What's the Best Form of Worship?

This is a follow-up piece to my last essay, which encouraged Christians to give grace to one another in the context of worship. In that essay, I argued that different forms of worship will appeal to different people, and we ought not to judge one another's preferences in that regard. Pretty straightforward, I think, but one of those good reminders that we all need from time to time.

It occurred to me, though, that a skeptic might object, "But what if there's a form of worship that is intrinsically better than others?--a form of worship which, regardless of personal preferences, ought to be held higher on its own merits?"

It's not an unfair question, though I think it's probably still just a way for people to argue for the rightness of their own whims. Those who argue that their form of worship is intrinsically better than others are not unified in a single opinion--rather, those from liturgical traditions argue for liturgical worship, those from evangelical traditions argue for evangelical worship, and those from pentecostal traditions argue for pentecostal worship. Everyone is pretty good at seeing the merits of their own form of worship and the weaknesses of the others.

Given the nature of my last essay, readers might expect me to take a fairly broad and permissive line on this question: just let everyone worship how they want to worship, so long as it finds support in the doctrine and traditions of scripture. My position is actually a little more assertive than that, though: I think churches should be giving their people opportunities to participate in all of the main forms of Christian worship. This isn't just an argument to pick the one you like and let others pick the one they like--this is an argument that we should be immersing ourselves in the whole vast and varied array of Christian worship. 

This is the line taken by the Convergence Movement, a late-twentieth century outgrowth of both the Charismatic renewal and various liturgical movements, as they interacted with one another and the broader evangelical tradition. Much of it relies on the work of Robert Webber (whom I heard in person when I was in college), who wrote about the Christianity of the twenty-first century as the "ancient-future faith." And while the Convergence Movement has inspired a few truly wacky spinoffs--new denominations that seem more like the old heresy of Montanism than anything else--most of its outgrowth has been orthodox, vibrant, and deeply committed to both the riches of church tradition and the freshness of the Spirit's present work. 

The underlying premise of Convergence strikes me as just about right: it identifies three major "streams" that have always been a part of the church's experience, but which certain movements and periods in church history have highlighted over the others. The three streams are (1) liturgical (or sacramental), (2) evangelical, and (3) pentecostal (or charismatic). The first stream focuses on the reverent prayer-life of the ancient Christian church and the richness of the physical symbology of worship; the second focuses on grounding the church in the teaching of the Word of God; and the third focuses on moving in step with the Spirit's work in the church. The argument is that each stream represents an authentic and powerful way that God works in his church, and that instead of insisting on one's merits over the others, we ought to be seeking the interconnected strengths of all of them. A good exposition of this view can be found in Gordon T. Smith's recent book, Evangelical, Sacramental, and Pentecostal: Why the Church Should Be All Three.

I want to add a supporting piece to that argument here, by rooting it in the theological vision of the offices of Christ, who is the head of his church. It strikes me that each of the three streams is aligned toward one of the offices of Christ, as traditionally identified: prophet, priest, and king. 

Liturgical and sacramental worship is ordered toward Christ's office as the Great High Priest, leading the eternal liturgy in the heavenly tabernacle. Liturgical worship envisions itself as joining in the heavenly worship and participating in the eternal self-offering of the once-for-all sacrifice of Christ, who is both the offerer and the offered. Liturgical/sacramental worship is really good at fostering a sense of reverence and awe in worship, and of forging connections to the church through the ages, all the way back to the temple-worship of God's people in the Old Testament.

Evangelical worship, meanwhile, strikes me as being ordered toward Christ's office as king: it gives foremost attention to learning the will of the Lord by studying his commandments and faithfully, obediently applying that will to our lives. Like good citizens of any kingdom, evangelical worship takes seriously both the knowledge and the actions necessary to live out our identity as the King's own men and women. Evangelical worship is really good at promoting robust doctrine and clear-eyed theology, keeping the apostolic witness of the New Testament foremost in the mind of the church, and it produces a calm and concerted passion for seeing God's will done in the world. 

Pentecostal worship is ordered toward Christ's role as prophet, the ultimate fulfillment of the office given by God to his people throughout the biblical period. A prophet was one on whom the Spirit of the Lord came, to speak the word of the Lord directly into the present circumstances of the people of God. One of the great expectations of the Messiah was that he would be the one who would pour out the Spirit not only on a handful of selected prophets, but on all flesh. Part of Jesus's Messianic reign in heaven is the impartation of the Spirit in just this way (see John 16:7-14; Acts 2:16-18). Pentecostal worship is full of vibrancy and laden with emotion, to the point where it pushes people out of their comfort zones--and that's also exactly what the ministry of the prophets did in the Old Testament. Pentecostal worship is good at harnessing the emotions of God's people, giving expression to their joy and their hope, and it continually keeps an attentive ear to what the Spirit is saying to the churches, not just in the biblical past, but in the present moment as well. 

Now, most people are going to feel more at home in one of these three traditions, and not in all of them. Again, that just goes back to how we're wired differently, as I argued in my last piece. But even if we have a dominant preference, I think it may be important for us to keep dipping our toes in the other two streams as well. Each tradition also comes with its own weaknesses, after all--evangelical and pentecostal worship, for example, are just not as good as liturgical worship at fostering an atmosphere of reverence and awe at the holy mystery of the presence of God. Pentecostal worship gives such free rein to the emotions that it can be helpful if the more mind-oriented strengths of the evangelical tradition, rooted in scriptural doctrine, tempers it and ensures it doesn't go astray. Other examples abound. The strengths complement each other, and cover for each other's weaknesses: "A cord of three strands cannot be easily broken" (Eccl. 4:12).

This week, my church--whose dominant form of worship is evangelical--will be participating in a multi-church night of praise, where the free-flowing and emotive elements of the pentecostal stream will be in evidence, and we're also launching an optional liturgical service for any who want to experience it. I'm really excited about all of these: each service represents the strengths of these three great streams of the Christian tradition. (As a final aside, it might be worth mentioning that there's a corollary question in all this, too--is it better to "blend" all three forms of worship into a single service, as some Convergence churches try to do, or to offer separate services that highlight the strengths of each? I'm not sure about this yet, but I think there's merit to keeping them in separate services most of the time, if only to highlight the power of their distinctives, which would likely get watered down if fused.) The bottom line is this: our Messiah is prophet, priest, and king, and the history of the church has given us three grand streams of worship which align with the identities and offices of the Master. Let's make use of them.

Common-Sense Skills for Becoming Uncommon Christians

I'm in a season of my life where I'm reflecting a lot on the nature of worship and the church. In addition to my pastoral ministry in my Baptist church, where God's blessing is everywhere evident, I've also been cultivating personal contacts with other parts of the orthodox, confessing Church, from an Anglican "convergence" communion scattered across the world to an old Benedictine monastery set high in the hills of western Pennsylvania. Beyond the global church, the idea of worship has been on my mind, too--I'm in the final stages of writing a book on the topic--specifically, about the story of a time when God used a new worship movement to help launch a world-changing wave of global mission. I'm also preparing to offer my Baptist congregation something a little startling (at least, startling for a Baptist church)--an optional service at which they can enter the ancient Christian tradition of high-church liturgy. Trying something like that could get a pastor fired in some parts of American evangelicalism, but I have an understanding bunch. 

But as I navigate these issues of worship styles and denominational particularities, I very often come up against something that always startles me a little: the widespread inability, among many otherwise mature believers, to distinguish between matters of their own personal preference and matters of divine appointment. That is to say, when it comes to issues of what constitutes the best or most appropriate form of worship, or to issues of "disputable matters" in denominational distinctives, many people, if not most, have a reflexive tendency to think that their own tastes and experiences amount to a divine fiat. It's not hard to see why--one might say, for instance, "I've experienced God working so powerfully in such-and-such a way in my life, so I know that this is how God works, and I want everyone else to experience it too!" In the cases I'm thinking of, there's nothing selfish or petty in this; it's usually quite thoughtful and well-meaning. But it misses something rather important, something that seems so obvious to me that it doesn't really seem worth stating. But I've run into this a number of times, so I guess I'll say it.

Every disciple of the Lord is different.

And that means that the ways in which the Lord meets and guides and grows each disciple are going to look a little different, too.

Maybe you're a Christian with a deep-rooted love for the Lord, who has found unspeakable peace in a quiet and stately form of worship. Just to breathe the air of an old church, to stand in reverential wonder with the people of God and sing the old hymns, to hear the precious words of Scripture spoken--it draws you deep into God's presence every time. But there's this other Christian a few pews over who can't seem to be quiet or keep their hands from gesticulating wildly in the air, whose manner just seems to suck attention in their direction, rather than cultivating the awesome, peaceful contemplation of God's glory, with attention directed to Him and Him alone. Don't they know, as the Bible says, that God is not a God of disorder, but of order? What's wrong with a person like that? It's a little hard to take, isn't it?

Or maybe you're a Christian whose heart is running over with the joy of the Lord. When you hear the songs of the church, you want to dance and lift your hands, to shout "Hallelujah!" and let the groundswell of delight inside you pour out in thunderous cascades of praise to God. But there's this other Christian a few pews over that seems frozen in place, almost inexpressive throughout the worship service, as if they've constructed a gigantic dam somewhere deep in their heart to hold back any trickle of joy that might threaten to break through. Their silence feels like judgment, as if they're assuming hateful things about you. Don't they know, as the Bible says, that we are called to rejoice in the Lord always? What's wrong with a person like that? It's a little hard to take, isn't it?

I've known both of these people, in many different versions, many times over. They're both good, solid, mature believers. And they both cannot seem to understand what lies behind the absolutely bizarre behavior of the other one. Whenever they look at the other's way of worship, something just feels really off to them, in an unnerving and unsettling way. Never mind the fact that both are devoted to the Lord, holding faithfully to biblical doctrine, and exhibiting the fruits of the Spirit's work in their lives--no, the way they like to worship is just a bridge too far, and there must be something wrong with them.

This is an important matter, because it speaks to the heart of Jesus's commands for his followers. Is it really possible to love one another as he has loved us? Is it really possible to "judge not," when our human nature is so quick to leap to assumptions about others? This is an issue of such importance that it even shows up in one of the last recorded conversations of Jesus. We want to know what to make of that other disciple over there, and Jesus tells us, rather abruptly, "None of your business." The story comes at the end of John, where the resurrected Jesus is walking with Peter along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, having just forgiven and reinstated him with the famous commission of "Feed my sheep." While they walk, Peter looks back and sees another disciple (John) following along the shoreline. "Lord, what about him?" Peter asks. And Jesus answers, "What is that to you? Follow thou me." (In the context, it's treated as a question of how each disciple might one day die, but the nature of Jesus's answer permits a broader application.) Fairly often in the Christian life, we're tempted to look at other Christians and ask, "Lord, what about that guy?" And just as Jesus said to Peter, he says to us: "It's not your concern. Your job is simply to follow me."

Rather than assuming that the person who worships differently than us, or prefers a different style of worship music, or is drawn to a different liturgical tradition must be wrong, we should give them the benefit of the doubt. No, more than that--we should ascribe the very best of motives to them. We should be able to look at the way others worship and think, "Wow, I don't really connect to worship in the same way that person does. I wish I could experience some of the joy / reverence / celebration / quiet peace that comes so naturally to them. I wish I could see the beauty of these songs / hymns / liturgical prayers through their eyes, and taste just a bit of the way they experience Jesus." Instead, many people seem locked into the assumption that the way God has crafted them to appreciate worship is the way that everyone should appreciate worship. In a somewhat alarming moment recently, I (who, remember, am planning to introduce an optional high-church liturgy service) received a comment from a parishioner who declared that they didn't believe that God liked "set prayers." That's not actually an uncommon sentiment for someone from a low-church tradition, but the confidence with which they expressed their full knowledge about God's preferences was truly impressive (especially considering the fact that--to use only one of many possible counterexamples--Jesus himself instructed his disciples to use a set prayer). 

At this point, the reader might be justified to say, "Hold on, Matt--you're calling people out for judging others, but aren't you also judging the people who do this sort of thing?" It's a fair question, but in this case, one of the fundamental realities of my pastoral office is that I must deal with interpersonal misperceptions like the ones described above as part of the weekly course of church life. It's just something that always comes up, and it's worth taking note of.

I should also say that this is very much a case of "There but for the grace of God go I." There's nothing innately better in my makeup that renders me untouched by the human urge to rush to judgment against others. I'm sure I'm so blindly stupid in many other ways that it all probably cancels out in the end. If anything, I'd chalk up my ability to see the breadth of the field on this issue to the grace of God working in my life in two rather unique ways: first, as an introvert, and second, as an Intercultural Studies major in college. To any who know me well, it's no surprise that I'm an introvert. I've learned good interpersonal communication skills, so I can fake it in an extravert's job most of the time, but being an introvert in a highly social context continually drives home the point of just how singularly weird I am. I'm so, so different from just about everybody else. And that's okay. It's not always easy, but it's okay. And this is where the grace comes in: my constant reminders that I am different from the other disciples of Jesus around me has given me long experience in acknowledging the rightfulness of others' differences. 

Does everyone like the same kind of worship I do, or act the same way in worship, or feel comfortable with the same things? No. But that doesn't mean that God likes my way best and not their way, it just means they're different than me. I intentionally give my praise team at church a relatively free rein to choose a broad variety of songs--some of which I love and really connect to on a deep level, and some of which I could easily do without. But you know what the funny thing is? Every now and then, someone will talk to me about a song that really impacted them deeply, through which they experienced the Spirit's grace in their lives...and it's often the song that I didn't care for. Just because something doesn't speak to my heart doesn't mean that it isn't speaking to someone else's heart, and part of my love for my brothers and sisters in Christ is to give them not only what I need, but what they need too. I know I'm different, and not everybody is going to connect with God in the same ways that I do.

My training in Intercultural Studies was also, I think, helpful in this. As a young man, I was initially preparing to go into cross-cultural mission work, which didn't end up being the road of my vocation. But even though I'm not directly using my degree, I wouldn't trade it for a different set of studies. In that field, you're trained in the art of not making assumptions--really, any assumptions at all--about the motivations of values behind others' actions. That's a really hard skill to learn well, and I'm grateful for the training I received in it. Interacting with people from other cultures, you learn to put yourself in their shoes right off the bat, to always give them the benefit of the doubt, and not to assume that they see things the same way you do. This isn't an argument for relativism, by the way; not a concession that we can't know right from wrong. Rather, it notes that there are aspects of our lives that are matters of universal truth, but there are also matters of personal preference. God made us both with minds to know the truth and wills to make free choices for ourselves, and both of those dimensions must be honored. Too often, American Christians make the mistake that an issue of personal preference--that is, one that is tied to God's gift of free will--is instead an issue of universal truth, and so we end up conflating the two and abusing the image of God in our brother or sister. 

The truth is, we all wear lenses that color the way we experience the world, even when it's the same world--the same objective truth--that we're looking at. Culture and personality are impressively strong lenses on our experience of the world, and most people don't even know they're wearing those lenses. They just see things as they've always seen them, experience them the way they've always experienced them, and think that's the way things are. Thanks to my personal journey as an introvert and my cross-cultural training, I generally have a pretty good handle on knowing how my lenses might be distorting my perceptions, and I try hard to make allowances for that. 

God doesn't wear lenses when he looks at us. He sees us as we truly are, knows us better than we know ourselves. Let's remember that when we look at the worship of another believer and see something that we don't understand, we ought not to think that that person has something off in their relationship with God, something that's preventing them from being able to worship the way we ourselves do. No, we ought to think, "That person has a way of walking with God that is so different from my own--maybe there's something I can learn from their experience that will help me deepen my own walk with God, so that I can appreciate worship in that way too." After all, Jesus is at work in the world--not making disciples that all look like me, or disciples that all look like you, but disciples that look like him, shining his radiance in prismatic beauty through all of the thousands of different lenses that make us who we are.

On the Unity of the Church

This essay is a follow-up to my previous series on the question of whether there is only "one true church" from among the Christian denominations (and if you haven't gone back and read it, I'd encourage you to do so). The apparent conclusion of that series answered the question in the negative: The claims of various denominations to be the "one true church," to the exclusion of all others, do not seem to stand up to the light of careful scrutiny with regard to their historical, biblical, or experiential arguments. Now, there's still some openness to that conclusion--it might the case, for instance, that the issue isn't a simple black-and-white question, and that there might be one church, above all others, that possesses the fullness of God's grace, whereas other churches only cling to a partial inheritance of that blessing. While that possibility remains, I've yet to see any significant evidence toward that end, and so I maintain my skepticism for now.

However, in this essay I'd like to flip it around and make the case that the answer to the central question--Is there only one true church?--should actually be Yes. There is only one church, and it is the Body of Christ, composed of all faithful believers everywhere. And further, our visible divisions ought not to be an obstacle to our fundamental unity. We are mystically united in Christ, through the Holy Spirit, and we have significant ways of giving practical evidence of that unity here and now.

The argument for the metaphysical unity of all Christians in the mystical Body of Christ is not difficult to understand, and it has been the fundamental conception of the church in some denominations (like Anglicanism) for centuries. It simply follows the Apostle Paul's argument in Eph. 4:4-6:

"There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to one hope when you were called; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all."

Essentially, since the Holy Spirit is undivided, then if he indwells one's church, the true believers in that congregation are part of the undivided church. Since there is only one Christ, there is only one Body of Christ; and if we are members of it, then we are part of the one true church. And since the Holy Spirit gives evidence of being present and active across the whole swath of orthodox Christian denominations (as argued in the closing section of my previous essays), all such churches should be regarded as part of the one true church. We're basically just doing the same thing that Peter did when he recognized the Spirit's work in Cornelius's family--since God has accepted them, how can we maintain a division that keeps them apart from us?

A critic from one of the ancient apostolic churches might argue at this point: "Isn't the visible unity of the church important, though? The early church was single and undivided, a unity held together both by shared faith and a network of offices established by the apostles, held in complete communion with one another." This appeal to history does say something valuable, but it's not as robust an argument as the critic assumes. There exists a counterexample that calls the whole premise of the objection into question. You see, we actually have evidence of a part of the ancient church, recognized as being authentically Christian, but which appears to have maintained an entirely separate life from the "Great Church" tradition (the tradition that eventually became the Oriental Orthodox, Eastern Orthodox, and Roman Catholic churches). That is to say: we have evidence of a separate "denomination" existing in early Christianity. This was the Nazarene sect (not the modern Church of the Nazarene), essentially a Messianic-Jewish tradition which persisted across the first four centuries of Christian life. References to it are sparse because the group appears to have been small, but recent scholarship has revealed that the early church fathers regarded it as separate, but not heretical. It was a direct outgrowth of the early Jewish followers of Jesus, and while it may have been the same community from which the Ebionite heresy eventually emerged, a significant orthodox remnant of that community faithfully maintained a truly Christian set of doctrines. It had a robust Jewish-Christian theology, entirely acceptable to the wider church, yet it did not have any known aspects of visible communion with the Great Church tradition beyond their shared doctrine. Differences in language and culture, together with their existence in geographically isolated areas on the margins, appear to have kept them effectively separate. So, yes, there is historical evidence of a separate-but-equally-the-true-church denomination, existing from the earliest days of the faith, until they were gradually absorbed back into the larger structure after the public Christianization of society in the fourth century, probably reintegrated as part of the culturally-similar Syriac churches. 

Even aside from the Nazarenes, you could argue that a form of denominationalism has always been a part of Christianity from the very start, when linguistic and cultural divisions were causing factions in the Jerusalem church. There are evident differences between the Hellenistic form of Christianity and the Jewish form as early as Acts 6, and these are repeated in Acts 15, Acts 21, and in the curious disjunctions between Paul's letters and that of James. There is no overt hostility or excommunication of one another, but there is clearly a development of different ways of expressing and practicing the Christian faith. Beyond the New Testament period, these gaps persist. One can see major divisions in practice between Greek-speaking and Syriac/Aramaic church traditions; other similar fractures in culture accrue in regions which spoke still different languages: Coptic, Armenian, Ethiopic, Georgian, Latin, and so on. These differences weren't just issues of style, either: they affected major questions of doctrinal practice. The Syriac liturgy of Addai and Mari, for example--recognized even by the Roman Catholic Church as an accepted and authentic form of ancient Christian worship--has no words of institution in its Eucharistic prayer, which in any other context is considered an indispensable element of Catholic practice. The culturally-different churches of early Christianity quickly developed their own ways of worshiping, which, while recognizably Christian, differed in some non-trivial respects from the way Christians worshiped elsewhere. All that to say, the argument that denominations did not exist in early Christianity is a little too much of a blanket statement to match the truth of the matter. The roots of denominational division were often clearly visible long before any official schisms took place.

OK, one might say--even if it's true that we Christians all share some kind of metaphysical unity by our incorporation in the mystical Body of Christ, isn't our lack of visible unity still a tragic thing? Well, yes and no. Certainly, the hatreds and persecutions that have arisen over division in the Body of Christ are tragic. But I'd like to argue that if we put aside the polemics for a moment, to pause and to "hear what the Spirit says to the churches," we'll begin to see with fresh eyes the great harvest of the fruit of God's work among our sister denominations and the beauty of our diversity. I also want to suggest that we have ways of demonstrating visible unity close at hand, for anyone willing to use them. Three in particular suggest themselves to me: recognizing Eucharistic unity, credal unity, and the unity of brotherly love.

First, Eucharistic unity. This one may come as a bit of a surprise, since it's usually listed as one of the main things that divide Christians. We squabble about our different beliefs regarding what is really happening in the elements of communion. Are they actually transforming into the flesh and blood of Jesus? Or is Jesus somehow spiritually present (but not physically) in the bread and wine? Or are they a purely symbolic memorial of his sacrifice? This was one of the great fracture-points of the Western Christian tradition, and it remains a sore point to this day. 

It's not an unimportant question. Indeed, in many ways it stands at the absolute center of our corporate Christian life. But as I've reflected on the question over the course of my life, I've gradually come to the conclusion that we're all coming at it backwards. What we believe about the Eucharist will certainly frame our devotion around its practice, but is our belief about what happens actually the operative agent of what occurs? We all have faith in God's miraculous power at work in his church, and we practice the Eucharist as scripture and our traditions have handed it down to us. It seems to me that under those conditions, it will be what God intends it to be. If God's intention was for it to be a symbol of Christ's sacrifice, then that is what it actually is, even in Catholic churches that like to imagine there's a metaphysical transformation going on. Conversely, if God intends for it to be the literal presence of the flesh and blood of Christ, why wouldn't that actually be what happens, even in a Baptist church, seeing as they are instituting the service of communion exactly as Jesus and the apostle Paul commanded it to be done? Granted, there's no prayer of epiclesis in the New Testament, and so that part is absent from the Baptist rite, but as we've seen, even the omission of the actual words of institution in some ancient liturgies is not an insurmountable hurdle. Might it not be the case, if transubstantiation were God's intent, that a faithfully orthodox church, indwelt by the Holy Spirit, would receive the efficacious change of the elements as a result of their usage--being exactly faithful to the New Testament prescription--whether they were aware of that change or not? I'll admit that I don't know for sure what is happening behind the scenes in communion, and that the early traditions are generally more sacramental than the normal Baptist conception, but I don't think the theological logic of any of that means that God's gifts are not actually present in the precise way he intended, even in a Baptist church like mine. There's at least an off chance that we'll get to heaven and find out that our communion has been the true flesh and blood of Christ the whole time (or, on the other hand, that the Catholics will find out that it has been a symbolic memorial the whole time). 

In short, I think the differences in our perceptions of communion do not actually add up to a difference in our actual reception of communion, and so our mutual participation in the highest rite of the faith ought to be a sign of our unity, accomplishing in each one of us everything that God intends we should receive from the rite. Indeed, this idea of the Eucharist as a sign of Christian unity is at the center of the first post-apostolic interpretation of the rite. In the ancient Christian text known as the Didache ("The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles," and repeated in the later Apostolic Constitutions), there's a very early Eucharist liturgy which, interestingly, makes no claims about any of the things that later generations obsess over, like symbolism-vs-transubstantiation in regard to the body and blood. It includes neither the biblical words of institution nor a prayer of epiclesis. Instead, this is what it says (and it's worth considering it in full):

"Now concerning the Eucharist, give thanks this way. First, concerning the cup: 'We thank thee, our Father, for the holy vine of David Thy servant, which You made known to us through Jesus Thy Servant; to Thee be the glory forever.' And concerning the broken bread: 'We thank Thee, our Father, for the life and knowledge which You made known to us through Jesus Thy Servant; to Thee be the glory forever. Even as this broken bread was scattered over the hills [i.e., in the form of grain], and was gathered together and became one, so let Thy Church be gathered together from the ends of the earth into Thy kingdom; for Thine is the glory and the power through Jesus Christ forever.' But let no one eat or drink of your Eucharist, unless they have been baptized into the name of the Lord; for concerning this also the Lord has said, 'Give not that which is holy to the dogs.' But after you are filled, give thanks this way: 'We thank Thee, holy Father, for Thy holy name which You did cause to tabernacle in our hearts, and for the knowledge and faith and immortality, which You made known to us through Jesus Thy Servant; to Thee be the glory forever. Thou, Master almighty, did create all things for Thy name's sake; You gave food and drink to men for enjoyment, that they might give thanks to Thee; but to us You did freely give spiritual food and drink and life eternal through Thy Servant. Before all things we thank Thee that You are mighty; to Thee be the glory forever. Remember, Lord, Thy Church, to deliver it from all evil and to make it perfect in Thy love, and gather it from the four winds, sanctified for Thy kingdom which Thou have prepared for it; for Thine is the power and the glory forever. Let grace come, and let this world pass away. Hosanna to the Son of David! If anyone is holy, let him come; if anyone is not so, let him repent. Maranatha. Amen'" (Didache 9-10).

Based on this tradition--likely the earliest post-apostolic Eucharist liturgy available to us--the first Christians were not much concerned with the question of whether the bread and cup actually became the body and blood of Christ (and if it was a point of doctrine, it was apparently not one requiring an emphasis in the ritual itself). If it leans in any direction on that question, it appears to be more toward a low-church conception than a high-church one, but it's left largely undefined--the closest we get is a description of the elements as "spiritual food and drink," which could be taken either as symbolic or sacramental language. What does jump out clearly from the text, though, is an emphasis on communion as an expression of the church's unity. The beautiful imagery of the individual grains from fields on the hillsides all coming together to form one loaf is presented as the great hope for Christian unity and the ultimate redemption of the church. It would be well to reacquire this early point of emphasis in communion. Just like disparate grains scattered across the hills, the various denominations of Christianity are separated by wide gulfs of culture, language, and differences in style. And yet, by the miraculous work of God's Holy Spirit, we are made one in Christ, just like the grains coming together to form one loaf. I believe that our common practice of the Eucharist is, in fact, one of the very things that binds us together, far more so than we have ever perceived. Christ's command to take, eat, and drink--a command given to "all of you"--has taken us, this wayward rabble of wildly different disciples--and made us one communion in his Body.

If Eucharistic unity is the first form of practical unity which lies open for us to recognize, another one is creedal unity. Just as in the first great church age, the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed can be the irenicon it was always meant to be. It remains, to this day, the standard summary of Christian dogma on Trinitarian doctrine and Christology, agreed upon by all. You might ask, "Well, what about non-creedal types (like you Baptists), who insist that Scripture alone is the only rule of faith?" It's a fair question, but it misunderstands the doctrinal position of the non-creedal churches. Most of these, in fact, have come around to a recognition that creeds are necessary tools, even if we don't call them that (we tend to call them "Statements of Faith"), and if you apply for a job at a non-creedal evangelical ministry, you might be surprised to find that you are being asked to assent to a Statement of Faith (that is, to a creed). I've lived my whole life in the evangelical world, and never ran into anyone who disagreed with any single line in the classic Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed. If they did, they wouldn't be an evangelical anymore, nor really even a Christian. The creed is a summary of core biblical doctrine, and so us Bible-only types recognize the biblical truth within it and generally have no trouble agreeing with it.

The creed also remains a source of unity for the apostolic churches and communions, despite their differences. Major creedal ruptures tended to happen after the fourth century (in which the creed was produced), so it still stands as a representative of the more-or-less "undivided" age of Christianity. Even later disputes that focus on the actual text of the creed, like the Catholic/Orthodox feud over the Filioque, are potentially easily overcome once we explain exactly what we mean by the lines we confess (for example, the Orthodox can say that they are referring to the manner of the Spirit's eternal procession from the Father; the Catholics can say they are referring to the historical procession of the Spirit in the divine economy as it played out in the Gospels and Acts). Such disagreements really do, it turns out, fall under the much-abused category of mere semantics, despite each side's continued declamations against the opposing one. 

My suggestions, then, are to frame our unity on these two aspects that really do matter to us all: the rite that stands at the center of our worship, and the statement of faith that serves as the classic exposition of our doctrine. That's not to say that we have to start doing these things together, as the ecumenical movement has so often tried to do (with relatively little effect), but simply that we can recognize our unity in these things. To be a member of the one true church is to receive God's purpose for us in the rite of the Eucharist and to confess together the biblical truths found in the creed. A Nicene church that practices the Eucharist by (at the very least) an obedience to the form as mandated in the New Testament should, in my opinion, be regarded as truly the church of Jesus Christ. This doesn't require a formal, institutional union, but a recognition of mutual brotherhood in the communion of the faith. My third practical suggestion follows on this: to seek a unity of love with one another, foregoing the fever dream of full institutional unity for something that is, quite probably, closer to what Christ commanded. The rule of love is what Jesus points to as the center of our unity: "Love one another as I have loved you."

But what about Jesus's prayer for Christian unity in John 17, praying that we would be one as he and the Father are one? Doesn't that imply a deep, real, abiding unity that goes beyond merely loving one another? Well, it depends on how you frame the matter. I would say first that there's nothing "mere" about loving one another. Further, given my prior arguments, I must insist that there already is a deep, real, abiding unity across the churches, because of the Holy Spirit's abiding presence. We really are one, in the deepest and truest sense.  One day the veil will be lifted from our eyes, and we will see just how deeply we were a part of one another this whole time. But I would also say one more thing: I think we're mangling the analogy in Jesus's prayer if we take it to mean that unity-in-the-manner-of-the-Trinity means a full visible and institutional unity, such that there would be only one "denomination." After all, it's an indispensable point of Trinitarian doctrine that there is a real distinction of persons in the Godhead--they are all God, but they are not each other. The Father is not the Son, and the Son is not the Father, though both are fully and undividedly God. To interpret Jesus's analogy as implying a full institutional unity of the church appears to make a serious error of Trinitarian theology, dissolving the distinction of the persons into the unity of the divine nature. A more natural reading would suggest that the various denominations can remain themselves, as they are, while acknowledging the underlying metaphysical unity we already hold together in the Holy Spirit (thus, as the Father and Jesus are one: distinct in person, united in essence). The outward and visible sign of our unity would then be our love for one another, which is itself the defining quality of the Trinity's inter-relationships, the radiance that suffuses their union. And again, this is no "mere" loving one another, as if it's somehow a lower standard than institutional unity. If anything, it is probably a great deal harder. We Baptists need to learn to love our Catholic brothers and sisters, and the Orthodox need to learn to love the Pentecostals, and the Anglicans need to learn to love the Methodists, and so on. It won't be easy, but if my personal experience is of any value, it's more than possible.

As a closing thought, I would direct readers back to an essay I wrote years ago, on "The Beauty of Denominationalism." It strikes me that Jesus chose not just one successor, but twelve--twelve men with very different personalities, who all had to figure out how to love each other and get along together. This is our calling, too--our life as the church won't be made better by absorbing evangelicalism into Roman Catholicism, any more than it would have been had all the other disciples given up their identity, authority, and mission, so that Peter could just do everything for everyone. Rather, what we see in the apostolic missions of the book of Acts is that Peter and the other disciples, along with Stephen, Philip, Paul, Barnabas, and James, all exercise their own functions from the strengths of their differing personal qualities, and the whole church is strengthened as a result. I see the same thing in the panoply of denominations: we're better for having the Lutherans' untiring drumbeat on the refrain of grace, the Reformed emphasis on the glory of God's sovereignty, the Pentecostals' joy and expectation of the Spirit's work, the Anglicans' commitment to the beauty of moderation, the Anabaptists' patient adherence to the rule of peace, the Catholics' delight in the communion of saints, and Orthodoxy's rich vision of personal sanctification. If we were all subsumed into one institution, even if allowance was made for some differences in practice and culture, it would necessarily result in a gradual adjustment toward uniformity and a loss of some of these distinctives (a case in point is the way that Uniate churches--formerly Eastern Orthodox communions which joined Roman Catholicism--are now regarded by their old Orthodox family). An institutional uniformity that makes us less than what we are, I'm afraid, could be a tremendous loss to the whole Body of Christ. 

This isn't an argument for relativism, by the way--I'm not saying that Baptists and Catholics can both be right on everything, because that would just be nonsense. Take the question of the scope of the Pope's authority, for example. One of us is likely right, and one is likely wrong. No, this is an argument for recognizing that where God has not seen fit to grant us abundant evidence for settling a few secondary theological issues beyond the primary core we hold in common, the best response is charity for our differences and a commitment to loving each other in the midst of them. That's what brothers and sisters do.

This, ultimately, is the reality that I inhabit. I've fallen in love with the whole church, and I won't give any of it up. I have roles as both a Baptist and, weirdly enough, also as an Anglican (yes, really), and even as a monastic oblate in a 1500-year-old Catholic institution. These roles are not mutually contradictory--I am a Christian, a member of the mystical Body of Christ, and thus I am an heir of the whole church tradition, every part of it. Those who willfully dispossess themselves of fellow members of that Body merely end up impoverishing themselves, because we really are one in Christ.

Is There Only One True Church? (Part 4)

(If you haven't read them yet, go back and read the first, second, and third installments of this series of essays.)

The third vein of argumentation which various denominations will lean upon to make their case as being the one true church is an experiential one. This is usually not the primary argument for any particular church; historical and biblical arguments often come first. But it’s not uncommon to hear appeals to the evident power of the Spirit of God in one’s communion—miraculous evidence that one would only expect to find in the true church of Jesus Christ.

And, truth be told, that is what you would expect to find. If the Gospels and Acts are to be believed, the presence of miraculous signs and wonders was one of the hallmarks of the life of the church, especially associated with the first proclamation of the gospel in a new area, thus demonstrating the supernatural power of God in their midst. If a church or communion is indeed the one true church, then that hallmark should still be visible, at least in some form. If it is not the one true church—if it is merely a delusion of heretics and schismatics—one would expect the Holy Spirit not to offer gospel-matching miracles in their midst.

As a student of church history and a lover of the church in all its forms, I have a long-running set of experiences across the spectrum of many different denominations. And here’s the peculiar thing: despite the very vocal claims of some communions to be the one true church, to the exclusion of others, what one actually finds is that miraculous experiences are associated with all churches grounded in the Bible and the core doctrines of the ancient faith. From Catholics to Eastern Orthodox to Copts to Baptists to Presbyterians to Pentecostals (and many more besides) we find that the mystery of the Spirit’s power working in the church, the narrative thread underlying the book of Acts, is still wending its way through the experiences of all sorts of Christians today.

But, one may ask, can this kind of self-reporting be trusted? We’re talking about miracle reports from people who believe in miracles, want miracles to happen, and are looking for them. Surely there’s a significant margin of error for confirmation bias! Well, yes, no doubt there’s a good deal of that. But there’s something quite striking about the Christian legacy of miracles nonetheless. This experiential element runs through the ages as a mark of Christianity, but does not appear nearly as frequently in other religious traditions—not even those traditions that emphasize miracle-stories in their founders’ lives and their holy texts. Miracles pop up all the time in Christianity in a way that is simply orders of magnitude beyond those of any other religious system, with the possible exception of shamanic religions and other faiths associated with direct contact with spiritual entities (and there Christians would have reason to expect miracles of a rather darker sort to indeed be present). A good argument on this point is made in Craig Keener’s magisterial study, Miracles, which looks at both the startling ubiquity and the reliability of Christian miracle reports, both ancient and modern.

Okay, the critic might say—but since we brought up the possibility of demonic “miracles” in shamanic religions, why can’t that be true of heretical Christian denominations as well? Maybe Satan would give such groups a few miracles in order to keep people away from the one true church. While this objection sounds persuasive at first, it really isn’t nearly as compelling on closer inspection. These other Christian denominations, which the critic spurns as heretical, in fact show significant evidence not only of dramatic signs-and-wonders-type miracles, but even more so of the kind of “ordinary” miracles that Satan would absolutely despise: lives transformed by the power of the gospel, addictions broken, marriages restored, lives bearing abundant evidence of the fruits of the Spirit, and glory given to Jesus Christ as Lord. That being the case, I don’t think it actually passes muster to say that Satan must be the one behind the flashier miracles.

On balance, if one were to judge from experiential evidence alone, it would appear that the Spirit is at work across the whole swath of faithful Christian denominations. Each tradition includes a very large set of supernatural experiences related to the inner life of the Christian, and it’s also common to find the grander supernatural occurrences of public miracles in each tradition as well. One of the curious features to me, though—and one that I don’t quite know what to make of—is that each tradition seems to receive the kind of miracles that they expect to receive. Bible-centered traditions like Baptists and Reformed churches see healings and deliverances in response to concerted prayer; Pentecostals see dramatic healings on command and ecstatic phenomena; Catholics see Eucharistic miracles and healings from relics; Eastern Orthodox see myrrh-flowing icons. It’s interesting, isn’t it? The miraculous power of the Spirit appears to respond to those places where each particular Christian group is looking for his presence.

In any case, the experiential argument for there being only one true church has never really held up for me. Quite the contrary, it points in the opposite direction—that the Holy Spirit seems to regard the whole vast diversity of Christendom as the true church. If I were to try to convert based on the evidence of God’s supernatural power that I have actually seen at work in the church, I would have to convert to a Pentecostal church, the Roman Catholic Church, and an Eastern Orthodox church—all while also remaining Baptist! It seems to me, based on this observation and the ambiguity of the historical and biblical arguments, that it’s fairer to regard the whole Christian community as the church of Jesus Christ—all those who truly hold to the faith that was once for all delivered to the saints, as laid out in the scriptures.

Now, this still isn’t an open-and-shut case. Is it still possible that one of the biblical arguments is true, in exclusion of all other interpretations, and that one of the historical arguments is true, despite the paucity of evidence, and that some as-yet-unknown factor could explain the broad presence of miracles? Sure. But with an absence of evidence, it seems a little foolhardy to start jumping denominations before any clear answers appear. If there is only one true church, my prayer is (and always has been) that God would make it known to me, and if in his grace he grants that request, then I will drop everything and race to join the one true church. In the meantime, I’m content to grow where God has planted me.

The Evangeliad (30:13-15)

(Click here for an introduction and previous installments of the Evangeliad)

Section 30:13-15 (corresponding to Luke 14:18-20; Matt. 22:5)

But those who receive the word, do they come?

No, they make up excuses, every one.

Caught up in themselves and their busy lives,

They reject the King for their own enterprise.

'Tell the King,' says one, 'I've just bought a field;

I must go see it--my schedule won't yield!

Send my regrets to the King and his son,

But as for myself, I just cannot come.'

Another one says, 'It's livestock for me--

I just bought oxen, five yoke, don't you see?

I have to go now and examine the lot.

Have I time to go to a feast? I do not.'

Still another one says, 'I too cannot come

To the King's son's feast, for I just had one!

Yes, I'm married now, have a wife, you see,

And all of that means that I'm just not free.'

Is There Only One True Church? (Part 3)

(If you haven't read them yet, go back and read the first and second installments of this series of essays.)

Having considered historical arguments, we turn now to arguments from scripture. Like the historical arguments, though, we will see that the evidence called upon is ambiguous at best.

Most denominations will appeal to a broad alignment with the general shape of New Testament church practices, in effect arguing, "Our practice aligns closest to what the Bible portrays, and therefore we're the one true church." This is essentially the argument put forward by any Reformation or Restorationist churches that make the claim, and one could say that the Orthodox also fall into this camp at times. While the Orthodox tend to lean more heavily on the historical argument (as their current promotional shtick puts it, "We are the church founded by Jesus Christ...we are not non-denominational, we are pre-denominational"), they would draw on biblical arguments to distinguish themselves from Protestants on issues like church hierarchy. They would point out, for instance, that three distinct offices are mentioned in the New Testament, exactly matching the tripartite division of clerical orders which apostolic churches have always held: bishops, priests, and deacons.

This argument is a good case study for us, because it illustrates the problems involved in making biblical arguments for these denominational positions. While it is true that bishops (overseers), priests (presbyters/elders), and deacons are all mentioned as church offices in the New Testament, it's not entirely clear that it was held as a standard tripartite hierarchy in the New Testament period. There are places in scripture where there appears to be no distinction between bishops and priests; the terms are used interchangeably. In 1 Timothy 3, Paul lays out church offices by addressing only two: bishops and deacons. Then in Titus 1, Paul brings up priests (presbyters/elders) in a similar fashion, but quickly switches terms to bishops (overseers), in a way that plausibly suggests he is still describing the same office. In short, it can be argued that Paul only envisioned two roles, with one of them (bishop/priest) simply described in two different terms, as both an overseer and an elder, much as one might call the same person both a pastor and a minister. While a uniform hierarchical structure of church offices clearly emerged in early Christianity, some historians have argued that in some places, bishops and priests were simply two different terms (or roles) applied to the same people until at least midway through the second century. In short, one can look at the New Testament evidence and faithfully interpret it as upholding a hierarchical model (bishop-priest-deacon), a free-church evangelical model (a pastor as overseer/elder, assisted by deacons), or a Reformed model (multiple elders led by a pastoral overseer, and assisted by deacons). The biblical evidence simply is not clear enough to make a "case closed" argument for church offices one way or the other.

A similar ambiguity arises in almost any biblical argument that centers on the doctrinal distinctives of various denominations. The question of infant baptism? The biblical evidence is mostly absent, but just nebulous enough to allow for the possibility. What about transubstantiation? Maybe, or maybe not, all depending on how one interprets the symbology of Jesus's statements, which can legitimately be read either way (yes, even when the flesh/blood passages from John 6 are brought into view, because there Jesus follows his very physical, visceral statements by saying, "the flesh counts for nothing," v.63). What about the reverence and honor due to Mary? The positive way she is addressed in most of the gospel accounts makes it possible to consider an ongoing role for Marian reverence in Christian devotion, but any sign of such devotion is almost entirely absent from the rest of the New Testament. In all of these instances, the evidence is simply so unclear that reasonable people will have room to disagree. Can you make a case for all of these positions from scriptural texts? Sure. Can you make a case against them? Again, sure. That's why the disagreements still persist, despite each denomination knowing their Bible just as well as the other denominations do.

Roman Catholics have one more biblical argument they draw on to make their case, one that does not apply to any other church's argument: Jesus's commendation of Peter in Matthew 16:16-19. Here's the text:

Simon Peter replied, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” (ESV)

The Roman Catholic interpretation of this passage is pretty straightforward: Jesus gives ultimate authority in the church to Peter, and since Peter is the apostolic founder of Rome, whose bishops are his successors, the Roman Catholic pope still retains this authority today. We've already seen that the historical argument which underlies this position is based on incomplete evidence. Further, interpreting the passage in this way makes a lot of assumptions that readers import into the text: namely that the pope of Rome is the intended and only successor to Peter, and that the authority given to Peter here is passed down to those who come after him (which Jesus never actually says).

It's worth taking a look at the evangelical and Orthodox views of this passage, just to see some of the legitimate ambiguity in its interpretation. From the evangelical side, many will point out that the context matters: Jesus is not just commending Peter out of the blue; he is commending Peter's confession of faith. The passage can be read as Jesus's assertion that the content of that confession--the identity of Jesus as God's Son and Messiah--is the foundation upon which the church rests, and that Peter is given his new name in recognition of that confession. Evangelicals will point out that the text may hint in this direction by using slightly different words for Peter (petros) and rock (petra). As the first person in the believing community to make this confession, Jesus says that Peter is being given the keys of the kingdom of heaven. It is possible to read this not as a permanent transfer of authority to Peter personally, but rather just as a statement of what happens when someone makes a confession of the true faith--they gain access to the kingdom of heaven; Peter just happens to be the first in that position during Jesus's ministry, so this is when it comes up in the story. The curious phrase about "binding" and "loosing" is potentially a reference to rabbinic language used about the interpretation and application of God's law, and again, this could apply just as easily to any believer (if that is the ultimate recipient of these blessings) as to Peter. Further, if the phrase does refer to interpretation of scripture, a parallel passage from Matthew seems to apply such powers to a fairly broad group ("every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven," Matt. 13:52). Another reason for suspecting that the "binding" and "loosing" powers may not apply solely to Peter is that Jesus says a very similar thing (in regard to forgiving sins) to all the disciples who are gathered together at his resurrection appearance in Jerusalem, not just to Peter (John 20:23). 

In the Orthodox interpretation, they are less concerned than evangelicals with invalidating a personal application to Peter's authority. Instead, they point out the unproven assumptions of the Roman Catholic argument. The Orthodox are generally willing to say, "Yes, this is Jesus committing authority to Peter to establish the church and to set its authoritative form and function. And he did just that--forming the Jerusalem believers into the church, as related in the book of Acts." They do not presume that Jesus intended for Peter's commendation to be passed down in a succession of authority through the ages, but rather that this was a prophecy of Peter's function after Pentecost, and that that function was fulfilled just as Jesus said. If there is any continual transfer of authority to successors, the Orthodox would view it as a statement of the authority handed down to all bishops. This is no less plausible than the Roman Catholic view of the passage, considering that there is no mention of any of these things in what Jesus says--not succession, not Rome, and not bishops. It's all an argument from silence, which must be arbitrated by historical evidence, and as we've seen, the historical evidence is hardly conclusive.

All that to say, if we're pinning our hopes on finding the one true church through biblical arguments alone, we're likely to be disappointed. Scripture is very clear about a lot of things, but when it comes to the points of contention between denominations, the textual evidence is generally insufficient to be independently decisive. That's essentially why there are multiple denominations, after all--because the text allows for a variety of readings. Some churches try to fix this problem by appealing to their exclusive authority to interpret scripture rightly, and maybe that's so--but for an outsider, their very claim to exclusive interpretation appears to be built on nothing but their own assertion, since neither the biblical evidence nor the historical evidence makes a strong case for it. 

So what are we left with? Well, there's still the experiential argument, which we'll take a look at next time. If there is one true church, wouldn't one expect it to be suffused with the power of God? Maybe the record of miracles and wonders will tip the scales one way or the other.

The Evangeliad (30:9-12)

(Click here for an introduction and previous installments of the Evangeliad)

Section 30:9-12 (corresponding to Luke 14:15-17; Matt. 22:1-3)

One of the guests in attendance replied:

"Oh, to taste the bread that God shall supply!

How blessed to feast in the kingdom of God,

When the righteous One reigns in brilliance and awe!"

Then Christ told this parable for his reply,

To remind them that the kingdom was nigh:

"The kingdom of heaven is like this, my friends:

A feast is planned; invitations are sent;

For the good King wants to honor his Son

With a festal event that's rivaled by none.

Yes, many are called to come to the feast,

And the King sends his servants into the streets.

To all those invited, they bear the good news:

'Come join in the feast; the King summons you!

All things are made ready to honor the Son,

So render the King's joy complete, and come!'