Imitating God's Generosity (sermon)

Imitating God’s Generosity

Matthew 14:13-21

Seventh Sunday After Pentecost

Shiloh Lutheran Church

One of our former landlords was a successful businessman who made lots of money and was proud of it. He paid his own way wherever he went and never wanted to receive anything for free. He often pointed this out, and it was clear that he saw it as a moral issue, something that made him a good, admirable person. He always paid his own way, and he was suspicious that others were trying to take advantage of him, that others were trying to get something for free at his expense. Just as he didn’t want to take anything without paying for it, he didn’t want anyone else to get something they hadn’t paid for with their own money.

I was thinking about him recently, and Pope John Paul II came to mind as an obvious contrast. George Weigel tells of him as a young priest: "The new curate’s personal charity soon became apparent. Determined to live simply, he gave away what he thought he didn’t need. When an old woman complained that she had been robbed, he gave her the pillow and comforter some parishioners had just given him, somewhat to the donors’ disgruntlement. As for Father Karol, he went back to sleeping on a bare bed" (George Weigel, Witness to Hope, p. 93). This pattern continued after he became archbishop in Poland. He didn’t have a bank account or personal money, since his needs were met by the archdiocese. "If a priest or parishioner gave him a gift of money during a parish visitation, he wouldn’t even open the envelope, but gave it away the same day to someone in need" (p. 201). He believed that God calls us to give freely to others, that only in this way do we become fully ourselves. He said, "It is through the free gift of self that one truly finds oneself" (Pope John Paul II: In My Own Words, p. 48).

The first man jealously grasped after things he felt entitled to, and he dehumanized himself in the process. The more I talked to him the more I was aware of his impoverishment as a person. John Paul II was constantly giving; we might feel hesitant to give him a gift, because he’d probably give it away as soon as we were out of sight, not because he despised the gift but because he saw someone in greater need than himself. He emptied himself, and in doing so he became more.

This is rooted in the Gospel: "He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for my sake will find it" (Matthew 10:39). Grasping after everything we think we deserve will eventually destroy us. It’s in the way of self-emptying that we enter into the fulness for which we were created. It’s only in the way of self-emptying that we become fully human. Here’s John Paul II once more: "The Gospel contains a fundamental paradox: to find life, one must lose life; to be born, one must die; to save oneself, one must take up the cross. This is the essential truth of the Gospel, which always and everywhere is bound to meet with man’s protest. Always and everywhere the Gospel will be a challenge to human weakness. But precisely in this challenge lies all its power" (p.32).

In God’s created order, buying and selling, earning our own way, are not terribly important. We do these things as part of life in this world, but we need to realize that these things are part of a world that is passing away. We heard these words today in our Old Testament reading: "Ho, every one who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price" (Isaiah 55:1). At the very center of creation is a free gift; God gives and we receive freely from His bounty. The ability to make a living, a stable society in which to carry out our occupations, sufficiently good health to do our work, all these things are given to us. We need to always keep that in mind as we conduct business in this world; the very ability to do this comes to us as a gift. We emphasize that the Gospel is offered free of charge, but this truth is not limited to the Gospel. All of creation is built on the free gift of God. We can see something of this spirit in today’s Gospel reading.

Notice, first, that Jesus freely gives His time to this crowd that has just interrupted a private retreat. Jesus and His disciples had learned of the death of John the Baptist, and we see in the parallel account in Mark’s gospel that the Twelve had also just returned from a missionary trip. Jesus says to them, "‘Come away by yourselves to a lonely place, and rest awhile,’ [then Mark explains] for many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat" (Mark 6:31). They need to be able to process what happened while they were out preaching, and they need time to come to terms with John’s death. This is really not a good time to interrupt. They’re in need of a break from the constant demands of the crowds.

And yet, Jesus responds to these uninvited guests with compassion. He lays aside His plans for a retreat and begins ministering to them in their need. He sees this interruption as the Father’s call. Often the things we see as interruptions are things God is calling us to respond to by laying aside whatever it is we’re trying to accomplish and paying attention to what He is doing. Listen to these words by a French author on responding to God in the present moment: "O, glorious celebration! Eternal bounty! God forever available, forever being received. Not in pomp or glory or radiance, but in infirmity, in foolishness, in nothingness. God chooses what human nature discards and human prudence neglects, out of which he works his wonders and reveals himself to all souls who believe that is where they will find him" (Jean-Pierre de Caussade, The Sacrament of the Present Moment, p. 20). "God chooses what human nature discards and human prudence neglects," inconvenient interruptions, disturbances to our schedules and plans, lack of resources, weariness with human neediness. We experience God as we respond to His call in the present moment..

By the end of the day, the disciples have had enough. After all, they were intent on having some time alone with Jesus and everything fell apart as soon as they left the boat. So they say to Jesus, "send the crowds away." Jesus responds by telling them, "no, that’s not necessary; you feed them." It’s clear that they don’t have much, certainly not anywhere near enough to feed several thousand people. But Jesus doesn’t call them to give enough; He calls them to give what they have.

Of course, if they give what they have they won’t have enough to eat themselves. Their giving puts them at risk, and it also seems pointless; they’re going to be hungry and they won’t have accomplished anything toward feeding so many people. Jesus is calling them to empty themselves, not only in a spiritual sense, but in a very concrete, tangible way. He’s calling them to give up their possessions in a way that truly puts them at risk. He’s calling them to give freely without worrying about the consequences.

Following Jesus in the way of self emptying will often seem imprudent. He may call us to do things that don’t seem sensible, that aren’t cost-effective. On another occasion, Jesus and His disciples were in the temple, watching people put money into the treasury. "Many rich people put in large sums. And a poor widow came, and put in two copper coins, which make a penny. And he called his disciples to him, and said to them, ‘Truly, I say to you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For they all contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, her whole living" (Mark 12:41-44). Jesus praises her, but what she is doing doesn’t make any sense. She’s not giving enough to make a difference; her offering is a drop in the bucket compared to those of the rich. And now she doesn’t have enough to meet her own needs. Why does Jesus praise her? Because He doesn’t value things in the way that we do; He calls us to give what we have, not what we think is needed to remedy the particular situation we’re faced with.

The same thing is true of the early Church in Jerusalem. Luke says about this church: "And all who believed were together and had all things in common; and they sold their possessions and goods and distributed them to all, as any had need" (Acts 2:44-45). Did they really need to do this? We don’t read that this was the pattern in other churches. It’s not recommended in any of the epistles. I’ve even heard preachers claim that this was a mistake, that they over-extended themselves in their new zeal, because later in Acts we see other churches sending them help during a time of famine. The claim is that if they had held onto their property and acted with greater prudence, they wouldn’t have been in need of help. But there’s not a hint of this in the Book of Acts. Luke suggests that their generosity was a direct result of the outpouring of the Spirit on the day of Pentecost. And he also sees the help provided by other churches later in the book as another instance of the work of the Holy Spirit. God doesn’t seem overly interested in cost-effectiveness. He calls us to follow Jesus in the way of self emptying, even when it doesn’t seem to make sense.

So the disciples go ahead and do what He’s telling them to do. They contribute their handful of food, five loaves of bread and two fish, and Jesus multiplies it to feed the whole crowd. They give the little they have, which is barely enough for themselves, and Jesus multiplies it so that there is more left over in the end than there was to begin with. In giving of their limited resources, they experience God’s abundance.

Anne and I worked with Operation Mobilization on the ship Logos in 1982 and 83. There were 25 or so nationalities onboard the ship, and the cultural differences often led to conflict. Besides this, there was a lot going on all the time. There was all the work of keeping a ship in condition, dealing with port authorities, and working together with local believers. We had conferences onboard, a large book shop, evangelistic teams on shore, and there were also training programs for those involved in the ministry. It was easy, in the midst of all this, to lose sight of what we were doing. And I was often startled, as we were wrapping up the ministry in one port and getting ready to move somewhere else, to hear what God had done in the lives of the local people. We could see nothing but trouble and weakness and conflict, but God ministered to people in ways that went beyond anything we were doing or saying. I suspect that it may have been something like this for the disciples. They offered what they had, which was not much, and Jesus multiplied their offering with an abundance that took them by surprise. They may have felt just as empty and drained in the end as they had felt when they came to Him and said, "send the crowds away." But God had multiplied their small offering to meet the needs of this large crowd; by making use of their loaves and fish, He had graciously included them in this great thing He was doing.

Jesus is the One who multiplies the loaves and the fish, but before He does that, the disciples need to give what they have. He calls them to empty themselves, to step out in faith and take a risk, before He works the miracle. God gives us a part in the work He is doing, but that part is not easy or free from risk. It involves emptying ourselves, which often leaves us feeling empty. We want Him to work in a way that feels better. We’d like to feel His power surging through us, with an immediate certainty that we’re being used. But the truth is that God very often works in a way that we can’t feel. All we’re aware of is our own lack of resources, five loaves and two fish; why can’t someone else give? After all, there are plenty of people out there who could give ten times as much and hardly notice the difference. We barely have enough for ourselves. But Jesus calls us, like the disciples, to give not what we think is needed, but what we have; the sufficiency is not in our giving but in Him. He is "able to provide you with every blessing in abundance, so that you may always have enough of everything and may provide in abundance for every good work" (2 Cor. 9:8).

Francis and Edith Schaeffer started a ministry to young people in Switzerland called L’Abri, which means "shelter," or "refuge." People from all over the world found refuge there and still do. The Schaeffers also gave freely to people who came to them in need asking for help. One day Edith said to Francis, "do you know that we’re getting a reputation for giving handouts, and some of these people are taking advantage of us?" He responded, "I’d rather be taken advantage of than to turn away someone who is really in need." His idea was that it’s better to err on the side of generosity than on the side of protecting our possessions.

God, in both His creation and redemption, has given to us freely from His abundance. Jesus emptied Himself – became poor – to restore us to life in the Father. Self-emptying generosity is of the very essence of God, and as people made in His image it’s central to our humanness. The choices we make in using our resources are moving us in two possible directions: we’re either emptying ourselves, using our resources to bless others (like God does) or we’re grasping after the best for ourselves, making sure we get everything we think we deserve. May God enable us to use His gifts in ways that we will not be ashamed of when we stand in His presence.

Following the Truth to an Uncertain Destination

My counselor told me I was an "odd duck."  I didn't know what he meant, so he went on to elaborate: "you have a strong drive to investigate the truth and you feel bound to follow wherever it leads."  I didn't think that was such an odd thing, but maybe he was right.

I had started graduate school, some years previously, with the naive assumption that this was the point of academic life.  But one experience was especially illuminating: I was listening to another student arguing with the professor in an ethics class, when it suddenly dawned on him that the professor was probably right.  He admitted this, but then he went on angrily, "you could ruin my life with that argument; people from Germany sent me here to study, and if I go back and say those kinds of things, my career will be over!"  He was persuaded, but he wasn't willing to admit that in public; doing so would ruin his academic career.

One would expect that following the truth wherever it leads should be a characteristic of those who belong to the One who is "the Way, the Truth, and the Life," Who told a group of would-be followers, "If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free" (John 8:31-32).   Stanley Hauerwas makes a great observation about this: "I slowly learned... that to be a Christian meant that you could never protect yourself from the truth" (Hannah's Child, p.11).  By definition, a Christian should be someone who cares deeply about and is willing to follow the truth, even if it leads in an unexpected (and maybe unwelcome) direction.

The problem is that openness to the truth can be very costly.  One missionary I knew told me he was worried that if he ever moved to a different region and had to be examined by a new presbytery, his ordination would be in danger.  He was still comfortably within the Reformed tradition, but on the mission field he had seen and experienced things that broadened his outlook in ways that some presbyteries would find unacceptable.  Not heretical, but outside the accepted norms of that group.

Denominational identity tends to degenerate into tribalism; the main concern, all too often, is "how does this fit the identity of our group," rather than "is it true?"  As I was working toward ordination in my former denomination, there was a group of leaders obsessed with denominational identity.  They were worried, with so many new people coming in, that they would lose what was distinctive about their movement.  So for them, the most pressing question was always, "is this person one of us?"

I'm not suggesting that we lay caution aside and be open to everything that comes along.  There are plenty of errors out there that will harm us, and we need to be aware and attentive; but some of the strategies we use to protect ourselves from error can also shield us from the truth.  The question is, how do we guard against error without protecting ourselves from those areas of the truth that stretch and challenge us? 

It doesn't help to say we're only going to believe the Bible, because heretics and extremists also appeal to Scripture.  The problem with appealing to Scripture alone is that it was never intended to stand alone.  Paul, in 1 Timothy, calls the Church the "pillar and foundation of truth (3:15)."  It's Scripture, as it's been understood by the Church throughout the centuries, that protects us from error.  We commit ourselves unconditionally to what the historic Church has understood as orthodoxy, or "right teaching."

The early creeds, as authoritative statements of orthodox faith, are a good place to begin.  One popular speaker I've often heard is fond of disparaging the early ecumenical councils, saying "do you really think they got it all figured out?"  But they didn't claim to have it all figured out; they were setting parameters, saying "within this circle is the orthodox teaching of the Church, and outside is heresy."  Why?  Because if Christ is not fully God He cannot save us from our sins, and if He is not fully man He cannot stand in our place.  The ecumenical creeds were written to protect the gospel from errors that would undermine our salvation.

"But isn't this Catholic teaching?" someone might respond.  "I thought for Protestants the Bible was the only source of authority."  It's certainly true that many contemporary American Evangelicals say this sort of thing, but listen to these words from Charles Hodge, the great 19th Century Princeton theologian (whom no one would describe as a closet Catholic): "Protestants, in rejecting the doctrine of tradition, and in asserting that the Word of God as contained in the Scriptures... is the only infallible rule of faith and practice, do not reject the authority of the Church as a teacher.  They do not isolate themselves from the great company of the faithful in all ages, and set up a new faith.  They hold that Christ promised the Holy Spirit to lead his people into the knowledge of the truth; that the Spirit does dwell as teacher in all the children of God, and that those who are born of God are thus led to the knowledge and belief of the truth....  Any doctrine, therefore, which can be proved  to be a part of the faith (not of the external and visible Church, but) of the true children of God in all ages of the world, must be true.  It is to be received not because it is thus universally believed, but because its being universally believed by true Christians is a proof that it is taught by the Spirit both in his Word and in the hearts of his people.  This is a sound principle recognized by all Protestants.  This universal faith of the Church is not to be sought so much in the decisions of ecclesiastical councils, as in the formulas of devotion which have prevailed among the people....  From the faith of God's people no man can separate himself without forfeiting the communion of saints, and placing himself outside the pale of true believers" (Charles Hodge, Systematic Theology, vol. 2, pp. 249-50).

As David Hall said recently in his blog, "Heart for God": "The symbiosis of authority found in Scripture and the historical continuity of the Church is necessary for assessing current issues and discerning 'progress.' Someone who has no fixed points to guide him and no goal cannot make any progress, but at best just wanders around."  Christian orthodoxy (unlike denominationally specific teachings) is not constricting; it opens us to a large world where our minds are free to explore.  We needn't be afraid to face the fulness of truth that comes to us in the historic Church.  We are safe, within the boundaries of orthodoxy, to examine the shortcomings of our own particular group and to be enriched by the largeness of the Church throughout the centuries.

On the Communion of the Saints

Defending the invocation of the saints in a conservative Presbyterian church was probably not the best idea.  But there was a young guy in the discussion who was in over his head and seriously outnumbered, so I decided to give him some support.  I threw out a few ideas, suggesting that invoking the saints is biblically defensible and should be an area of Christian liberty.  In the end, one man became very heated and exclaimed, "Jesus is enough; we don't need the saints interceding for us!"

Of course, if that's true, why do we ask anyone for prayer?  Why did the apostle Paul ask the Thessalonians to pray for him (2 Thess. 3:1)?  Didn't he think Jesus was enough?  The question is not whether Jesus is sufficient or whether we strictly need the intercession of the saints; we don't pray for others because we doubt the sufficiency of Christ, but because we are called to support one another as members of His body.  The question is, what do we mean when we confess in the Apostles' Creed, "I believe... in the communion of saints"?

Alan Schreck gives a definition with which, I think, most Christians would agree: "The phrase 'the communion of saints' refers to the bond of unity among all those, living and dead, who are or have been committed followers of Jesus Christ" (Catholic and Christian, p. 151).  Certainly the saints of the past serve as examples for us to follow, but does our connection with them in the body of Christ go further than this?

The early Christians thought so.  Those who lived during the Roman persecutions felt a strong connection with those who had died for their faith.  In their minds, these martyrs had not travelled far away; they had simply passed over into the presence of the Lord with Whom all Christians were in constant communion.  The churches soon started preserving relics and celebrating birthdays of the martyrs.  "From this it was a short step, since they were now with Christ in glory, to seeking their help and prayers, and in the third century evidence for the belief in their intercessory power accumulates.  In arguing for it Origen appealed to the communion of saints, advancing the view that the Church in heaven assists the Church on earth with its prayers" (JND Kelley, Early Christian Doctrines, p. 490).  Why would they suddenly stop praying once they were safe in heaven?  It seemed more likely to assume that, since they were now in the Lord's presence they would pray to Him all the more for the welfare of those they had left behind.

There's really no difference, in principle, between asking other living believers to pray for us and asking for the prayers of a departed saint.  We know that we are connected, in Christ, with all those who are members of His body, and we know that those who've departed this life are still involved with, and concerned about, the struggle that is going on in this world.  Any hesitancy we might feel about this should be resolved by the prayer of the martyrs under the altar: "O Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long before you will judge and avenge our blood on those who dwell upon the earth?" (Revelation 6:10).

Then there's the question whether invoking the saints is somehow idolatrous.  St. Augustine responds to that question: "we venerate the martyrs with the same love and fellowship that we give to the holy men of God still with us....  But the veneration strictly called 'worship,' or latria, that is, the special homage belonging only to the divinity, is something we give and teach others to give to God alone" (quoted by Schreck, p. 158).  We  show them honor, as we would if they were still here, and we value their prayers, knowing that they see the Lord face to face, but we don't worship them, .

The bottom line is that invoking the saints is not, in itself, superstitious or idolatrous.  It rests on a different, larger view, of the communion of the saints, a view that is biblically defensible.  We're surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses" (Hebrews 12:1).  Are they passive observers, or are they actively involved in our struggle?  Evangelical Protestants may disagree with the practice, but they should do so respectfully, recognizing that it is possible, within the bounds of believing orthodoxy, to see things differently.

Some Thoughts About Mary

Shortly after the death of Pope John Paul II, I read an Internet discussion in which he was referred to repeatedly as a "Mary worshiper."  The general consensus was "he was an outstanding man and an extraordinary leader, but it's too bad he was a Mary worshiper."  It wouldn't have been that much trouble to find out what the Catholic Church actually says about devotion to the Virgin Mary: "From the most ancient times the Blessed Virgin has been honored with the title of 'Mother of God,' to whose protection the faithful fly in all their dangers and needs.... This very special devotion... differs essentially from the adoration which is given to the incarnate Word and equally to the Father and the Holy Spirit, and greatly fosters this adoration" (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 971).  She is given honor, but not adoration, and the claim is that devotion to the Virgin Mary "greatly fosters" adoration to the Triune God. 

From an Evangelical Protestant perspective, it seems, of necessity, that any kind of Marian emphasis detracts from the preeminence of Jesus. But whether this is true is as much an empirical question as a theological one. It makes a prediction: "if you indulge in devotion to the Virgin Mary you will become less Christ centered."  So it's worth asking whether this has happened in the lives of those who are devoted to Mary.  Pope John Paul II worried about this early in his Christian life, but he said he came to see that not only does Mary lead us to Jesus, Jesus also leads us to Mary. His experience was that in drawing nearer to Jesus he also came to a more exalted understanding of Mary. What if, rather than an unfortunate and relatively inconsequential addition, John Paul's Marian emphasis was an essential part of his extraordinary Christ-centeredness? The same things could be said about Mother Theresa. The Catholic and Orthodox teaching is that Mary always points beyond herself to Jesus, so that in drawing near to her we are drawn to exalt Jesus more, because Mary is the ultimate model of self-emptying discipleship.

These words from Tom Howard, who grew up in a prominent Evangelical family, shed a helpful light on Marian devotion: "A parsimonious notion of God's glory has been one result of the revulsion felt by so many over the [sometimes excessive] honor paid to Mary, as though to say, If God alone is all-glorious, then no one else is glorious at all. No exaltation may be admitted for any other creature, since this would endanger the exclusive prerogative of God. But this is to imagine a paltry court. What king surrounds himself with warped, dwarfish, worthless creatures? The more glorious the king, the more glorious are the titles and honors he bestows" (Evangelical is not Enough, p. 87).  The apostle John, who had recently seen the risen Christ in all His glory, fell down to worship at the feet of an angel (Revelation 19:10).  Is it so difficult to imagine that the Theotokos, the birth-giver-of-God, is today someone we'd be tempted to worship if we saw her as she is?  To see Mary as now full of glory, honoring the promise that "those who humble themselves will be exalted," in the end will bring glory and honor to God, as long as we follow through in our thinking and don't stop at Mary herself; there's a good reason why Orthodox icons don't portray Mary alone, but always have her with Jesus.

The Importance of Using Our Spiritual Gifts

A friend of mine had, for years, been teaching a course on spiritual gifts, when he made a startling discovery: helping people discern their gifts led them, almost without fail, to leave that church.  It wasn't a small church; I believe the Sunday morning attendance was around 800 or so, but there were very few opportunities for people to serve, apart from doing nursery duty.  I had once spoken to the senior pastor about possibly teaching Sunday School, and he had informed me that they had enough teachers and would not consider letting anyone teach adults who could not be assured of a weekly class attendance of 75-100.  My friend stopped teaching the course, then, a few months later, he and his wife left the church, even though they were founding members.  What was the point, anyway, in helping people discern their gifts if there was no way for them to exercise those gifts in the church?   

Why does this matter?  Do people somehow have a right to use their gifts in the Church?  Well, it seems more accurate to say that God calls us to exercise the gifts He gives, and that the Church, when it recognizes the presence of those gifts, has an obligation to make use of them for the good of the body.  It's not at all about self-fulfillment.  Those who have been baptized into the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ are given gifts which they are called to exercise, and the Church is called to receive and nurture these gifts.

Although the spiritual gifts we have received are for the good of the Church and the glory of God, rather than for our own sense of fulfillment, not using them tends to have a negative effect on our spiritual lives. There's a striking example of this in the life of John Wesley. Most things written about him stress his Aldersgate experience (when his heart was “strangely warmed”) as the turning point in his life, and yet eight months after this experience he was still struggling, saying “My friends affirm that I am mad because I said I was not a Christian a year ago. I affirm I am not a Christian now” (quoted by Arnold Dallimore, George Whitefield, vol. 1, p. 196).

There’s no doubt that Wesley was unsettled by an inordinately subjective approach to conversion, but Dallimore makes this observation: “he must find some great mission in life, some field of labour large enough to call forth all his mighty powers and utilize all his energies” (p. 198). In addition to the theological weakness of his understanding at this point, Wesley was floundering because he didn’t have a sphere in which to exercise his extraordinary gifts.  The gifts we receive from the Spirit are given for the good of the Church, but not using them tends to harm us spiritually, and using them provides a context for us to grow in Christlikeness.

Since using our spiritual gifts is a necessary part of growing in grace, part of a pastor's calling is to nurture the gifts of those under his care.  Jesus did that repeatedly with His disciples, as when He sent out the Seventy then talked to them afterward about how it went.  Teaching people about spiritual gifts and then refusing to lead them in learning to exercise those gifts is an abdication of pastoral responsibility. 

On Saints and Finding the Right Fit

In my former denomination, the common practice for pastoral searches is for the bishop to meet with the church board to discuss what they are looking for in a pastor.  The process often takes weeks to complete, as competing factions and differing desires have to be taken into account.  But the bottom line is finding the "right fit" for that particular church. 

It makes sense, in a way, since it is desirable for the pastor and congregation to mesh.  One wants to take a particular pastor's gifts and personality into account in assigning pastoral responsibility.  But as I've observed this process in action, it too often amounts to "what do these people want?"  "What sort of pastor are they looking for?"  I had a conversation with a Lutheran bishop more recently, and he made the comment, "well, yes, preaching is a good thing, but I have a lot of small churches to keep running and I need pastors who'll be accepted by them."  Preaching is a "good thing," but what really matters is to keep the churches running; this trumps all other considerations.

Of course, it could be framed in another way: "I need pastors who can nurture these particular people toward spiritual maturity"; or "I need pastors who are equipped to address the problems in this church."  These are legitimate considerations.  But the focus was not on nurturing people or on addressing problems; it was on running the business of the church, keeping the people happy (because, let's be honest, leading people toward spiritual maturity and addressing problems often leads to short-term unhappiness).

The problem with looking for a perfect fit is that what a church needs may be a pastor who is out of step with the congregation, who is not just like them, who is able to introduce them to a larger world of Christian possibilities.  Chesterton says this about saints: "The Saint is a medicine because he is an antidote.  Indeed that is why the saint is often a martyr; he is mistaken for a poison because he is an antidote.  He will generally be found restoring the world to sanity by exaggerating whatever the world neglects, which is by no means always the same element in every age....  Christ did not tell his apostles that they were only the excellent people, or the only excellent people, but that they were the exceptional people; the permanently incongruous and incompatible people; and the text about the salt of the earth is really as sharp and shrewd and tart as the taste of salt.  It is because they were the exceptional people, that they must not lose their exceptional quality....  If the world grows too worldly, it can be rebuked by the Church; but if the Church grows too worldly, it cannot be adequately rebuked for worldliness by the world" (Saint Thomas Aquinas, pp.22-23).

When I've attended gatherings of pastors, too few of them have been exceptional people in the way Chesterton describes.  Becoming "incongruous and incompatible" would be unthinkable for them; they were too busy trying to be relevant, trying to show that they were in step with the world.  For the most part, at such gatherings, I've felt like I was at a managerial conference or a sales convention.  Seminary training and  denominational expectations have pressed pastors into that mold so they'll be equipped to keep the church running at all costs.  But I suspect there are more important things than keeping the church running.   

Here's how the apostle Paul describes his ministry: "We proclaim him, admonishing and teaching everyone with all wisdom, so that we may present everyone perfect in Christ.  To this end I labor, struggling with all his energy which so powerfully works in me" (Colossians 1:28-29).  Not keeping the business of the church running, but aiming to lead believers to spiritual maturity (many of whom do not want to become mature and need to be admonished).  God's will for a particular congregation is often just the opposite of what seems most prudent from the outlook of a North American, pragmatic, business perspective.  "Therefore it is the paradox of history that each generation is converted by the saint who contradicts it most" (Chesterton, p. 23). 

The Benefits of Repetitive Prayer

Someone in the group brought up the Rosary, and then the discussion inevitably came around to the folly of praying with "vain repetition."  I stayed out of it for awhile, then pointed out that the Rosary is a form of meditative prayer, that the repetitions are actually an aid to meditation on some of the central events of the Gospel.  Austin Farrer, an Anglican, said "If I had been asked two dozen years ago for an example of what Christ forbade when he said 'Use not vain repetitions,' I should very likely have referred to the fingering of beads.  But now if I wished to name a special sort of private devotion most likely to be of general profit, prayer on the beads is what I should name.  Since my previous opinion was based on ignorance and my present opinion is based on experience, I am not ashamed of changing my mind" (Lord I Believe, p. 80).

Anyway, the Rosary is not the only form of repetitive prayer in use among Christian believers.  The Jesus Prayer ("Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner") is prayed repetitively in Eastern Orthodoxy, and the early desert monks used a variety of short prayers in the same way.  If repetition, in itself, is objectionable, then Psalm 136 should be eliminated from Scripture, with its seemingly monotonous refrain, "for his steadfast love endures forever." 

So what, exactly, was Jesus warning against?  "When you are praying, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard because of their many words" (Matthew 6:7).  They heap up empty phrases because they think God will be more likely to listen, that the more words they use the more spiritual capital they have in the bank.  They're trying to twist God's arm by bombarding Him with lots of words.  They think they're earning God's favor by "heaping up empty phrases."

But there are other reasons for saying the same prayer over and over.  How many repetitions does it take for the Jesus Prayer to become the cry of our hearts?  Is once enough?  What if our attention wasn't fully engaged the first time?  Is it then valid to repeat the prayer a second time?  And if so, might we go on to do so several more times, seeking to engage our hearts more fully each time?  If this is what we're doing, we're not seeking to twist God's arm with many words, we're seeking to move our own hearts into conformity with the prayer.  I suggested something along these lines in the study group mentioned above, and the man who, at the beginning, was most strongly opposed to repetitive prayer, exclaimed "so the repetition is for us, not for God!"  That realization changed everything for him.

That's the point of repetitive prayer as it has been practiced throughout the centuries in Christian spirituality.  Repetitive prayer forms us in the direction of the words we're praying, even as our attention ebbs and flows.  "Whatever you do repeatedly has the power to shape you, has the power to make you over into a different person -- even if you're not totally 'engaged' in every minute" (Paul Bosch, quoted by Kathleen Norris in Acedia and Me, p. 188).  We do the best we can at the moment, and God uses our prayers to form us into His image.