I live for questions. To me, questions represent so beautifully what it means to be human: the perfect storm of uncertainty and hope. I believe that questions acknowledge our inability to fully grasp all that God is and does while simultaneously expressing the heart cry of a person in tune with the depravity of our fallen world. In our "what ifs," we admit our confusion and humanity through the admittance that we don't know. In our "what ifs," we express the deep groanings of a creation subjected to sin, the longing for a better future, a future where inequality and injustice have no place. In our "what ifs," we speak of incarnation and of redemption and of resurrection. Through our questions, our feeble arms reach out for God, only to find He is with us at the table.
People came to Jesus with questions. He often answered them, but in a way opposite of what they expected. In doing so, Jesus gently taught the askers to more carefully consider the answers they'd always spouted. The gospel in that moment was that Jesus came to fulfill the law, and that the law was so much more than a set of human rules. In fulfilling the law, Jesus compels us to more carefully examine our "answers," to reexamine the heart of the law and the very heart of God.
Jesus gives us freedom to ask questions.
Tonight I sat around a table with dear brothers (and a sister) in Christ and had a lively discussion about church discipline. I raised some questions, and watched as we all grew deeper in our understanding of what we believe through attempting to answer those questions. For me, though, the point was not the consensus that we reached (we unfortunately didn't reach one as the conversation was cut short), but the questions that God spoke into my heart: the "what ifs?" What happens if someone is kicked out of the church due to a lack of repentance? Do we continue to be their friend? What does that look like in real life? What if your best friend sinned against God and the community of believers and was subjected to church discipline? Would you be okay with not being his best friend? What does that say about us that we are so willing to treat one as an outcast? What did Jesus mean when he said "treat them as a tax collector and a sinner?" Didn't he eat with tax collectors and sinners? Maybe Jesus has a sense of humor? How do we reconcile the possibility that there is no one beyond our friendship and acceptance with Paul's strict and frighteningly specific instructions about not even eating with sinners?
The questions weren't all answered, at least for me. For me the questions linger; maybe they always will. If my best friend sinned against the church and was excommunicated, it'd tear my heart out and rip it into shreds to "not even eat with her."
And I don't even feel bad saying that.
'Cause I'd like to think I know Jesus' heart well enough to know that it'd kill him too.
And this is why I ask the questions. I must let my heart guide my theology. I must not become so attached to legalistic reading of texts, so attached to black and white that I am unable to recognize Paul's letters for what they may very possibly be: bound to a specific situation that is almost impossible to re-create today two thousand years removed. Even if I end up settling on the wisdom of excommunication and "not even eating with her," may I never become so callous as to not allow the finality of that sort of thing to break my heart.
May it never be my first resort. May my every action always be seasoned with grace and love and prayer and sensitivity to the heart of Jesus.
No comments:
Post a Comment