Resurrection Matters

Church Renewal for Creation's Sake

Nurya Love Parish

• Publisher: Church Publishing
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781640650145
• eBook ISBN: 9781640650152
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Christian Church

How to build resilience in local communities and evangelize the millennial generation. Resurrection Matters is a fruitful study and action guide for any church institution that owns property and in which groups gather together to grow as disciples of Jesus Christ. It helps groups connect their faith and the assets that they steward for God's mission, recognizing these assets as gifts for ministry with their wider community. It encourages theological reflection and practical action for renewal for the church, greater biodiversity for the planet, and relief for the poor.

CHAPTER ONE

Taking Resurrection Seriously

My first journey into the decision-making process that shapes my church’s governance was at the Episcopal Church’s General Convention in 2012. It happened to be in Indianapolis, which was an easy drive away. I was curious: what was this gathering like? I signed up to go as a guest for a portion of the meeting. And that’s how I found myself in the visitor’s gallery of the House of Deputies on July 10, 2012.

The General Convention of the Episcopal Church is a huge event. It combines more than a thousand people meeting for the church’s business—over 800 clergy and laity, and over 300 bishops.¹ Add exhibitors, volunteers, and guests, and it can be overwhelming. I wasn’t quite sure how to navigate it, but I wanted to know how my church made decisions. So I spent some time watching the decision-making body where I felt most at home: the House of Deputies, where laity and clergy deliberate and decide on the resolutions that govern our common life. On July 10, while I sat in the gallery, Resolution C-095 (Structural Reform) came before that house.

Imagine a vast room the size of a few soccer fields filled with almost a thousand people. Imagine them all facing one direction, sitting at long tables of eight, looking toward a few raised tables of meeting facilitators, note takers, and parliamentarians. Imagine podiums scattered throughout the room with microphones and cameras. Imagine huge screens with the face of whoever is speaking on that screen—because the room is so large that without a screen, a person’s face would be the size of a peanut. Imagine a gallery to the side with another fifty or so people in chairs, watching the floor of the House, where the credentialed voters—elected by their dioceses—make choices for the church’s future. I was in that gallery, watching that huge floor of deputies, still wondering how this all worked.

Structural Reform

Resolution C095 (Structural Reform)² came before the House of Deputies in the customary way. It was passed by a diocese at their convention, then considered and revised by a legislative committee of General Convention. But even though it went through an ordinary process, it was far from an ordinary resolution. It began, “Resolved … that this General Convention believes the Holy Spirit is urging The Episcopal Church to reimagine itself.” It called for the appointment of a Task Force “to present the 78th General Convention with a plan for reforming the Church’s structures, governance, and administration.” And it concluded, “Surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope” ( Jer. 29:11).

In the gallery, I leaned forward. What kind of discussion would this be? What would be decided?

Because the House had a time limit, discussion was short. A proposed amendment regarding the makeup of the task force took up most of the time available. Without real conversation on the resolution, it was difficult to tell what might happen. Would a majority of the House of Deputies support the statement that God was calling the church to a new vision? Would the church’s leadership embrace creating a task force that could seek to change many established aspects of our common life?

President Bonnie Anderson called for prayer before the vote.³ The House hushed for communion with God, then took a voice vote. The “ayes” were resounding. When the “nays” were called, there was silence. Among more than eight hundred people, not a single “nay” was heard.⁴ As people realized what had happened, a ripple of surprise went through the crowd. The Episcopal News Service later reported that the vote “stunned deputies and visitors alike.”⁵

“The Holy Spirit is urging The Episcopal Church to reimagine itself.” In the gallery, I rejoiced. I knew we needed a newly invigorated Episcopal Church—and other newly invigorated churches as well—to serve the work of God in the world.

Conversion Matters

For the first twenty-two years of my life, I didn’t know there was a way to be seriously Christian that included a historical reading of scripture, the acceptance of multiple human authors of a divinely inspired Bible, a willingness to be wrong, a recognition of multiple religions as worthy of respect, and an openness to all people using their gifts in leadership. Somehow in my nonreligious childhood I picked up the impression that the vast majority of Christians were narrow-minded bigots who rejected science, believed the Bible fell from the sky as the literal word of God, adhered to it slavishly at the cost of their capacity for critical thinking, promoted the supremacy of white men as the only legitimate leaders, and condemned most of the world to hell.

My parents didn’t teach me to think about Christianity this way; these were simply vague impressions I formed as a young person in the 1980s. Because I wasn’t raised in any religion, my view of Christianity was from the outside looking in. I could only hear the loudest Christian voices, which were often voices of condemnation. Quieter, more moderate Christian voices existed; they just didn’t reach my less than fully attentive ears.

It took going to seminary—a seeker who discovered the Unitarian Universalist Association and was called to ordained ministry—to teach me that there was more than one way to be a Christian. When I entered Harvard Divinity School, I believed in God, but I didn’t know what I believed about God. By the time I left, I was a baptized Christian. It would take me another decade to become an Episcopalian, in part because I first encountered the Episcopal Church reading books, not talking to people. Reading Madeleine L’Engle got me through high school, but it took another decade before I met any actual people belonging to her faith tradition who talked with me about their religion, much less invited me to church.

My whole conversion story is outside the scope of this book, but one portion is essential. In seminary I was assigned to read The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity by Jon D. Levenson (Yale University Press, 1995). Because a distinguished professor who practiced Orthodox Judaism wrote it, I couldn’t dismiss it as the work of one of those science-rejecting Christians. I picked it up because I had to finish it for class. By the time I put it down, I was forever changed.

The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son is a dense academic tome. I was biblically illiterate in those days. But even with my limited knowledge, it convinced me that the story of death and resurrection is not only the essence of the Christian faith, but is also echoed throughout the Bible. Ishmael, Abraham’s first son, and Isaac, his second, both come close to death and are miraculously raised to new life (Gen. 21 and 22). Joseph is cast into the pit and almost killed, then raised for a new and different life in Egypt (Gen. 37). God both requires (Exod. 22:29) and rejects (Deut. 18:9–13) the gift of every first-born son of Israel. There’s more besides. Reading Levenson’s book I realized for the first time that the death and resurrection of Christ might both fit a pattern and also be that pattern’s fulfillment.

That was an entirely new idea. It took time and practice for me to trust it. But as I spent time around people who took the resurrection seriously, I began to believe. My scientific skepticism gave way to literary conviction. Finally I came to realize that the renewal of the church and all Creation begins exactly here: with the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. This is the core story of the Christian faith; we exist to proclaim it. It is indeed good news: if the powers of death could not defeat Christ, then they cannot defeat the Christ’s body the church. They cannot defeat all Creation, which exists in and through Jesus Christ ( John 1).

Resurrection and Renewal

Today, Christ’s body—the church—is in need of renewal. In and through Christ that renewal is already provided. As the church, we need to remember both that resurrection is our core story, and that resurrection—when it happens—is always astonishingly unexpected.

When Mary went to the tomb the Sunday after the crucifixion, she thought she was going to mourn the death of her friend and teacher. She never expected to see him alive, to hear he had been raised, to be sent out to tell a story of life and renewal. All of that was an enormous surprise. After all, every single earthly authority had been arrayed against him. The leaders of Israel and of Rome had conspired to kill him. But they were as nothing against the power of God.

If the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead teaches nothing else, it teaches this: God can do what we consider impossible. It’s been two thousand years since “He is risen!” was first proclaimed. Over the decades and centuries, the church has lost sight of just how extraordinary those words really are. Sometimes it seems like we take the resurrection for granted: a weekly ritual of remembrance, an annual set of holidays to observe. Maybe because I didn’t believe in it for the first half of my life, I still find the resurrection astonishing. Nobody saw Christ exit the tomb. But once the disciples saw and heard that God had acted, Christ was alive, and they had work to do, they counted their lives as worthless compared to the incomparably valuable work of God.

This is the invitation of faith: to trust in the invisible God, whose presence can never be fully seen or comprehended. Not just to trust in the existence of a being that cannot be seen, but more—to trust in the agency of a being that cannot be seen. And harder still—not just to trust in the agency of a being that cannot be seen—but to give over your own life to be used as an agent of that invisible being, that the impossible might be achieved by God, through you.

This is faith. Nobody said it would be easy. But if the Holy Spirit is calling the church to reimagine itself, that means God seeks to work in and through us all.

Since the day I finished reading The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son, I’ve gone from dismissing the resurrection to making it the core of my life story. As I’ve done so, I’ve come to see that it only makes sense day-by-day. Marge Piercy once wrote, “There is no justice we don’t make daily, like bread and love.”⁶ As a disciple of Jesus, I am called daily to die to self and live for God. That means every day is a kind of crucifixion and resurrection, a chance to begin again. Every day we are called to die to self and live to God, whose nature is Love (1 John 4). As God’s people baptized into the death and resurrection of Christ, we are first drowned, then reborn as God’s holy people.⁷ It turns out that this is just the beginning of the life of faith. As Wendell Berry wrote, we are to “practice resurrection.”⁸

This doesn’t come easily if you are anything like me. It is hard work. It takes practice. The amazing thing is that God really does provide growth and new life when we turn and seek to put God first. The invisible God, through us, bears visible fruit—even against all odds. As we give our lives to practicing resurrection, we discover the truth that is proclaimed in the ancient prayers of the church: “Christ broke the bonds of death and hell, and rose victorious from the grave.”⁹

I trust in the resurrection. I also remember I cannot fully comprehend it. I am human like Mary, lamenting the loss of the ones I love. My church is in decline. All Creation is in trouble. But if resurrection is the cornerstone of my faith, I am called to give my life for the new life God seeks to create through me. If you seek to follow Jesus, that is your calling too.

The church is not an end in itself; the church is a means to an end. The church’s mission is to proclaim the gospel and to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.¹⁰ As Norman Wirzba writes, “The clear implication of Christ’s cosmic lordship was that the church, the continuing representative of Christ on earth, was to serve as the medium and manifestation of Christ’s creative and reconciling work to the whole creation.”¹¹

Our life of prayer and worship reminds us of the purpose of our lives: as members of God’s Creation, to belong fully to our Creator—loving God first and best. As Jesus taught, we are to love God with “all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind” (Luke 10:27). Worship reminds us who we are, and Whose we are. It knits us back into the fabric of Creation, bringing us into alignment with God as we praise God together. Worship proclaims that every square inch of this planet and every single one of earth’s creatures is made by God, belongs to God, and is beloved by God. As we worship, we witness to the reality that we are members of the body of Christ—a body which rose from the grave, a body which crosses all customary boundaries of place and time, a body which is one with all Creation.

As members of the body of Christ, we’re in the resurrection business.

We’re actually not in the maintenance business.

We are really good at maintaining institutions. It’s what we know how to do. The altar guild knows how to tend the sacramental vessels; the choir is great at singing; the treasurer is comfortable preparing financial statements. If someone is new in a role, training is often at hand. The focus is on caring for the work of the church with attentiveness and reverence. There is nothing wrong with that—except that it falls radically short of God’s call to us. It is wonderful, as far as it goes. It just doesn’t go far enough.

If we are to be agents of reconciliation, participants in the loving, life-giving, liberating work of Jesus, it takes our whole lives. It takes being willing to do what we prefer not to do. Because that’s exactly how the resurrection began.

Facing the Cross

The core story we tell as a church—the story of resurrection—begins with crucifixion. It begins with a man in a garden saying, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want” (Matt. 26:39, emphasis mine). We call that man Savior and Lord. We say he is our greatest example. One thing Jesus clearly did in the garden was this: he named out loud, to God, his request to avoid the cross. Then, he accepted that his petition might not b...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Introduction
• Prelude Religion Matters
• 1. Taking Resurrection Seriously
• 2. The Ecology of Renewal
• 3. Things Fall Apart
• 4. Taking Stewardship Seriously
• 5. Neighbors Together
• 6. Pray, Then Plan
• Study Guide
• Appendix
• Notes
• Acknowledgments
• About the Dedication