in private--or even to think about saying something against her. Ultimately, everyone in the society will at some point or another transgress this body of rules. The problem? Queen Z has established that, as much as she loves her subjects, she cannot be expected to tolerate fifth columnists. Anyone found guilty of breaking any of her laws, therefore, is condemned to painful death.
Obviously, this is a fantasy. But scholars and survivors of totalitarian regimes point out that his is how authoritarian governments in general operate. They create a set of laws so invasive and all-encompassing that everyone in the society is guaranteed to break them eventually. Everyone in the society is therefore guilty--and everyone knows it. Such societies also tend to encourage formal or informal systems of tattling, watching neighbors for transgressions and reporting those transgressions to the authority. For Christians, of course, the watchfulness of neighbors is moot since God (like Santa Claus) sees all and knows all. (Of course, this hasn't stopped Christian societies throughout history from adopting ideologies of informing-against, such as Puritan New England during the witchcraft trials or Spain during the Spanish Inquisition).
Back to the fantasy, though: Suppose Queen Z or her minions catch someone expressing some mild degree of impatience at, say, how inefficiently the trains are running nowadays. The person has transgressed the law and been found guilty. Just as the person, the convicted dissenter, the secret rebel against Queen Z--just as this person is about to face the tortuous execution, word comes down from Her Majesty: the sentence is remitted. The person can go free to sin no more.
Word spreads about how grace-filled Queen Z is. Rallies are organized to celebrate Queen Z's mercy and love for her people. And laws get added to the effect that questioning Queen Z's grace is itself evidence of capital-punishment-worthy treason. Grace thus functions as, yes, a kind of unearned mercy from the figure who is both offended and empowered to redress that offense. But grace also serves to occlude the fact that the figure's authority is unjust, that the offense should not have been an offense (or at least not a capital offense) in the first place. Grace ideologically short-circuits the question begged by the entire system: why is Queen Z worthy of honor in the first place?
It's difficult for me not to see the Baptist version of grace as operating similarly. God asserts a standard--perfection--that no human can possibly meet, and God specifies that the penalty for imperfection is an eternity in Hell. To call grace God's merciful snatching-away of his elect from that fate begs the question: what kind of just God would make any human transgression into grounds for an eternity--an eternity, mind--of unending, mind-blowing torment? Certainly, in such a grisly system, it's happier to focus on grace; it narrows one's focus to a less pathological feature of God's personality. But it's unsatisfying to a growing number of unchurched (or dechurched) people. And it's unsatisfying to me.
I was not, as a Baptist, as aware or articulate about my problems with evangelical soteriology as I am now. But I do remember that I tolerated grace as a part of faith rather than celebrating it. To focus on grace as a point of worship seemed to me on some level too much like praising the schoolyard bully for not spiting on me or tripping me as I walked by. "How merciful and graceful Biff is. I deserved tripping, certainly, but in Biff's wisdom Biff extended me the Grace of Passage." Distasteful.
One of the most surprising things about becoming Methodist, then, was learning a whole different way of seeing grace--a definition defined not by God's inaction (which, again, could be due to boredom or indifference as easily as it could be due to love--evangelical salvation does not require that God love humans, merely that God save them from divine judgment). Rather, the Methodist tradition sees grace as God's love-filled action, God's ceaseless efforts to make us one with God.
More tomorrow,
JF
The problem is that grace, in this configuration, gets mired in the same problems I've long had with hell-based evangelism (and hell-based faith) in general. Grace, in the Baptist view, works within a larger context of a God willing--even eager, depending upon the verses you choose to look at--to punish those who reject God. We are sinners in the hands of an angry God. God's forbearance is the grace for which we are to praise God.
Here's what rubs me wrong about this: suppose that you lived in an autocracy, under absolute dictatorial rule of an absolutely powerful ruler. Suppose that this ruler (Queen Z, let's call her) promulgates an endlessly complicated, intimate, and impossible-to-keep-perfectly set of rules for her subjects. It is illegal, for instance, not merely to make speeches against Queen Z in public but also to say anything subversive in private--or even to think about saying something against her. Ultimately, everyone in the society will at some point or another transgress this body of rules. The problem? Queen Z has established that, as much as she loves her subjects, she cannot be expected to tolerate fifth columnists. Anyone found guilty of breaking any of her laws, therefore, is condemned to painful death.
Obviously, this is a fantasy. But scholars and survivors of totalitarian regimes point out that his is how authoritarian governments in general operate. They create a set of laws so invasive and all-encompassing that everyone in the society is guaranteed to break them eventually. Everyone in the society is therefore guilty--and everyone knows it. Such societies also tend to encourage formal or informal systems of tattling, watching neighbors for transgressions and reporting those transgressions to the authority. For Christians, of course, the watchfulness of neighbors is moot since God (like Santa Claus) sees all and knows all. (Of course, this hasn't stopped Christian societies throughout history from adopting ideologies of informing-against, such as Puritan New England during the witchcraft trials or Spain during the Spanish Inquisition).
Back to the fantasy, though: Suppose Queen Z or her minions catch someone expressing some mild degree of impatience at, say, how inefficiently the trains are running nowadays. The person has transgressed the law and been found guilty. Just as the person, the convicted dissenter, the secret rebel against Queen Z--just as this person is about to face the tortuous execution, word comes down from Her Majesty: the sentence is remitted. The person can go free to sin no more.
Word spreads about how grace-filled Queen Z is. Rallies are organized to celebrate Queen Z's mercy and love for her people. And laws get added to the effect that questioning Queen Z's grace is itself evidence of capital-punishment-worthy treason. Grace thus functions as, yes, a kind of unearned mercy from the figure who is both offended and empowered to redress that offense. But grace also serves to occlude the fact that the figure's authority is unjust, that the offense should not have been an offense (or at least not a capital offense) in the first place. Grace ideologically short-circuits the question begged by the entire system: why is Queen Z worthy of honor in the first place?
It's difficult for me not to see the Baptist version of grace as operating similarly. God asserts a standard--perfection--that no human can possibly meet, and God specifies that the penalty for imperfection is an eternity in Hell. To call grace God's merciful snatching-away of his elect from that fate begs the question: what kind of just God would make any human transgression into grounds for an eternity--an eternity, mind--of unending, mind-blowing torment? Certainly, in such a grisly system, it's happier to focus on grace; it narrows one's focus to a less pathological feature of God's personality. But it's unsatisfying to a growing number of unchurched (or dechurched) people. And it's unsatisfying to me.
I was not, as a Baptist, as aware or articulate about my problems with evangelical soteriology as I am now. But I do remember that I tolerated grace as a part of faith rather than celebrating it. To focus on grace as a point of worship seemed to me on some level too much like praising the schoolyard bully for not spiting on me or tripping me as I walked by. "How merciful and graceful Biff is. I deserved tripping, certainly, but in Biff's wisdom Biff extended me the Grace of Passage." Distasteful.
One of the most surprising things about becoming Methodist, then, was learning a whole different way of seeing grace--a definition defined not by God's inaction (which, again, could be due to boredom or indifference as easily as it could be due to love--evangelical salvation does not require that God love humans, merely that God save them from divine judgment). Rather, the Methodist tradition sees grace as God's love-filled action, God's ceaseless efforts to make us one with God.
More tomorrow,
JF
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