church

Why I Go to Church

/ cjwhitt / 3 Comments

A couple of Sundays ago, I drove back to the Bay Area from a family visit in Orange County, which meant I missed church. I realized as I was driving that I really missed church. It felt like a loss not to attend worship. It got me thinking about why; why I’m committed to showing up at church every Sunday, while most people in this part of the United States rarely if ever attend any kind of religious service. Do they have any idea why some of us do?

Here’s what I came up with: In church, I’m surrounded by a community of people who trust that God loves every one of us, who loves the entire creation, in fact. I’m surrounded by a community that yearns for our lives and our world to reflect that love. That, all by itself, is hopeful and powerful. I’m not alone; I need community to support me in my commitment to try to love God and love my neighbors as myself. I also need community, full stop.

In worship, I experience God’s presence in and through the gathered community. God is made real for me as we sing together, pray together, and seek inspiration both to live as God’s beloveds and to treat others as God’s beloveds. There’s plenty in our culture that denies that all of us are precious, regardless of circumstance or station. There’s plenty that would tell us we just need to look out for ourselves. Once a week, sitting in a pew, I’m reminded that there’s another way, a better way, a Godly way.

Many people say they experience God in nature, and I do, as well. I feel close to God in Muir Woods, on a Pacific Coast beach, and in the High Sierras. But nature doesn’t challenge me to be transformed into a more loving, just human being. Nature doesn’t collect socks, mittens, and gloves to hang on a Christmas tree for neighbors in need, or prepare a free Thanksgiving dinner for over 300 lonely or unhoused neighbors. Nature doesn’t march in the Pride Parade in support of our LGBTQ+ siblings or provide apartments for refugees. Nature doesn’t confront me, as I was yesterday morning, with the observation that “’Nice’ people make the best Nazis,” Naomi Shulman’s way of describing how people who avoid confronting uncomfortable truths can contribute to societal injustices. Nature doesn’t encourage me to overcome cynicism by assuring me that the bad news is never the end.

In worship, I’m part of a tradition that as long ago as the 8th century B.C.E. longed for a world in which humankind “will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks,” in which “Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore” (Isaiah 2:4). I’m reminded that the human being whom my tradition believes most represents godliness said, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40). Certainly, the Bible is ancient and foreign, and can be confusing and even maddening, and always – yes, always – requires interpretation. But when that interpretation is done with love and care in community, there’s a better chance that God is speaking through it. God speaks through the Bible not only to ancient worlds, but to our world today. As one writer put it, the Bible shows “how nations fall when leaders pursue power without righteousness. It shows how societies unravel when truth is discarded, when the weak are exploited, or when leaders trust in chariots rather than principles. It records what happens when peace is sought without justice. At the same time, it illuminates how communities are renewed through repentance, how justice restores trust, and how humility opens the door to genuine reconciliation. These are not merely religious lessons; they are political and social truths validated repeatedly across human history.” (Jeff Fountain, “All the Light You Can See,” https://weeklyword.eu/en/all-the-light-you-see/)

I also know people who don’t attend church because they think of themselves as “spiritual but not religious.” Maybe they’ve been injured by religion; someone may have told them that they were bad, sinful, unacceptable to God, “damned.” A religious leader may have been manipulative or even a predator. Sadly, religious institutions are not free from abusers, charlatans, jerks, or people with good intentions who just screw up. But neither is any other institution. All we can do, in any institution, is hold people accountable for their misdeeds and try to prevent further abuse.

Others who are spiritual but not religious may fear that someone will insist that they believe things – or pretend they believe things – that they find unbelievable. I can’t speak for other faiths, but I’m grateful that my tradition, the Reformed tradition, is committed to “the church Reformed, always being reformed” (in Latin, “Ecclesia reformata semper reformanda”). The UCC (United Church of Christ), one of our cousins in the Reformed tradition, has a saying: “God is still speaking.” This is indeed my experience, and in my lifetime, our still-speaking God has revealed to the church that it isn’t only straight, white, males who can lead congregations; that commitment to community and God’s love is more important than whether you can recite the Apostles’ Creed without crossing your fingers; that how we love our neighbors here and now is more important than what we speculate will happen to us after we die. In my experience, church is the place where you figure out what you believe (or don’t believe), not the place you must believe certain things in order to belong. Being spiritual but not religious does offer the freedom of believing whatever you want, but it doesn’t offer community or teach time-tested spiritual practices. Tradition isn’t always a bad thing.

I know people who don’t attend worship because they fear they’ll encounter judgmental people, bad music, and on top of that, they’ll have to dress up. Find a community with music you like; it’s out there somewhere. And while I’m certain there are congregations with pious, judgmental people, I haven’t encountered any in my adult life. In fact, church people are the most gracious, humble, and welcoming people I know. Certainly, you’ll find more people wearing jeans in some churches than in others, but I don’ know any church in 2025 that has a dress code.

And so, every Sunday, I sit among my fellow worshipers. We’re different ages, genders, and ethnicities; we have different educations and incomes; we’ve led different lives. We become one body through the music, sermon, liturgy, prayers, sacraments, and fellowship. We “pass the peace.” We acknowledge our limitations together. We ask for healing and the courage to forgive. We pray for the ability to love even those who seem unlovable. We celebrate milestones. This morning, a young family sat in the pew in front of me. Their toddler daughter’s eyes grew as big as saucers when the choir began singing the choral introit (a song at the opening of worship) from the balcony. She was transfixed by the ethereal music, music that called all of us to take a deep breath and be present to the holy in us and among us. I hope she will remember that feeling. I hope she will remember being part of a motley crew of people who strive imperfectly but courageously to love the world.

By This Everyone Will Know

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John 13:31-35 

    A few weeks ago, I spoke at a California State Senate committee hearing in Sacramento, advocating for a bill that would prohibit discrimination in healthcare on the basis of gender identity and sexual orientation.  I stood in line at the mic after the bill’s author made her introduction, and we were instructed to give only our names and affiliation, and voice our support.  The person who invited me to this hearing asked me to wear my clergy collar, which I rarely do.  I realize the collar announces loud and clear what I am, but I find that when I wear one in public, people tend to avert their eyes.  This was the case that day in Sacramento.  I’m glad I spoke up, I’m glad I claimed the affiliation of the Presbyterian Church (USA), and I’m even glad I wore the collar because it makes me look more official. But on elevators and in corridors, it felt as though people thought I might have something contagious.

   It makes me wonder what they think about clergy, but also, about Christians.  I ran across a short video called, “What Are Christians Known For?” An interviewer asked this very question of random people in random settings.  It wasn’t a scientific poll, but it had the feel of being pretty much where people are about Christians these days.  You may watch the video here:

   About half of the people responded the way I’d hoped: Forgiveness, compassion, loving our neighbors.  The other half responded with what I feared they might: Fanaticism, hypocrisy, killing off non-Christians.  I’m deeply grateful that at least some of the people interviewed mentioned Jesus, and even echoed his words in this passage in John’s Gospel.  These verses take place shortly before Jesus’ arrest. Jesus has just washed the disciples’ feet, a vivid demonstration of servanthood, hospitality, and love.  Then Jesus announces that one among them will betray him.  After Judas leaves, Jesus speaks the words in today’s lesson. 

   Jesus says, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.  By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”  He’s asking them to care for each other as he has cared for them.  It doesn’t end there, within the community of disciples, but it does start there and that’s hard enough.  We’ve just seen Judas, a disciple, turn on Jesus and the other disciples, for crying out loud.  John wrote his gospel in the context of the early church, which experienced conflict from without and within.  All of Paul’s letters to the ancient churches were about how to get along, how to treat each other within the community of faith.  Paul’s most famous words, that gorgeous chapter 13 from First Corinthians that practically everyone including me has read at their wedding is not about marriage; it’s about church.  It’s about telling people how to love each other in the church.

   In order to bring the good news of Christ to the rest of the world, the followers of Christ needed to take care of one another.  They need to love each other.  Note what Jesus doesn’t say.  He doesn’t say: “You will know them by their exacting adherence to correct doctrine.”  He doesn’t say, “You will know them by the way they read the Bible literally,” or “You will know them by who it is they condemn as sinners.”  Jesus doesn’t say, “You will know them by their lack of doubts, or by their lack of questions.”

   “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”   

   As the little video shows, people are watching us.  They may not be watching closely enough to know the difference between a Pentecostal, a Presbyterian, and a Roman Catholic. But they’re watching to see how we act.  They’re watching to see if we love each other.  And of course, they’re watching to see if we extend that love beyond the doors of our churches.  But it has to start with the community.  The church’s purpose is love, not condemnation.  The church’s purpose is love, not judgment.  William Barclay writes, “More people have been brought into the church by the kindness of real Christian love than by all of the theological arguments in the world, and more people have been driven from church by the hardness and ugliness of so-called Christianity than by all of the doubts in the world.”

   It has to start with the community, but to end there is to miss the point.  The church does not exist to preserve or maintain itself, but rather, to be Body of Christ in the world, to go into the world to do the work God calls us to do. Amy Allen writes, “For John’s Jesus, this was showing the world the Light, to show what it meant to be a follower of Christ.  For Luke’s Jesus, this was showing the world aid and concern, helping the victims, eating with those different from you, and baptizing whole households, even slaves, women, and children. Being a disciple of Jesus in these circumstances meant loving into community the whole people of God – not simply loving those with whom one was already in communion.”

   “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”  David Lose points out that these words “are simultaneously ridiculously easy to understand and ridiculously hard to do.”  And yet, Jesus would not have given us this new commandment if it had not been possible.  We gather in communities, in churches, precisely to figure out how it’s possible. 

 © Joanne Whitt 2025 all rights reserved

Resources:

Amy Allen, http://www.politicaltheology.com/blog/the-politics-of-beloved-community-read-through-acts-111-18-and-john-1331-35/

David Lose, http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?m=4377&post=2542 

Astounded

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Acts 10:44-48

We catch the apostle Peter literally mid-sentence in this passage in Acts. What comes before these verses is an important part of the story. Cornelius, a Roman army officer and Gentile in Caesarea, a believer in God but not a Jew, has a vision that he is to send for Peter. It so happens that Peter, a devout Jew, has a vision as well. He’s praying on the roof of his friend’s house in Joppa, anticipating a fine meal being prepared by his hosts. He falls into a trance and sees a sheet being lowered down from the heavens, filled with all of the foods that good Jews aren’t supposed to eat – animals considered to be “unclean.” He hears a voice: “Get up Peter, kill and eat.” Peter responds, “No, way! I’ve never touched this stuff, let alone eaten it!” He hears this answer: “What God has made, you must not call profane.” This happens three times, which is God’s way of saying, “And I really mean it, Peter.” And while he’s still trying to figure out what it is that God means, Cornelius’ men are knocking at the door to invite Peter to Caesarea.

A good Jew wasn’t supposed to hang out with Gentiles, but the Holy Spirit gives Peter a nudge out the door. He travels to Caesarea, meets Cornelius, and realizes this Gentile is having a genuine experience of God. Peter starts preaching about this God who’s giving Cornelius visions, and about how Peter has been awakened to a reality he never understood before: “I truly understand,” he declares, “that God shows no partiality.” But before Peter can finish his sermon, the Holy Spirit short-circuits the usual order of things, and that’s where we pick up the story. The Holy Spirit “fell on all who heard the Word,” on a whole crowd of Gentiles, as evidenced by their ability to speak in tongues and their inclination to praise God.

Rick Morley notes that the two words in this passage that “stick out as if they have neon lights attached to them,” are “astounded” and “even.” Gentiles are coming to faith in God in Christ, and the Christians of Jewish descent are “astounded” that the Holy Spirit of God is being given to “even” the Gentiles. In other words, they didn’t expect this. They couldn’t have predicted this. I suspect they didn’t even want this.

God is doing something new, something that the apostles couldn’t control, predict, or anticipate. This passage is often preached to remind us that the Church should be inclusive, but limiting this passage to who is included or excluded from the Church feels like a conversation for 25 years ago. Certainly, God expects churches to be inclusive. But God doesn’t stop there and to limit our analysis to the Christian Church feels oddly self-referential in 2024. As if God can’t be reached by other routes. As if the apostles’ understanding of God, or ours, is the only right way, the only possible way. As if we control God’s Holy Spirit.

Limiting the conversation to church puts us, in the Church, in a position of privilege and control. We welcome you. We let you in. Aren’t we special? When the point of this passage is that God is already at work in places and in ways beyond our imagination, in ways that will astound us. The Church needs the stranger, the foreigner, the “other” to show us the Holy Spirit isn’t the Church’s property. Otherwise, we might start thinking there’s limited space under the tent, or that it’s our job to make the tent bigger, when the thing is, it isn’t our tent. It’s God’s tent, and we don’t know the extent of it, the size of it, the reach of it. Morley writes, “It’s like when we look out into the world around us, we see just a sliver – just the tiniest wedge of possibilities. But, God sees the whole sky. The whole infinite expanse of the universe brimming with possibilities.”

At least the apostles in Acts were “astounded,” as opposed to “disgusted,” or “dismayed.” There’s some hope there.

William H. Willimon writes, “Faith, when it comes down to it, is our often breathless attempt to keep up with the redemptive activity of God, to keep asking ourselves, ‘What is God doing, where on earth is God going now?’” As with Peter, it’s an ongoing conversion.

© Joanne Whitt 2024 all rights reserved.

Resources:
Rick Morley, “Even Astonished – A Reflection on Acts 10:44-48,” http://www.rickmorley.com/archives/1585
William H. Willimon, Interpretation: Acts (Louisville, KY: John Knox Press, 1988)