The Reverend Dr. Peter C. Moore’s Sermon
in the Cathedral Church of St. Paul,
Diocese of Springfield:
I Believe in the Church
I Peter 2: 9,10
Springfield, Illinois -
September 25, 2004
I believe in the church. I
didn’t always. A number of childhood disappointments made me very cynical
about the church. In our local parish, two rectors in a row left the
ministry – one ran off with the church secretary.
The rector preached sermons
on themes like “isness” and “wasness.” We’d all go home and laugh about
them. There was a lot of controversy in the parish over the rector’s
introduction of new liturgical practices. People never quite knew when to
kneel and when to stand. The piece de resistance came when the rector
refused to let my grandmother teach the Second Coming in her Sunday School
class. He said it would traumatize the children.
At 14 I went off to a church boarding
school, and my disillusionment grew. The chaplain’s nickname was “Trigger”
– because of his hot temper. He wrote chilling murder mysteries and would
read them to us boys late at night. He talked a lot about the church; but
had doubts about certain parts of the Creed.
So our family visited other churches.
These other churches either had dear and precious clergy, who seemed
totally out of touch, or they had Bible-pounding preachers with wide ties,
huge grins, and bone-crushing handshakes.
Then in college I met another species of
clergy. Some of them were skeptics in sheep’s clothing, apparently
incapable of making any bold affirmation of faith. Others, in some of the
independent churches I visited were godly souls; but for them a visit to
the movies was a cardinal sin.
By the time of my conversion at 17, I was
a solitary believer pretty sure that nobody else thought as I did –
certainly no clergy I knew. My conversion was a solitary journey to
Christ and with Christ. It took a while, and the support of
para-church ministries and the mentoring of a few senior men of God
enabled me to come around to believe in the church in a real sense.
For me the problem was always how to
reconcile the other-worldly aspect of the church – that is, the faith
which I had embraced, and the Living Christ who had embraced me – with the
institutional aspect of the church. Remember, this was the decade of the
1950’s, the decade Os Guinness called “the bland leading the bland.” In
those days there really were very few people certainly in our denomination
who bore witness to the in-breaking of God’s Spirit, very few who
testified to the transforming power of Jesus Christ. But God was good, and
by His grace, I experienced the Lord – somewhat reluctantly, but very
genuinely, I began to make a stab at living for Christ in the midst of
very secular schools and colleges.
In those days I found the this-worldly
aspect of the church a stumbling block. The institution of the church,
with its rites and ceremonies, seemed barren of life to me. I saw
self-important clergy, with their buildings, and budgets and bake sales.
And, I saw a huge gulf fixed between the mainline, smooth, sophisticated,
ivy-league liberal clergy and the rough-hewn, untutored, unsophisticated,
Bible-based conservative clergy. It was a gulf that seemed totally
unbridgeable.
I took some comfort in the distinction
between the visible and the invisible church. After all, it was there, in
the Prayer Book: “The visible church is a congregation of faithful men, in
which the pure Word of God is preached, and the Sacraments be duly
ministered.” (Article XIX) If there was a visible church, then there was
an invisible church. Since few of the church people in my suburban
hometown had the vaguest idea of conversion, they obviously didn’t belong
to the invisible church. It was simple.
But then, as I began to read the New
Testament it became clear to me that Jesus did intend to leave some kind
of an institution behind, and some kind of organized ministry, even though
it wasn’t at all clear to me that bishops, priests and deacons were
mandated in the New Testament, as some claimed.
Now you have to understand that my larger
family had been plagued for generations by a seeming disdain for the
institutional church, on the one hand, and a frantic search for the
perfect church, on the other. That’s why it was so easy for us to leave
churches when we discovered lingering imperfections. And we left them
quite regularly. It never occurred to us, with our innate sense of
entitlement, that the moment we joined a perfect church, by definition, it
thereby became imperfect.
Only as the years passed, and as I heard
God’s call on my life, did I begin to realize that I was living with a
false dichotomy: the church as an institution vs the church as an
invisible company of believers. All along I had assumed that belief in the
church should be so evident, so obvious, that it required no faith.
Members of a true church should be so obviously committed, so evidently
converted, and so clearly sanctified, that anybody could tell that they
were the chosen. But if that was the church, where was the need for faith?
“We could walk by sight, and not by faith.”
But there it was: an article in the Creed:
“I believe in the church”. It was an article alongside the other
impenetrable realities in the Creed that couldn’t be proven by sight or
touch.
About that time, I also began to wonder
how the children of Abraham could be as many as the stars in the heaven
and the sands on the seashore? Was I judging the church too narrowly? Did
I need to broaden my horizon? If the church is the “blessed company of
all faithful people, then it’s got to be much bigger than any
denomination I had ever encountered. And as my vision of the church
expanded, I began to believe that the historic, institutional churches
could be revived, reformed, and renewed by the Holy Spirit through a
rediscovery and proclamation of the God’s Word.
Karl Barth once said that every mature
Christian has to go through not one but three conversions: First
from the world to Jesus Christ. Then, to
the church of Jesus Christ. And, then, back to
the world for Jesus Christ. Without realizing it, I was
having conversion #2.
Now, my journey is my journey. It’s not
yours. But my journey is important for me, and maybe for others too. If
the statistics tell the truth, then a lot of Americans have a Christian
belief system (of some sort). A lot have a hunger for spirituality, and a
lot even believe the Bible to be the Word of God; but millions of them
have a lot of problems with the church. Sometimes I think that my journey
has given me a special feeling for those people. I have always been moved
by the poem Sam Shoemaker wrote about his life. He was a renowned rector
of Calvary Church in Pittsburgh, back when I was ordained.
I stand by the door.
I neither go too far in, nor stay too far
out,
The door is the most important door in the
world –
It is the door through which men walk when
they find God.
There’s no use my going way inside, and
staying there,
When so many are still outside and they,
as much as I,
Crave to know where the door is.
And all that so many ever find
Is only the wall where a door ought to be.
They creep along the wall like blind men,
With outstretched, groping hands.
Feeling for a door, knowing there must be
a door,
Yet they never find it…
So I stand by the door.
The most important thing in the world
Is for men to find that door – the door to
God.
He goes on, and then he writes:
There is another reason why I stand there.
Some people get part way in and become
afraid
Lest God and the zeal of His house devour
them;
For God is so very great, and asks all of
us.
And these people feel a cosmic
claustrophobia,
And want to get out. ‘Let me out!’ they
cry,
And the people way inside only terrify
them more.
Somebody must be by the door to tell them
that they are spoiled
For the old life, they have seen too much:
Once taste God, and nothing but God will
do any more.
Somebody must be watching for the
frightened
Who seek to sneak out just where they came
in,
To tell them how much better it is inside.
The poem goes on a bit more, but closes
with: “So I shall stand by the door and wait, for those who seek it. ‘I
had rather be a door-keeper…” So I stand by the door.”
All of which brings me to this question:
What are we confessing our faith in, when we say, “I believe in One, Holy,
Catholic and Apostolic Church?”
Are we making a statement about an
institution? Let’s tilt the scale in the institutional direction for a
minute. What would we be saying: I believe in:
“One.” That refers to the great continuity
of church bodies that are – at least intentionally, in terms of creedal
faith --one.
“Holy.” That refers to the call to follow
Christ, which is obeyed – at least in principle, if not always in
practice.
“Catholic.” That refers to catholic
doctrine., As Vincent of Lerins said: “That which has always been
believed, by everybody, everywhere.” And..
“Apostolic.” That refers to the order of
bishops, priests and deacons, going back to the Apostles themselves.
The problem with this approach is that
it’s a myth.
The church isn’t “one” in any realistic
sense. It’s very divided. And a lot of “unholy” things have gone on in the
name of the church. C. S. Lewis once said: “… the world [won’t] hear us
until we’ve publicly disowned much of our past. Why should they? We’ve
shouted the name of Christ and enacted the service of Molech.”
Then “Catholic.” That’s got to refer to
more than those groups that officially think of themselves as “catholic”
or only those who recite the Creeds in worship. And “Apostolic.” Apostolic
order has never guaranteed either Apostolic faith or Apostolic life. If it
had the Reformation would never have been needed.
So, we can’t just be talking about an
institution when we say “I believe in the church.” William Temple,
Archbishop of Canterbury, once said: “I believe in the Holy, Catholic
church. I only regret that it doesn’t exist.”
Augustine once said that the church has
some that God doesn’t have, and God has some that the church doesn’t have.
The church universal compasses all who love and trust Jesus, and [even in
the best of times] that does not coincide with the institutional church in
its varied branches.
But what happens if we tip the scales in
an anti-institutional direction? Here we are equally unbalanced.
Can “one” refer only to those who insist
on the purity of the visible church? If so, then there are just a tiny
number of real churches. Roger Williams, the renegade Puritain, at one
point concluded that the church consisted only of himself and his wife.
And there were times when Williams worried about his wife!
And “Holy” far too easily translates into
my holiness and your holiness, the very Pharisaic tendency Jesus
denounced.
“Catholic.” Can this refer the
interracial, international, intergenerational nature – of that particular
sect to which I belong? And…
What about “Apostolic.” If we are thinking
anti-institutionally this becomes merely doctrinal purity – unity with
the thinking of the Apostles, as our particular group interprets and
understands doctrine.
Of course, Anglicans jump in at this
point, smile and say: “We’ve found a way through this dilemma. We call it
the “Via Media.” We have the perfect synthesis: Protestant Faith and
Catholic order. Not a perfect church, but a real church. Not a museum for
saints, but a hospital for sinners.
It’s all so precious and wonderful, until
you realize that the rest of the world, including much of the Christian
world, scratches its head and says: Anglicanism looks great; but tell me
what you really believe in, what you are willing to die for. Then I’ll
believe that you are a church to believe in.
So in the end we have to go back to
Scripture and check out what the original plan of God really was.
But you are a chosen race, a royal
priesthood,
A holy nation, God’s own people,
That you may declare the wonderful deeds
of him who
Called you out of darkness into his
marvelous light.
Once you were no people, but now you are
God’s people;
Once you had not received mercy but now
you have received mercy.
His was probably part of a baptismal
sermon for the newly converted. Peter is telling them: never forget who
you are. Once you were aliens and exiles in this world, ‘wandering
Arameans,’ like your spiritual forebears. You may still be reviled,
abused, spoken against. You might suffer unjustly and you might be about
to experience a fiery ordeal – but, never forget who you are.
You are “chosen.” You are special. Long
before you ever thought of me, I thought of you.
You are “royal” You are anointed. You have
a sacred calling. You are invited to the highest form of service, God’s
own priesthood.
You are “holy” Unique, unlike any other
people on the earth, you are not segregated by blood, or lineage, or
language or culture (like the rest of humanity). No, you are drawn
together into a new nation, and given a new identity.
And you are “God’s own” You’re family. You
belong. You’ve been included, adopted, welcomed back like wandering
prodigals.
What a vision! This is not an invisible
church Peter is writing to. He’s writing to concrete groups of believers,
in Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia, and Bithynia. (1:1) [Now parts of
Turkey] He wasn’t writing to the clergy, as if they constituted the
church, but to all those “chosen and destined by God the Father…the
sanctifying Spirit…and Jesus Christ.”
These people needed to know who they were:
God’s church, God’s ekklesia, God’s “called out ones.” But why was that so
important? Why did they need to know who they were? So that they might
declare the wonderful deeds
Of him who called you out of darkness into
his marvelous light.
I wonder if you see what Peter’s doing? He
is linking the nature of the church with the mission of the church. He is
joining together what we so often tear asunder. We think we can describe
the church, and then talk about its mission as if they were two separate
things. Not for Peter.
Apart from her mission, the church isn’t
the church. Oh, it can continue with its ceremonies and its rites, but it
ceases to be what it is. My point is Emil Brunner’s when he
said: “The church exists by mission as fire exists by burning.”
You see, the so-called “notes” of the
church in the Apostles’ Creed, and expanded in the Nicene Creed, can only
be discerned when the church is being faithful in mission. Any other time,
they get distorted. “One” – all believers are one in
mission. Just ask the Anglicans and the Romans and the Seventh Day
Adventists in Nigeria. The church is “holy” – it is
separate, and distinct, vested with Christ’s righteousness. Just ask the
persecuted church around the world. The church is “catholic” – it is
universal, just ask the Lutherans, and the Methodists and the Anglicans in
Pakistan. It is “Apostolic”, just ask the underground church
in China, or anywhere the church is active in proclaiming the Gospel. The
church is the church when it looks outwards. “It is the only society
organized for non-members,” as someone once said.
The great tragedy is that the church
abandons her mission. I heard of a little church in Texas that was doing
just fine until a huge Petroleum company asked if they could prospect on
church property. The church met, prayed, and decided that it would be OK
as long as 10% of any profits came to the church. Well, the company
drilled and found a huge field of oil right underneath the church; and the
money began pouring in. First they fixed the roof, then they carpeted the
sanctuary. Then they put a wing on the manse, and a steeple with a cross
on top above the entrance. But the money kept pouring in. Finally, they
had a congregational meeting. A motion was made to divide up the profits
between the members. That motion passed unanimously. Immediately another
motion was made: that there be no more new members in this church.
Friends, notice what your mission and mine
is:
It’s to declare: through
music, print, drama, personal testimony or through proclamation/preaching,
to declare. You know, some Christians are like cross-border shoppers, who
drive to Mexico or Canada, fill their trunks with cheaper goods, and then
write on their customs form: “Nothing to declare.” “Nothing to declare.”
We are to declare the wonderful deeds of
him who called us: Our mission is not to tell how I’ve been changed, how
I’ve found life, how God has blessed me. The Bible’s focus is on what God
has done in Jesus Christ. God’s acts that are so unique, so invasive, so
distinctly God’s that we can only wonder. We are to declare those deeds
that call forth praise. Have we got this right in our evangelism?
And, finally we are to declare the
wonderful deeds of him who called us out of darkness into his marvelous
light. There is no Good News without bad news. Minimize the darkness, the
seriousness of sin, and you minimize the costliness of the cross.
Yes, I do believe in the church – the
church that is committed to this mission. But without her mission the
church is an empty shell. With it, it is what God intended. May we be that
church, that chosen race, that royal priesthood, that holy nation, that
family of God – drawn together for one purpose, to declare the wonderful
deeds of him who has called us out of darkness into his marvelous light.
Some years ago my then teen-aged daughter
and I traveled to Angola on a two-week mission trip. We arrived in Luanda,
which was once a glorious African capital, with palm lined avenues hugging
the lovely Atlantic. But now it’s a shell of its former self – ravaged by
nearly two decades of civil war.
It’s Sunday, and the missionaries take us
to a worship service. It’s held on the town dump, a vast wasteland of mud,
sewage and rats on which stand hundreds of cardboard shacks, the best of
them with corrugated tin roofs. Here thousands of refugees live in filth
you and I can not imagine. We enter a small roofless building with wooden
boards on logs to sit on.
The service starts. A line of fine-looking
African youths, in ill-fitting second-hand sports jackets, march in
singing in lovely antiphon. The preacher greets everyone, and asks the
visitors from America to say a word. Then he preaches his heart out, in
Umbundu. It is translated into Portuguese, and then into French. With my
fractured French I translate it into English for my daughter. People sing
with their hearts, and pray – yes, they pray.
Here is the church. On a godforsaken
stretch of clay, in a far off land, where people still dream that the UN
will build housing for them. Here I found joy-filled disciples declaring
the wonderful deeds of him who called them out of darkness into his
marvelous light. I don’t know what denomination they were, and I don’t
care. But Christ is there. Of that I am sure.
Friends, as you stand to confess your
faith in the church, remember you are linking arms with believers in every
land, who love Jesus Christ, and are committed to his mission in the
world. Be proud of that, and we can face any calamity, any persecution,
any setback.
- The Rev. Dr. Peter C. Moore
is the former Dean and President Emeritus of Trinity Episcopal School for
Ministry
