Paradox of Morality

Figuring out morality from a Christian perspective sometimes feels like an exercise in paradox. Not so much how to be good; that's fairly straightforward in theory, if not always in practice – love God and your neighbor; do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with your God; etc. Of course it can be a challenge to figure out what it means to love your neighbor in particular circumstances, let alone when you have more than one neighbor and their needs seem to be in conflict. But that's not what I'm concerned with here. Instead I'm concerned with why we try.

I do think we should try, but I find that I can run myself in circles trying to explain why. I don't think it's about avoiding punishment, trying not to go to hell, that sort of thing. That's commonly given as an explanation for Christian morality, and often levied as criticism of the Church – that it tries to manipulate people's behavior by threatening them with eternal punishment. But I don't think that's the case. I think that salvation, defined as reconciliation with God and promise of being part of the new creation, has already been accomplished for everyone through Jesus, and the only way to lose it is to refuse it constantly forever and ever.

So I don't think moral behavior is about trying to avoid divine punishment at all. Some of it might be about avoiding punishment in the here and now, by legal enforcement or social sanctions, but that only scratches the surface of the full depth of a well-lived life. I've been reading a good bit of N.T. Wright's work lately, and I find meaning in his presentation of the idea that we're called to build for God's kingdom, even as we live in the old creation. I especially like the idea that no good work will be wasted, all goodness begun here will be affirmed and find its full meaning in the new creation. And I also like his explanation that yes, we'll be rewarded for our good works, but that the reward will consist of something more like satisfaction and increased ability to perform and enjoy the work of the new creation – more like the reward of practicing a skill than of earning a wage.

The difficulty I have with that description is that it doesn't seem to do a lot for discipline, at least to me. It's wonderful to think that doing good is making a permanent contribution to God's kingdom, as well as helping out in the here and now. But that alone doesn't make it particularly clear why I should try to be more good than I feel like being at any given time. Why I should be attentive to others even when I'm tired, why I should work to keep and open mind and heart about whether the way I live is in accordance with God's will, why I should fight the temptation to brag or gossip or manipulate – especially if I can get away with it.

Yet I do think that I should do all of the above, and that when I don't, that's a failing I should repent of and ask God for strength to overcome. And even though I fail quite often, I think it's really important that I keep trying. But not because I think I'll go to hell if I don't, or that I'll be punished in any other way (natural consequences aside). I sometimes laugh at my struggles of trying to figure out if this or that behavior is okay or not, given these or those circumstances – and I laugh because part of my mind asks “according to who?” I find myself really truly not thinking of it in terms of avoiding punishment but still really truly being very concerned with what God wants – even though there's a large sense in which I don't think it'll affect my happiness at all.

And of course that's not quite true – if I didn't think it would affect my happiness somehow, I imagine I wouldn't care. Some sense of what we call happiness I think is just an internal motivation scale. I guess what I mean is that I don't think that happiness will be externally given to or taken from me based on my actions (again, natural consequences aside). The reason it still matters very much what I do and how I behave, even though I won't be punished for my failings, is that it's not about me. It's about God and God's kingdom and living out God's goodness. Serving God is in fact an end in itself – not serving God in order to be saved, to avoid going to hell, to have high standing in the new creation – but because God is God and is our very reason for existing and our only true life and fulfillment.   

Liturgy

This past Sunday I went to church with a friend. It was a mainline Protestant church, and I learned two things from the experience: that liturgy is very important to me, and that I have to be careful not to mistake the way I like to do things for the way things must be done.

The church was overall very nice. People were friendly and welcoming, the music was lovely, we sang all the verses of the hymns, and the pastor seemed to be a genuinely caring person. We had a call to worship, sang a hymn, had an Old Testament and a Gospel reading, listened to a sermon, shared prayers, said the Lord's Prayer; heard an anthem during the offertory, sang the Doxology and another hymn, and had a benediction. It reminded me a lot of the church services I had as a kid growing up in the Presbyterian church. It was a very nice service undoubtedly focused on worshiping God.

And yet there was so much that I missed: crossing myself at various points in worship; sitting, standing, and kneeling at different times; blessing God's kingdom now and forever; praying the various collects; responding “Thanks be to God” at the readings; singing a Psalm; hearing an Epistle reading; singing a gradual hymn; standing for the Gospel reading; crossing my mind, lips, and heart for the Gospel reading; following the structure of the Prayers of the People; being blessed in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And, of course, the Eucharist (which the church I visited does have, just not every week). I missed the prayer of confession and the peace, the Great Thanksgiving, the Sanctus, proclaiming the mystery of faith, and of course actually receiving Communion and sharing the common cup.

I think there are three parts to my feeling of unrest from that worship service and my sense that things were missing. The first is the sense of doing something. All the “Episcopal aerobics” and responses and motions help me to focus on what's going on and feel like an active participant. There's a reason why liturgy is “the work of the people.” For me, that active role is what makes me feel like I'm worshiping.

The second reason has to do with a combination of tradition and theology. Not that the theology is actually hugely different. I've talked theology a lot with the friend whose church I visited, and we're largely on the same page. It was more a matter of emphasis during the worship. Starting the service by blessing the Triune God and proclaiming His kingdom seems to me to orient worship on the very essence of Christianity. Having the blessing in the name of the Trinity again affirms that central faith in who God is. Hearing an Old Testament, Psalm, Epistle, and Gospel reading according to a lectionary assures that you'll hear just about all the Bible over several years (and I think the church I visited does use a lectionary, though maybe not as strictly as mine does, and with only two readings, at least this past Sunday). And the language of the prayer book both ties in to all that theology and also in its beauty points to the wonder and mystery and majesty of God. Of course there's also something to be said for the language of worship to be understandable, not so far removed from the everyday language of the people as to lose meaning. Services in Latin are not for me. And I even prefer Rite II to Rite I. But for me the structure of the prayer book liturgy provides a richness of meaning, that these same words are used over and over and sort of gather the meaning of common worship spanning time and place.

Finally, I find that liturgical worship, and the Eucharist in particular, gives me a sense of community with the people I'm worshiping with. The peace allows me a chance to greet everyone around me, and I find it especially meaningful to do so by sharing Christ's peace. Getting up for Communion and participating in all the little bits of cooperation that make it happen smoothly binds us together, not all at once, but by doing so Sunday after Sunday, year in and year out. And of course the actual sharing of Christ's Body and Blood, in whatever mysterious way that happens – being “made one with God's people in heaven and on earth.” And of course this is true for the church I visited as well; we are all one Body in Christ, my church and that church and all other churches. The difference, I think, is one of emphasis. Even the sitting and standing and kneeling and crossing and responding is part of the sense of community for me, in that we're all doing this liturgical work together.

So I have good reasons to love liturgy and to love my church, but it's important that I don't let those get in the way of loving God and loving my neighbor. And I have the sense that if I'm not careful and intentional in my thinking, I could slide down that path. It's easy for me to forget that some of the things I consider to be important traditions of the Episcopal church, like celebrating the Eucharist every Sunday, are actually only slightly older than I am. I know I'm at risk for being one of the grumblers whenever the prayer book next gets revised.

But I need to keep in mind that the way I like to worship isn't the only way to worship. Liturgy works very well for me, and there's certainly nothing wrong with it, but God wants justice and mercy more than particular kinds of prayers, and worship without love is just noise, no matter how traditional it may be. It's an odd sort of tension, because I really do believe that liturgical worship helps me connect to God like nothing else does, and that it really is important and worthwhile for that reason, and the conversations and discernments we have within the church about how to worship aren't just idle chatter about ornamentation. And yet, I'm also sure that God is also well-pleased with my friend's church and with churches that use worship styles that I find almost painful (TV screens and praise bands come to mind). Even if it's not the way I worship, it still has value if it brings people closer to God and to one another, so it's important for me to keep an open heart and resist my urge to judge.

And some of that comes easily. I can say wholeheartedly that a powerpoint-and-praise-band church with true community and commitment is better than a liturgical church where no one is challenged or changed. The trouble is that I want to continue by saying that a liturgical church with love and justice and mercy is best of all, when really what it is is that's best for me. I won't say that I don't think God cares about our worship – I think He cares very much. But I think there are many different varieties of faithful expression depending on a community's history and circumstances, so that my natural sense of liturgy as being “the right way” is unfounded.

God of faithfulness and abundance, help me to balance my love of a particular community and tradition with a radical welcome for all Your people in their diversity of experiences and expressions, that together we may reflect your unending goodness in all its variety. Through our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.