Why I Am Still A Christian

I am not a Christian.

At least, not by the standard definition espoused by most Christians in America (and perhaps around the world) today. I don't believe in the so-called virgin birth. I believe that scripture should play second fiddle to experience. I'm not completely convinced of the bodily resurrection of the crucified Jesus. At this point in my spiritual life, I think that the apostle Paul of Tarsus was a hack (although I have openly declared my willingness to have my mind changed about him). I'm a Quaker, which pretty much knocks me off the Christian shelf for most other denominations.

But I still cling to the Christian faith.

My extreme suspicion of the institutional Church and my lack of belief in most things orthodox have led many of my friends to ask me: So just why do you still associate with that bunch? Why do you still call yourself a Christian?

Below I have tried to list a few answers that very question. By no means is it an exhaustive list, but feel free to peruse it and post any further questions below. This is (essentially) why I am still a Christian:

1) Because my great-grandfather was a carpenter. I think.
Around the time I graduated high school, my Granddad passed down to me a substantial amount of his father's possessions. My great-grandfather, whose nickname became my birth name, was a seminary-educated United Methodist pastor, a homesteader, an all-around tinkerer, and—I'm told—quite the carpenter. He was a boldly human man, who couldn't relate a decent joke without cracking up halfway through telling it, and once tried to convince the workers at the local senior nutrition center that a cherry pit found in a slice of pie meant that he got to kiss the cook. He loved his family and—I'm told—was a good person. However, he died when I was very young, after a series of strokes and a descent into dementia which left him a fragment of the person he once was. Among his possessions handed down to me were his small theological library (including the original copy of his BDiv thesis from Eden Theological Seminary), and a small, darkly stained wooden lectern which—I'm told—he crafted with his own hands, and frequently used to hold his sermons as he preached in rooms without pulpits.
It recently occurred to me, however, that I'm not really sure that my great-grandfather actually made that lectern. I didn't know him extremely well; I never personally saw him working in his shop, never saw him slathering stain on carefully sanded and assembled pieces of wood. In fact, the only reason I have to believe that he actually built the little makeshift pulpit is based upon the uncertain suppositions ("I think your great-grandfather made that...") of my mother and grandfather.
It then occurred to me that ultimately, I don't really care whether or not he actually made it—I will treat it as such. I treasure that little lectern as one of my most prized possessions, because it has great personal meaning for me, and because—regardless of whether he built it or not—it most certainly belonged to my great-grandfather.
I believe in God because I have experienced a profound longing in my heart for a greater purpose for not just humanity, but for this insignificant little verdant planet we call Earth. And though I may not believe in the virgin birth, or that Jonah was actually swallowed by a big fish (ask me about my beliefs on the book of Jonah sometime), that doesn't mean that those stories do not hold great significance for me. Quite the opposite, actually.

2) Maybe I was born with it; maybe it's Maybelline.
No bones about it; I was born into a culture that gave primacy to a Christian ideology/worldview. Had I been born into a Muslim culture, this post may very well have been entitled Why I Am Still a Muslim, or Buddhist, or Hindu, or Baha'i, or Scientologist. Well, maybe not that last one. Some people view this as a reason for rejecting one's worldview—after all, we tend to either love or hate the niche in which we were raised. Instead, I embrace it. It's my culture. I was born into it. I find meaning in it. I will embrace it and make it my own.

3) Because I have a hard time fully dismissing something that I don't fully understand.
Granted, this is not a satisfactory argument—I don't need to kill someone to dismiss the act of killing. And I will fully admit that I have given up on ideas and practices in the past that I did not fully understand. However, most of the people I know who have rejected the entirety of Christianity have not stuck with it long enough to learn about it in depth, essentially throwing the baby out with the proverbial bathwater. The Christian tradition is so multi-faceted that one could spend their whole life trying to nail down a systematic worldview, and would never succeed at it. This fascinates me.

4) Because I am madly in love with Jesus of Nazareth.
I have read the gospels. I have seen in the person of Jesus not the doom and gloom caricature offered by much of fundamentalist theology, but instead the radical, wild-eyed prophet of Love, who emerged out of the ancient Judean wilderness and who speaks to us today even as he spoke to the oppressed peasant farmers who gathered at his feet to hear stories of nonviolent revolution, of the unleashing of the Kingdom of God on earth in the here-and-now. And while it can be said of many—if not most—theologians, philosophers, writers, prophets, and troubadours that they are merely products of their time, I firmly believe that the words, Love one another; if someone strikes you on the left cheek, turn to them the other also; blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven; and blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God, will never quite lose their gravity or usefulness to the hearts of people. Jesus tapped into the common bond of what it means to be human, and asserted this with his claim, Who are my mother and brothers? THESE are my mother and brothers, indicating the kinship of all who were gathered to hear him speak.

Such teachings and insights will never lose their beauty or their allure for me.

The One Thing

The man was pushing 85 years old, and spoke with a rural accent so thick it was often hard to understand him. But he had kind eyes, and walked with delicacy that disclosed his care and concern for the land that he tilled. Later, I sat speaking with him as he carefully washed a bucketful of freshly picked jalapeno peppers one by one, dropping them into another five-gallon bucket.

It was cold, and I pulled the sleeves of my sweater down from my elbows to my wrists.

"It's pretty chilly today," I said.

"Yessir, it is. I gots my long underwear on today." He chuckled, plunging his hands into a bucket of water that had to be nearly freezing.

A long silence.

"I can do anything," he said suddenly, without looking up from the task at hand.

I leaned in to listen.

"What I mean is, my whole life I've been able to do stuff on m'own. If I see a brick-layer layin' brick, I think to myself, Wull, I can do that, and I do; and they say to me, 'Why, you been layin' brick for years!' and I tell 'em, 'Nope. This is my first time.' This is jus' plain survival skills, that ever'one needs to have. You need somethin', you learns how to do it yourself."

I've been stewing on this conversation all day. It prompted me to recall another discussion I had with a former employer—a pastor—of mine. Not long before I moved from Cape Girardeau to Liberty, this pastor (who was under the mistaken notion that I am intending to direct my life towards the pursuit of leading worship through music) mentioned to me that I do too many things. "You try to do so much; narrow it down, or you'll end up being mediocre and many things, and truly excellent at none." This of course, in context, was a suggestion to give up my peripheral interests—canning, baking, pottery, art, literary study, poetry, etc.—in order to become a full-time worship leader.

The core sentiment was still striking. My personality is much like that of the farmer's: I look at things, think Well, I can do that, and then I do them.

But sometimes the pastor's words haunt me; occasionally I wonder if my conversation with him was perhaps unintentionally prophetic. Paul Tillich said that faith is essentially what a person is most concerned about. In a similar fashion, Jesus proclaimed that "where your treasure is, there your heart is, also." Where, I often find myself asking, is my ultimate concern? Sometimes I feel that I have sacrificed a life focused on the One Thing (whatever that may be) in order to attempt to experience the Many. Let's face it: I'm good at a lot of crap. Any of my friends can attest to this. But often, my little abilities are really just that: crap. No real substance or power to be found; just a petty little interest or hobby that is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire.

This reminds me of a scene from one of my favorite movies, Brother Sun, Sister Moon, a romanticized film version of the life of St. Francis of Assisi.

Do few things and do them well, Francesco proclaims as he rebuilds a burned-out chapel that will become his home, Take your time; go slowly. Good advice. How I so strongly desire greatness through focused concern! To be like St. Francis, or Gandhi, or Dr. King. People of conviction, who pursued their conviction with tenacity. These people sacrificed their lives for their One Thing.

What is your One Thing? Have you sacrificed any measure of faith in the One in order to pursue the Many? Gimme some feedback.