When Silence Isn’t Golden

Meet Gordon MacDonald at 2010 ILC—Atlanta!

Provided by CN Building Adult Ministries Resource Center

I am at a stage of life when there is more time for personal and reflective conversations with people in Christian leadership. No longer do I live under the weight of budgets, long-range plans, and building programs. I have graduated from staff meetings and calls on major donors. That kind of “fun” stuff is for men and women younger than me.

I like to think that now when I talk with colleagues the subject matter is more about ideas and aspirations. My “office” may be a car while driving to or from an airport, or a table in a restaurant, or some corner during break-time at a pastors conference. The locality may be Europe, Asia, or somewhere here in North America.

The kind of office or the locality actually makes little difference. The subjects, if you’re on a personal level, are almost always the same. Usually, one only has to say: “How’s your world in 70 words or less?” Or, “Tell me your whole life story in, let’s say, about four minutes?” Perhaps: “In your idle times, what are some of the things you find yourself thinking about most?” If one is willing to listen (and I’m getting that way), there are lots of things to be learned.

Right off the top I’ll tell you this: most young leaders I talk to are a different breed than the kind I grew up with. And this gladdens me. I fear that more of me and my generation might be deadly for the cause.  But more of these younger folks?  Hope rises.

For the most part, I regard the new young leaders with affection. I like them, respect them, and believe in them.

But—being older—I do worry about them. There is a certain fatherly side of me which, if unchecked, tempts me to offer advice not sought, tell stories not relevant, and conjure up gloomy predictions not necessarily reliable. It’s difficult, but I resist this temptation whenever I can or whenever my observant wife overhears me and signals caution.

Back to these conversations. Let me tell you what I most often hear in response to my questions. Lots about vision: creative and exciting things (that I would never have thought of) designed to draw people to Jesus and build his church. Lots about re-directing the focus of Christ-followers and their resources to the larger world of human need and tragedy. And lots about creative technology to communicate and enhance connections among people. This is really good.

By contrast, what isn’t good is the number of conversations which center on spiritual dryness and the fact that the private devotional life of some isn’t going well at all. There are too many conversations about stressed and fractured marriages and families. Oh, and too many conversations about pressure and the numbing exhaustion that comes with work that has no ending.

Somewhere I came across the comments of 4^th century, John Chrysostom who, concerned for the pastor/priests with whom he talked wrote, “The priest’s wounds require greater help, indeed as much as those of all the people together…because of heavy demands and extraordinary expectations associated with pastoral office.” If I could email John Chrysostom, I’d say, “Thanks for the heads-up, but nothing’s changed.”

But having identified a few prevailing topics of conversation, let me go on to this: what isn’t talked about? Raising this question is risky because I suspect some will pop up and say, “that’s not my experience.” But in the pursuit of thoughtfulness, let me go out on two or three limbs anyway.

Here are three themes I’m not hearing much about. Each is likely to provoke or irritate sensibilities or cause someone to wonder where in the world I’m coming from. The themes are not related at all except that they tend to drop between the cracks of discussion.

If You Really Believe it, Better Talk More About it

The first. The doctrine of eternal judgment: rarely discussed any more, as far as I can see, in polite company. Now I know that eternal judgment is a rather heavy subject to launch into while in traffic coming out of the airport. Imagine someone saying soon after they are seat-belted in, “Had any thoughts about hell lately?”

But here’s a thought. If hell is what I was taught in my childhood—something akin to a perpetual lake of fire—it ought to be never far from our minds or our lips. After all, given the orthodox claim that those running from God have a dark destiny, wouldn’t you expect more passion about this? Isn’t silence on the matter kind of immoral? Like knowing a bridge is out just ahead and failing to warn oncoming drivers?

Few, in my hearing, have stated the implications of hell more candidly than a man I heard one night on Christian radio as I drove a rented car in a strange city. He’d been responding to mostly trivial questions phoned in by listeners, and I found myself amused by conversations which I thought reminiscent of the old angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin issue.

But then a woman called to say that she’d lost a life-long friend to cancer whom she had repeatedly begged to “accept Christ.” He hadn’t, and now he was gone.

“My question is this,” she said. “Is there any way he might possibly be in heaven now? Or is he in hell? And if he’s in hell, what’s it like?” Now that’s a show-stopper. I’d have suggested a commercial break so that I could organize my thoughts (“And now a friendly word from your local funeral director…”).

But the radio guy merely paused to take what I thought was a deep breath, and then he said (he really said this!), “Well, the Bible teaches that hell is a place you go to if you haven’t accepted Christ, and you suffer there for ever and ever and ever.” I can hear the words now, spoken slowly, ponderously, assertively.

The caller began to weep. And I myself, as I drove, was overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness and a realization that I had not heard anyone speak of hell so bluntly for a long, long time. I wanted to weep too.

As I processed this radio conversation, I realized that the radio guy was speaking—even if insensitively—the core of traditional Christian doctrine regarding eternal punishment.

And woe to him or her who would disagree with him. A certain rather well-known pastor did, in effect, disagree with him recently and stated publicly and clearly that he no longer believed in the long-established message of hell. The result: he has lost almost all of his congregation and their property. He has earned the ire and brutal criticism of a host of one-time friends. I suspect that, had he kept his theological opinion to himself, he’d still have the building, the people, and all the one-time “friends.”

At the risk of attracting the critic, let me state what I’m observing. Fewer and fewer people are talking about hell because fewer and fewer people—the man on the radio a clear exception—believe in it from an operational sense. Hell has become an anachronism to many: affirmed, perhaps, in doctrinal statements, occasionally mentioned in relatively antiseptic terms, and used more and more to describe terrible, tragic moments in someone’s life as in “he’s going through hell right now.”

But hell as a place of eternal suffering from which there is no return? This, I suggest to you, has been excised from most seeker-friendly sermons, from most discipleship curriculums, and most conversations in which people are pointed toward Christ.

I have experimented with my observation. In a conversational lull at lunch time, I have said to someone, “Look around at all the people in this restaurant. Do you believe that a significant percentage of them are going to hell?” There is usually a ponderous silence, and then something like, “Boy, that’s a heavy. I don’t know what to say…I guess I know what I should say…but…” Or, “So they say, but who are we to judge?”

Eternal judgment and hell rarely comes up in conversations I have unless I raise it. It is apparently a subject just better left lying on the theological shelf rather than embraced or renounced. I’m not advocating for this. I’m just putting into words what I’m seeing…or not hearing.

I do have a problem with this state of affairs. If hell is not a secondary doctrine, if we are willing to break connection with someone who renounces the idea, then aren’t we morally obligated to become more vocal about the fact that we do believe hell to be a place, an on-going experience, something from which there is no extrication…and (by the way) that more than a few people are headed there?

I raise this rarely discussed subject because it’s too important a matter to ignore.  If we believe what the radio-guy says, then we must become more articulate about it. And if we do not, then we need some freshened theology to help us understand the eternal direction of the person who diverges from God by choice, neglect, or ignorance.

I bet fewer people will be picking me up at airports from now on.

If it’s So Important, Why Are We Vague About Its Results?

Here’s a second missing topic in most conversations. Amidst all the talk about contemporary and ancient/future worship, I almost never hear anyone speculate on what a genuine event of worship ought to produce in a person or a people. Not for a few minutes or a few hours, but over a substantial period of time.

Like everyone I’ve been up to my ears in conversations about worship styles (about hymnbooks and screens, about drums and organs, about song-leaders and worship leaders and whether or not they should jump or just stand still and wave their arms). I’m weary of the debate over old hymns and contemporary songs. And I’m a bit brittle on the subject of how long a sermon should last (I had to listen to 50-60 minute sermons when I was a kid…why can’t the young generation learn to suffer like I did?)

But here’s what’s missing. It is rare to hear anyone say, “I’d like to explore the impacts that true worship makes upon people.” Or, “When a person has engaged with God (and his people) in the act of worship, how is that person supposed to be changed?” Or what about this? “What is the difference between a person who has met God and one who has merely experienced a temporary adrenalin high?”

I think I could miss an airplane flight to have a conversation that started in such a way.

When I search the Bible for worship experiences, I see the diversity of styles we often discuss. But, more importantly, I see similar outcomes. Styles of worship were relatively insignificant; outcomes were everything.

A reading of Revelation’s first chapter reveals John, a man at worship who, when it was over, came out the other end inspired and eloquent, elevated and humbled, passionate to relate what he had experienced. I’d like to hear more speculation on what actually happened to him. And to Abraham at his altar, Moses at his bush, and Ezekiel by his river. To say the last, changed people: all of them. Changed!

In my conversations I sometimes ask “What would you say are the three most memorable experiences you have ever had in worship?” And, “how were you different when that experience ended?” Again, “Are there any ingredients in the act of true worship which always ought to happen?” And again: “Is there a difference between worship and praise?”

I must tell you that relatively few people answer the first of these questions immediately. It is not uncommon for someone to remain silent for several minutes as they think. One might even hear, “Ummm…that’s an interesting question…I’ve never quite thought about it…give me a minute (or two).”

I am bothered by this silence when it occurs. Now, I am not a serious researcher like George Barna, for example, who must have oodles of statistics and comments on questions like these. I only approach these things intuitively with a listening ear. But I can tell you my overall impression. Too few people seem to have an answer to my questions. And if they have answers, it seems to take a lot of time to produce them.

My point? I think we need a few conferences and seminars NOT on song-writing, NOT on stage-technology, NOT on dancing. But on what it is that is suppose to happen when people actually come into worshipful contact with the God who is above all “gods.”

As a person graced with occasional invitations to speak in various places, I am accustomed to being informed before a meeting as to the order of events preceding my talk. I usually hear, “We’re going to start out with a time of worship,” someone says. Then we’ll introduce you.”  (There then follows the question: how do you want to be introduced…which is always a strain on one’s humility).

“Worship” in such conditions usually means 25+ minutes of singing (standing, of course) and which usually includes (like the National Anthem) a mandatory rendition of Shout to the Lord (I sing Shout to the Lord at least three times a week and can now sing it in Greek, Korean, and Afrikaans…just kidding).

In my youthful days, what is now called worship was called the song-service. I think our name was more descriptive and more accurate because that was what we did: sing. It was what it was: cheering for God or Jesus, reveling in good things that were happening to us, making musical promises we might or might not keep.

From where I see things, the clearest tutorial on worship-outcomes (something quite different) is found in Isaiah’s account of his vision in the temple (Isaiah 6). We seem to have in this chapter a step-by-step description of the process one might experience in genuine worship. This assumes, of course, that you agree with me that Isaiah was worshipping.

There is, first of all, a recognition of majesty. Then a sudden, rather blunt awareness of one’s own brokenness of life. There follows a declaration of deep repentance, and a transaction of forgiveness and absolution. Finally there is a hearing of God’s voice as one’s life is freshened and redirected at the end. When it was over, Isaiah left the scene of worship a changed man with new priorities and a sharpened call to prophetic activity.

These are worship-outcomes worth pondering. Do they happen in many places where people claim they are worshipping? And is anyone talking about it?

Incidentally, I have absolutely no desire to return to yesterday’s forms of “worship.” The three-songs, announcements and offering, solo and sermon order of worship from my childhood was rather un-inspiring. No, I’m less inclined to worry about the how and more about the question what-difference-does-it-make? And on that subject, I find most people sadly silent.

If Love is our Main Game, Why Do So Many of us Often Feel Unsafe?

While I’m on a roll, let me mention another matter not often raised in conversation: the quality of our Christian discourse. Specifically, the ability to talk about controversial or disagreeable subjects where we may have to agree to disagree but still like each other.

I am thinking, for example, of ethical, political, theological, or social matters that need to be aired and explored from all sides and perspectives—not just the side that represents a particular ideology or political party or the opinions of certain influential people with whom one dares not disagree.

I long for conversations where there is a freedom to say, “I don’t see it that way…” or “I hear you, but have you considered…” or “You know what? I never saw it that way, and I actually think I’m going to have change my mind.”

My opinion? Most of us are not in a movement that excels in creative disagreement or dignified dialogue. I really regret this. I wish I’d been better trained in my younger years to be able to look a brother or sister in the eye and say with sincere love, “you and I have different opinions and that’s just fine.”

We are a people who yearn for community and the love that binds it together. But this love too often seems conditional. It seems to weaken when brothers and sisters discover that they have differing convictions on this or that. The gospel’s power to hold people in tight connection despite variances of persuasion appears to be wanting in moments like these.

Recently I entered a banquet hall teaming with people who are busy here and there in evangelical Christian activity. Can I confess that, as I came through the door, I felt, introvert that I am, a heat of anxiety begin to rise in my heart, and I wondered why? And then it occurred to me that I felt less than safe. When I defined my tentativeness, I realized it centered on expectations that I would be cornered by those who wanted me to join or endorse or give to something in which they were interested. And I realized that I was also cautious about meeting up with certain people who would want to take me to the cleaners about a position I’d taken (or not taken) in something I’d written or said publicly.

In short, I was afraid of being put on a spot where I’d have to say no or that I didn’t agree. Am I the only one who goes through moments like that?

But then there are other, much better, experiences of talking. Yesterday, I sat at lunch with a pastor who is in a moment in his life where he is terribly suffering. We selected a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant and spent two hours in personal conversation. Our topics covered a vast array of matters: our families, our work, national affairs, the way he is handling his present pain (and it is no small matter).

When it finally became apparent that we both needed to end the conversation and head in different directions, I found myself almost exhilarated by the time we had spent together. Without thinking I reached across the table and put my hand on his and said, “I love talking with you.”

And the truth is that I did love talking with him. The words between us had flowed. There had been no fear that a wrong thing might be said. There was a care in listening in order to tease out everything the other person was saying. There was no reluctance to speak of things we believed God was saying into our lives through our reading, other people, and our daily experience. And there was complete candor when it came to the asking of personal questions and the assessment of the implications of a dreadful moment in one’s life-journey.

I had the feeling that our conversation could have lasted for hours, and, already, I am looking forward to the next time when he and I shall meet probably at that same table.

This is the way things ought to be between brothers and sisters in the Lord when they talk.

So if you and I meet at an airport, or over breakfast, or at the break-time of a conference, you now know what I’m liable to bring up in the way of questions. And if the questions are bothersome to you, let me know in advance. I’m a New Englander, and we can always talk about the Patriots or the Red Sox.