A few years ago someone compiled a list of “the worst cities and towns in the United States.” After considering several health and safety and economic factors, he determined that the very worst city on the list was Steubenville, Ohio.
Now I have never been to Steubenville, but I can understand what happened next. The good people of the town were outraged! Very quickly and enthusiastically they began to tell everyone about their great history, the educational opportunities, the beautiful landmarks, the nice restaurants, and the famous people who came from Steubenville. I was surprised to learn that Steubenville was the hometown of some really fine talent, such as baseball pitcher Rollie Fingers and entertainer Dean Martin. Roy Rogers and Clark Gable came from towns just down the road from there. It is the home of Franciscan University. People in Steubenville, Ohio think that it is the best place in the world to live. They told the man who wrote the article that if he didn’t like it, Delta was ready when he was.
Whoever you are and wherever you live, it is likely that you have a lot of pride in your hometown, your school, your football team, and other things associated with “home”. That is not bad- it is good! We are who we are, largely because of where we came from.
We are bound together with the land and the faces and the places where we have lived our lives. My wife remembers that even when times were hard, she enjoyed the sights and scents of the orange groves and the mango trees, the grapefruits and the avocadoes of South Florida. She will never get the sand out of her shoes. Anything below sixty degrees is so cold she says she is “freezing”!
On the other hand, I was raised in a working-class family in Birmingham, where my father worked in the steel mills for over forty years. The smell of soot and coal dust and molten metal, believe it or not, is very pleasant to me! As I grew up, we ate well as long as the blast furnaces were putting that beautiful smoke into the air! We lived on a steep hill overlooking one of the huge furnaces in the distance, and from our front porch we could always see the fire as it burned day and night. When I was a very small boy I once visited my cousins in Atlanta, and my first question when I got to their front porch was, “Where’s your fire?” I thought everybody was supposed to have an iron-melting furnace to look at!
“Home”, whether the big city or the small town or the country community, was the place where we laughed and we cried, we worked and we played, we loved and we fought, we broke up and we made up. Home is where we first heard Hank Williams and Patsy Cline, Elvis and Buddy Holly, Marty Robbins or Simon and Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac or Pink Floyd. Home is where we buried our sweet old bird dog, where we walked the aisle in a summer revival, and where we hung out until midnight at the Dairy Queen. Home is the place where we fell in love “forever”, and it actually lasted for three months.
Home is a special place, not because of beautiful scenery and famous celebrities, but because it is the place where we developed relationships with the ones who lived there. It is a great place, not because of the standard of living or the cultural opportunities, but because its soil contains our blood and sweat and tears. It is unique and different and better than all other places because it is a part of us and we are a part of it. We poured our lives into just trying to survive there, and the very struggle of it all helped us to bond to the people and the places, the dirt and the concrete, the smells and the sights and the sounds of “home”.
Recently I drove back through what was left of the old Birmingham neighborhood. Our old house still stands as a shabby shack. The blast furnaces are abandoned, and the fire went out a long time ago. The school I attended is a run down empty shell. A freeway now covers the park where we played baseball. It’s sad to see that things have changed, when the way they were is so much a part of who we are.
The ghosts of the past, the remembrance of special people and special times and special places, are never really far from our thoughts. We can cherish the memories, but we cannot go back to a place that no longer exists. Not only have those places changed, but we have changed, too. Let us find joy in living the life that is given to us now.
But somewhere deep inside all of us there is a longing for a place that is really “home” – a place where there is love and peace, laughter and joy, satisfaction and fulfillment. We dream of a place where the bad people will be good and the good people will be humble! We hear the faint echo of perfect music. We catch a fleeing glimpse of incredible beauty. We yearn for more…. much more.
I am persuaded that the same One who placed this longing within us has also prepared such a place for us, somewhere. I don’t know how far it is from Steubenville. I think it may be a little closer to Birmingham! Such a place, wherever it is, is not very far from any of us who long for it.
“ A Tale of Two Churches”
It was the best of churches, and it was the worst of churches. Upon observing Pine Street Church and Elm Street Church, the buildings looked about the same, the communities were about the same, the budgets were about the same, and they belonged to the same denomination. There was one thing, though, that made them different. Pine Street Church had something that Elm Street didn’t have. Elm Street didn’t have it and didn’t want it. Pine Street, however, felt that they just really couldn’t function, couldn’t grow, and couldn’t be faithful or fruitful without it.
I visited Pine Street one Sunday, and noticed that they were in a big attendance drive, to be followed by an evangelistic crusade. Reverend Taylor, the pastor of Pine Street, shook my hand vigorously, and motioned for an usher to fill out a card with my address and church membership status. Then I was escorted into a Sunday School room, where everyone was reminded that we all needed to read our Bibles daily, give a tithe or offering, and study the lesson so the class could get a “hundred percent” grade. We were informed that this class was the only class that had not yet won the attendance banner, and it was getting embarrassing. We had a lesson on the faithfulness of God, and the teacher told us that since God was faithful to us, we should be faithful to the church. We were told that we must tithe in order for God to bless our finances. We were reminded of the evangelistic crusade, and of how ashamed we should be if we didn’t come back every night, and bring others with us. Before the class ended, the teacher asked for all who would come back that night to raise their hands. Since everyone else raised a hand, I raised mine, too. Some of the people in the class looked at me and smiled.
Pastor Taylor introduced the evangelist for the week, exhorting us to faithfulness, high attendance, and to give an extra-generous offering for this “greatly-used man of God”. When the evangelist stood to preach, he told us some amazing stories. We were told that hell was thousands of degrees hot. He asked us did we want to go there, and if not, did we want our family and friends to go there. He told us of a man who had put off his “decision” for one more day, and then was killed in a car wreck before he had another chance. He said that God had told him to say that the same thing might happen to any of us. At the end, we sang several verses of a song, and some people came to the front to pray. But apparently it wasn’t enough people, because Pastor Taylor then said some things that got many more people to come. He told the children that their mothers would be proud if they came forward. Then he told us that if we didn’t come to pray we obviously didn’t care if people went to hell. Finally, he said that since most of the people were now at the altar, the rest of us should feel ashamed.
Herb down at the barbershop told me that Pastor Taylor is in trouble at Pine Street because some of the people think the church isn’t growing fast enough. Herb said that this crusade was probably the pastor’s last chance to get some results before the board asks him to leave.
Finally around 12:30 the service was over, and I left Pine Street exhausted. It had been a while since I had been to church. I had forgotten what an ordeal it could be. I felt that I was a big disappointment to God, that I was not very faithful, and that He was probably quite mad at me. I did not return that night, even though I had raised my hand. I guessed that I was not very “spiritual”, because I didn’t really want to go back to Pine Street any more.
The next Sunday I visited Elm Street Church. There was really not anything special about it, except it felt happy and peaceful and free. The music was good, but no better than at Pine Street. The pastor, Reverend Miller, was friendly but relaxed. He was not the entertaining preacher that the evangelist had been. Someone asked him a question, and he actually answered, “I don’t know!” Nobody seemed to be more important than the others. There was a lot of laughter. Some of the people asked me about my job and about my family. Pastor Miller asked if the church could be of help to me in any way. A young man even told me that the church had been “honored” by my coming to Elm Street! They didn’t try to get me to do anything. Nobody implied that my love for God was equated with my involvement in the church. They were just glad to be there, and glad that I was with them for that day. I felt that I was among people who were honest and open and real. I didn’t feel guilty or ashamed or embarrassed or condemned. I knew that I would come back again to Elm Street Church.
At the beginning of this “tale of two churches”, I said that there was something that Pine Street had that Elm Street didn’t have. I said that Pine Street Church felt that they couldn’t grow or function without it, but that Elm Street Church did not want it. “It” is called “manipulation”—putting all kinds of pressure on people to get them to do what they don’t really want to do. Pine Street Church manipulated people through fear, shame, guilt, pride, competition, and even greed. Churches like Pine Street will never be satisfied and will never be happy. And they won’t let anybody else be, either. Sadly, they really seem to think that this is “serving the Lord”- that this is the Christian life.
At Elm Street Church I can find what I really need– a God who loves and accepts me purely by grace, and people who are learning to do the same. No pressure to perform, nothing to pretend, nothing to prove, nothing to force on anybody else.
I hope that at some time in your life you will encounter an Elm Street Church. If you’re looking for one, and you find yourself on Pine Street, don’t panic and run off the road. Just calmly and quickly make a U turn.
A popular song says “all I want is a little respect.” If we are honest, we know that it is an understatement. We want more than a little respect. We want recognition. We want admiration. We want to be the center of attention. Whether we admit it or not, we have at times wanted to be a star.
It is not surprising that thousands of people line up for their audition to be the next “American Idol”. It is more than a little comical that many fancy themselves as the winner even though they obviously can’t sing.
If we pay attention to the lessons of life, we learn a little humility along the way. We realize that there are some things we will never have a talent for. We know that, even if we are good at something, there will always be somebody somewhere who can do it better. The boxer Muhammed Ali brashly proclaimed that he was “the greatest”. But even if he was for a while, it didn’t last very long.
There was once a man who walked on this earth and refused to play this silly game. His teaching turned everything upside down. He said that to be first we must be last. He said that in order to be great we must be the servant of all. He said that what we want to keep we must give away. He said that to be strong we must acknowledge our helplessness and weakness. And he taught that to become righteous we must see ourselves as sinners.
Many of us profess to believe in this man enough to want to follow him, wherever he leads, throughout our lives. But somehow we often miss the point of what he taught and the example he set for us. How often have we boasted that we have the largest church, the fastest-growing ministry, the most articulate preacher, the greatest singers, or the finest choir? How many times have we gloried in raising the most money or winning the most converts or having the nicest building in town? Why is it that every city has a “first” church of every denomination? How can we continue to be so blatantly competitive with other followers of this same man? When have we last considered what HE might think of all of this? Who are we really trying to impress? And most importantly, WHY?
Thankfully, some of Christ’s followers have finally begun to get the point, but we have a long way to go. Nevertheless, it is a start. Recently I was gratified to notice that all of the front doors of a local church are marked “servants entrance”. Can you imagine how powerfully different we would be if there were no “big shots”, and only servants, like He taught us to be?
What would happen if we stopped competing, comparing, and counting? I am not exxagerating when I say that for most of my life the two things we always did in church was we counted the people and we counted the money! Sadly, the underlying truth was that we were measuring our success in those terms. We wanted to reassure ourselves that we were “succeeding in God’s work.” We wanted to be bigger. We wanted to see ourselves as important. We wanted a little respect. We were completely missing the point.
But, as I said, things are finally beginning to change. Here’s an example - an example that may even offend some, but it makes the point well. I was looking at a website called “The Ooze”, which always has some interesting Christian articles from a refreshing perspective. To my amazement, I saw a reference to a church in Colorado which is actually called “Scum of the Earth.” I found out that there is also a church in Seattle with the same name!
On the “Scum of the Earth” church website, they say that the name is appropriate for two reasons. One, they said, was to let people know that no matter what they have done wrong, they are still wanted and welcomed and loved as they are. They said that they gladly welcome those who are considered to be the scum of the earth.
Secondly, they said that they consider themselves to also be sinners capable of anything, so they include themselves among such scum. They even quoted Scripture references such as I Corinthians 4: 11-13 which says that the early believers were considered as such.
I smiled as I considered what might be the reaction of some people if we said that our church was called by that name! If I asked you how you would like to be known as a member of a church with such a name, what would you say? As for me, I think I would go there. You see, I am the scum of the earth. I am not more worthy than someone else is. I am not “better” than anybody else. I have absolutely no right to look down on anyone.
The only reason I can dare to say what I’ve said is that I know that it doesn’t matter any more! I have been so desired and loved and accepted and forgiven, that there is no reason for me to pretend that I did anything good at all! Once you see the truth of radical grace, you can’t un-see it. You don’t have to convince anybody that you are “good”. You are now free to be honest, because there’s nobody to impress and nothing to pretend!
The grace of God is so much greater than all of our religious qualifications that it nullifies our need to even acknowledge them. Who cares if we are the biggest, or best, or first, or fastest, or greatest? Addressing this subject in Phillippians chapter three, Paul described all of his accomplishments by an even more offensive term! What we are, if anything good at all, is only and entirely by grace.
“Amazing grace… saved a wretch like me.” But when I stop seeing myself as a wretch, I stop being amazed by grace. As I look into my own heart, I still struggle with wanting to be respected, acknowledged, and admired. My proud ego continues to be in a battle against amazing grace.
It is a battle I hope to lose.