Give Me a Chance: I Might Not Care About the Things You Think I Do
“So what do you do?”
We’ve just met. You know my wife works in oncology. You know we have two dogs and no kids. And now comes the inevitable next question of this getting-to-know-you dance. As a pastor I have a hard time not hating this question. I should love this question—and sometimes I really do love it and use it as an opportunity to talk about Jesus—but unless we’re really in a context to have a deep, real conversation, I dread the reaction that follows my answer.
“I’m a pastor. Actually, I’m helping to start a new church here in the southwest corner of Houston’s Inner Loop.”
Maybe you’re one of the people who’s excited by this. So you love the idea that I’m a pastor and am starting a church. We have so much in common. Maybe you really get why we’re doing this, but without a long conversation, I have no idea how much we may or may not be on the same page about church planting. You’re now excited, but I’m a bit hesitant because I’ve disappointed enough with other people at this point in the conversation who were much more excited than I was about promoting morality and family values and maybe conservatism.
Or instead, maybe you’re not so excited about what you’ve just learned about me. You’re suddenly uncomfortable. You’re a bit of a rebel that doesn’t have much to do with the church. You don’t have the greatest mouth, and now you’re desperately trying to figure out how many F-bombs you’ve dropped in front of this guy you didn’t know was a pastor. You want to apologize because you know I must be greatly offended. And now you want to exit the conversation because you’re worried what else you might accidentally reveal that will offend me. You certainly don’t want me to know more about your sex and dating life, and you’d like to figure out a way to casually mention that it’s a virgin drink you’re holding.
In either case, at this point in the conversation I'm a little uncomfortable (and maybe you are too), and I really hope to have the chance to explain a bit more about my passion for planting a church.
4 out of 5 people in our target area misunderstand our purpose.
I realize this may sound presumptuous to you because you may be neither of these, but here’s the reality: beyond my own anecdotes about these kinds of interactions, there’s statistical evidence that says 80%+ of people in our area think the role of churches is to promote morality. This means that 4 out of every 5 people I meet think my chief passion in life is policing morality. But to think this is to fundamentally misunderstand my job and my passion.
This means 4 out of 5 people are surprised that I’m a pastor and:
- I very rarely listen to “Christian” radio, my go-to station is the rock station, and I love art and music from all sorts of “non-Christian” sources (Nietzsche, Coldplay, the Smashing Pumpkins, the Beastie Boys, and Salvador Dali to mention a few)
- I went to Yale and loved it, bastion of liberalism and hedonism that it may seem to be
- I often feel out of place in churches, like I don’t fit in, and I’d often rather be in a bar or rowdy stadium atmosphere
- I have an awful mouth but try to control it for the sake of others around me—those F-bombs you dropped around me are no worse than I’ve been saying since I was 10
- I’m nowhere near as holy as Jesus deserves me to be—it’s a real struggle for me
But here’s the thing: your reaction is most difficult for me, not because I’m not who you assume I am, but because I don’t think Jesus is who you assume He is. It’s not the case that I’m surprisingly unique or mysterious or hard to understand. It’s really not. But it is the case that Jesus is lots harder to understand than we give Him credit for.
If people don’t understand our purpose, maybe they don’t understand Jesus.
In fact, I take this potential difficulty in understanding Jesus to be one of the major themes of the Gospel of Mark. In Mark, there are people that immediately reject Jesus and others who immediately and earnestly accept Him (usually the kinds of people we don’t much associate with the church these days, but that’s a topic for another post). But then there are the disciples. The goal for them, and for us, is to be like those people who immediately and earnestly accept Jesus. But the disciples have a really hard time doing this. Every time they think they’re making progress, they say something that reveals the fact that they’ve twisted who Jesus is into a neat, tidy mold that fits their expectations. They want Him to fit into their passions, their lifestyle, their assumptions, and their value system, but He never does. He continually refuses to do so. He will not reorient Himself for them. Instead, over and over He demands that they reorient their worlds (and thoughts and emotions and pursuits and relationships) like He tells them to.
Being culturally Christian is very different from being actually Christian.
The difference in cultural Christianity and actual Christianity is huge. It’s similar to the difference between playing for the Cowboys and being a fan of the Cowboys. Players may be fans, and fans may be players—but being a fan does not make you a player. A fan may be just as crazy about the team as the players. A fan may be just as committed. A fan may even own more Cowboys gear and know more Cowboys trivia. But that doesn’t make the fan a player. If all a fan does is sit on the sidelines and cheer, that fan isn’t a player. And if a fan knows lots about the coach and owner without actually knowing them, that fan isn’t a player. Fans may know all sorts of things about the team’s status and motivation and direction, but that doesn’t mean they’re players. This is similar to the difference in being Christian and dressing like a Christian, sounding Christian and being culturally Christian.
Being culturally Christian means listening to certain types of music, sending your kids to certain types of schools and programs, supporting certain types of political candidates, and being generally morally good. It means being tapped into the latest Christian trends, whether it’s an album, a book, a movie, or a style of worship (I know when to raise my hands during worship, and I’m even bold enough to do so). None of this disqualifies a person from being Christian, but neither does it make someone Christian.
I’m not against any of these things that define cultural Christianity, and I’m neither against the people or churches who fit right into these things. But I’m not primarily for any of these things either. None of these things set my heart on fire with passion. None of these things make me write and teach and put my whole life into starting a church. Knowing Jesus does.
In short, “Christian” can be just another culture, and I do not care whether you’re part of that culture any more or less than I care whether you’re part of a geek culture or a sports-fan culture.
What I do care about is Jesus. I care about knowing Him, following Him, pleasing Him, and living in His physical presence forever and ever on a remade earth when heaven finally comes here. I care about the grace of His that His earliest followers gave their lives for. The truth of this grace is powerful—so powerful that early opponents accused them of turning the world upside down. This grace is changing my life because Jesus became like me. He became human like me, struggled like me, died for me, and got up for me. He has given me His Holy Spirit, and now I get to become like Him, as slow as such transformation may be. Because of this grace, I do care about holiness—but I care about true holiness, and without the Spirit of Christ all holiness is make-believe.
Who cares about the F-bomb you just dropped? What I do care infinitely about is whether you know Jesus. If you know Him, His Spirit and the church can help you think about your morals. But if you don't know Him, your morals change absolutely nothing about your standing with Him.
When I tell you I’m a pastor, I hope you know I’m not all about morals and neither is Jesus.
I hope you know Jesus. And if you don’t, I hope you’ll be willing to get to know Him. He hung out with all kinds of wild people—and He loved them. He isn’t afraid of your dirt. He isn’t afraid of your secrets. He’s not afraid of your past. And even though I’m a passionate Christian, in fact because I’m a passionate Christian, I’m not afraid either.
When I tell you I’m a pastor, I hope you’ll give me a chance. I hope you’ll give Jesus a chance too.
