Earlier this month, I had the great privilege to be present at the Sunday worship service of the 8th Day Faith Community in Washington, D.C. Their community is a great expression of what I’ve been calling Horizontal Church — a non-hierarchical, participatory expression of Christian community.
8th Day is an ecumenical Christian community with members who grew up in a variety of faith backgrounds or none at all. The community has has no clergy, but instead, members take turns leading parts of their shared worship (more about that in a moment). They consider themselves to be a community-on-behalf-of-the-larger-community. Their shared commitments to economic, racial, and environmental justice are central to their life together.
The worship experience at 8th Day is very participatory. I admit I’m not always a great judge of crowd size, so take this with a grain of salt, but I think there were maybe about 60 people there? The community used liturgy in a bulletin that was very similar to what I might find in my own Presbyterian tradition. People had signed up to lead different parts.
Each week, a different person gives the sermon. Occasionally, the community collectively holds open sermons, where a scripture is read and someone facilitates a larger group discussion. After the sermon, there was an extended time of prayer where many people prayed for others on behalf of the community. Members of the 8th Day Community also celebrate the communion meal at the table, sharing the prayers and breaking the bread. We all received communion as a part of this service.
It was very meaningful to see this happen and participate fully within it. Much of this is possible because of the learning and empowerment that takes place in 8th Day’s membership process, spiritual direction, and mission groups. Everyone is invited fully participate in the community’s life, with or without membership. Those who do decide to become covenant members take five classes (a lot of education happens here), engage in spiritual direction with one another, and join a mission group.
Mission groups are a core part of the vision for the 8th Day Community. Members are invited to participate in a group where they feel a special calling. Current groups are working to create relationships and build conversations about race, class, and disability; practicing spiritual disciplines to heal trauma; focusing upon theologies and practices of creativity; planning shared community worship; and supporting The Family Place and Jubilee Jumpstart, two organizations working with children and expectant mothers in Washington D.C.
Of all the things I’ve experienced in congregations, one of my greatest joys took place during my time in Pasadena.
As part of my doctoral work, I initiated an ethnography project which involved conducting interviews with people from Pasadena Presbyterian Church. After looking through those interviews, a clear theme emerged: There was a desire in that community to be more connected with neighbors in our local area. Most of the people in the church community lived somewhere other than the neighborhood where the church building was located.
And in response to this, we initiated an incredible time of discernment. We assembled a team of people that ranged in age from 24 to 81, and we spent 7 months dreaming about the possibility of creating a new, evening worship community and connecting with neighbors. Let me just say. . . doing something like this changes you. The process invited our relationships to deepen in such meaningful ways. Our discernment team became so close. This was never an opportunity for pastoral leaders to do all the visioning alone, then invite others on board. We were a team of people from different generations and life experiences. Millennials, Boomers, Silent Generation. . . . Pastors, Immigrants, Musicians. . . It was a powerful time together.
Then, in October 2012, we launched this new community into the world. We began worshiping on Sunday nights. Folks from the neighborhood began to wander into our service, and it was a joy to get to know them. Some then began to claim the community as their own. Then they began to participate in its leadership.
Here’s the thing our discernment team decided from the beginning: The teaching, preaching, praying, and planning of this community would not be led solely or even primarily by ordained staff leaders. Instead, we invited members of the church, then later, members of the neighborhood to lead in these ways.
And I tell you what, it changed me. It was powerful.
Sometimes, I did teach, preach, and pray, but my primary role as a pastoral leader was to empower the community. If I or we didn’t plan well enough in advance, I would occasionally jump in too readily. But when we kept a vision for full participation and full empowerment at the center, it was so life-giving! I watched people blossom as they discovered gifts for speaking, teaching, and preaching. I witnessed the joy of people telling their life stories and making-meaning with them in community. One person came alive in the invitation to set up the worship space. She always showed up early for it. Later, she started writing prayers, and she was so grateful to share those with the community.
And friends, I have to say that now, I would not want this any other way. I believe in a horizontal vision for church. A non-heirarchical, fully participatory, empowering vision for church. I’ve seen what it can do.
After leaving Pasadena, it was meaningful for me to continue to follow along. The Evening Worship Community began serving a full meal as well. Neighbors experiencing homelessness then became a part of that community too, receiving a vital need, but in addition, they also began to help lead it.
Horizontal Church: This changes things!
Tomorrow, I’ll talk about my recent experience in visiting a remarkably horizontal church in Washington D.C.
This year, I crossed the threshold of having worked in ministry for 10 years. (This amazes me. Grateful!) Within that span of time, I’ve had a certain experience many times:
A church is holding a lunch or a potluck dinner together after a worship service. Perhaps I come into that meal about ten minutes late. Maybe I needed to organize some things in my office, or more likely, someone has stopped me after the service to chat. When I’m ready, and I do walk into the space of that meal, someone often says to me,
“Oh, good, you’re here. We can pray now.”
Folks want me to bless the time together and say a prayer over the meal. And they’ve been waiting for me. I say yes, and of course, I’m grateful for the opportunity to be present. But always, always, I feel a bit sad about this. “Do they think I’m the only one who can pray on behalf of this community?” I wonder.
It has to do with my role, of course. It has to do with the fact that I am an ordained clergy person. By the way, this happens even if I’m not the pastor of the specific congregation — even if I’m simply the guest pulpit supply preacher. Folks expect me to lead the community prayers. Or maybe, they’ve gotten used to it being this way.
But is a church diminished if only one person —
or one type of person; in this case, clergy —
speaks, prays, or preaches? I believe the answer is a resounding yes.
Not only is it possible for multiple people to lead the community. I think it’s better for the community if that is the case. First, the community is enriched with shared leadership and opportunities to hear different voices and perspectives. But also — I believe this is so important — people are enriched and their faith is deepened when their own leadership, spiritual gifts, and voices are empowered.
Last year, I had the chance to meet and befriend Richard Jacobson. He’s written a book with a fun title: Unchurching: Christianity Without Churchianity. He hosts a podcast with the same name. About a year ago, I met him and co-host Gunnar Falk when I was a guest on their podcast, discussing Michigan Nones and Dones. Together, along with thousands of others, they have started a house church movement. They’re not standing against church altogether, but instead, opening a new way (with themes that are connected to an older way) in communities of shared leadership and participation.
Richard Jacobson uses an analogy I find myself thinking about sometimes: Referencing the imagery of scripture, we often say that the Church is the ‘Body of Christ.’ But what happens if we only use some of the muscles? Is it possible that other parts of the body might atrophy a bit?
If we only allow or empower one voice (or one type of voice) to speak, pray, or preach, it’s possible that we encourage passivity in the larger community. I’m certainly not saying all the other Christians I know are passive. Hardly. As a pastor, I have benefited so much from the convictions and wisdom of members of congregations.
But I want everyone to benefit from those voices. What if their storytelling was invited from the pulpit? What if more than one person taught during the time we often call ‘sermon’? What if members were invited to pray over those potluck dinners? Or teach during worship? What if people could display their art? What if people could improvise with music? What if shared decision-making invited more people to speak into those decisions?
This is part of what it means to encourage a horizontal model of church.
Tomorrow, let’s hear about some communities that are doing this.
Have you ever found yourself wanting to articulate something that’s not quite complete. . . but in process? That’s how I feel about the topic I want to explore this week. If you’ve been following with me for a while, you can probably sense my inklings on this. I talk here and there about my desire for a “Horizontal Church.” What do I mean by that? Well, that’s in process, including in my own thinking, but I mean a community that is more participatory, more empowering of the collective body, and more shared in its leadership. I mean a church (likely, building-less) that views itself as community-alongside-a-community, always with neighbors and justice in mind. I mean a community that finds God and the sacred in everyday experience. These thoughts are all in process.
I’ll be doing some writing on this all week. But today, I want to begin with a re-post that can lay some groundwork. Does the shift from vertical to horizontal resonate with you?
Transcendent Horizon
Earlier this month, my husband and I spent a weekend in Petoskey, Michigan. This small town is located alongside Lake Michigan, and each night, if it’s not too cloudy, people can watch the sunset right over the lake. The view is stunning. Sometimes I forget how miraculous this is. . . The sun sets without fail every evening, yet no two views are the same.
The first night we were there, we saw a sunset unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Just above the water, along the horizon, there was a thick, fiery band of light. No grand swirls in the sky; just one bright, luminous band.
A jetty was in front of us as well, and it contained a walkway toward a lighthouse. As we watched the evening light in the sky, two individuals came into view. One was walking toward the lighthouse, and the other was walking away from it. Though they did not know each other, their silhouettes met within this light of the horizon. It was gorgeous, and no photo did it justice.
Beautifully, it reminded me of a metaphor that Diana Butler Bass uses for God.
She says that throughout most of our human history, we have practiced a vertical spirituality. In our minds — and especially, in our unconscious minds — we tend to think of God as literally ‘up.’ God is up there. . . somewhere. Some of this thought is connected to Christian scriptures, but it’s also a vestige of having believed in a literal, three-tiered universe. God is up, far away in heaven. We are here. And below us lies some kind of netherworld.
Diana Butler Bass writes that for most of our history, religious institutions have functioned a bit like an elevator within that consciousness. They work to bring us closer to that distant God, who is up there. . . somewhere. In response, she says, we have built vertical hierarchies, and Church architecture often mirrors our vertical spirituality too.
Bass believes that we are experiencing a major shift these days. I also sense it. Do you? More and more, people are longing for a horizontal spirituality, a sense that God is with us in our everyday experiences.
. . .God with us on the ground. . . . God with us in our everyday lives. . . . God with us in the midst of suffering. . . . God with us in horizontal relationships,
connecting us in friendship and community,
connecting our world in justice and equity.
God with us. This conviction brings us back to the language of incarnation.
I recently heard Diana Butler Bass talking about these thoughts on a podcast. The hosts asked her if she might provide a particular image or metaphor to think God in a horizontal framework. I loved what she said.
She said, “Yes, actually, the horizon itself.” She mentioned that some have expressed concern that she’s de-emphasized the transcendence of God in her arguments — that is, God as holy, mighty, and mysterious. She said that the image of the horizon gives a different view of transcendence.
No matter how much we approach the horizon, it’s always before us, still a mystery. Yet it’s always with us on our plane.
I love it.
God with us.
Mysterious, yet incarnational,
an ever-present Horizon on our plane.
This sermon was preached at First Presbyterian Church in Howell, Michigan and is based on John 2:13-25. A recording is above, and the written text is below.
John 2:13-25
The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple he found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves, and the money changers seated at their tables. Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple, both the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” His disciples remembered that it was written, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” The Jews then said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?” But he was speaking of the temple of his body. After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.
When he was in Jerusalem during the Passover festival, many believed in his name because they saw the signs that he was doing. But Jesus on his part would not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people and needed no one to testify about anyone; for he himself knew what was in everyone.
When I was a very young kid — maybe about 4 years old — I used to sit on the floor of my family’s living room and watch Sesame Street. Did any of you grow up watching Sesame Street? Maybe some of our kids do now. Well, decades ago, when I was one of those kiddos, Sesame Street often featured a particular song. I bet some of you know it. Sesame Street would show four objects. Three of them would be the same — identical, in fact — but one would be different.
Maybe you remember that song?
One of these things is not like the others, One of these things doesn’t belong, Can you tell which thing is not like the others, by the time we finish our song?
That song seems to apply this morning as we approach this story of Jesus entering the temple and driving out money changers. Now, of course, in an obvious sense, the scene is hardly comparable to Sesame Street. After all, Sesame Street involves adorable muppets who are learning and demonstrating how to get along. This scene, meanwhile, involves a mini stampede of animals and furious human beings who are driven out forcefully by an angry Jesus.
So what am I getting at here?
In one sense, the song does apply. Because this account of Jesus in the temple is the odd one out. Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the first three gospels, tell it in a particular way, but this version in John is different. One of these things is not like the others, and this version is that thing.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell the story of Jesus’ entry into the temple as part of the Holy Week narrative, toward the end of their gospels. Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, accompanied with loud shouts of Hosannas from the crowd. Soon after, he enters the temple and drives out the money changers.
But that’s not what happens here.
Notice the chapter number of this story. John, chapter 2, verses 13-25. This narrative is not embedded in the larger Holy Week story. In fact, this is a different Passover altogether. All of this takes place right at the beginning of John’s gospel. I wonder why that might be. . .?
Now every version of this story is forceful, no doubt. Jesus is angry about what he encounters in the temple. But admittedly, this version is more violent. In the other stories, Jesus overturns the tables and says, “Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations, but you have made it a den of robbers.” In this account, Jesus does more than overturn tables. He pours out the coins of the money changers and drives people out with a whip of cords. “Take these things out of here!” he says. “Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”
In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, it is pretty clear that Jesus was angry about money changers and the ways they were extorting the people at the time. Here in John, Jesus decries the temple becoming a marketplace, but John also puts focus on a particular statement that the others do not include. John says, “His disciples remembered that it was written, ‘Zeal for your house will consume me.’” And John quotes Jesus as saying, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” Some of the people around him begin to mock him, saying, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?” “But he was speaking of the temple of his body,” John says. These statements are unique to this version of the narrative.
One of these is not like the others.
I wonder how this narrative might speak to us in a particular way today.
Every Gospel writer was writing to an audience, and John was no exception. He was writing to a particular community, likely even, a particular church. And it appears that this church community had a shared song, though a song of greater depth and wonder than any song from Sesame Street. Do you remember the very first words of the Gospel according John? It’s possible that they come from an ancient, church hymn. Do you remember this beautiful text?
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, And the Word was God.
And that opening text goes on to say,
The Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory of a Father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
The Word — Jesus — is embodied. Wonder of wonders. . . God is embodied in Jesus. With us. Together, we can say that Jesus is a dwelling place of God.
“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” Some of the people around him began to mock him, saying, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?” “But he was speaking of the temple of his body.”
Jesus is the dwelling place of God.
And not only that. God has been found to be among us. Wonder of wonders. . . we too are embodied, and God chooses to be present among us.
I like the translation that Eugene Peterson gives in The Message:
The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like Son, Generous inside and out, true from start to finish.
The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. With us. With human lives. With neighbors! Isn’t that what the neighborhood means? Jesus is the dwelling place of God, and our neighborhoods and our neighbors are the dwelling place of Jesus.
So is it any surprise really that John might place this story where he does, at the beginning?
Jesus loved the temple. He was an observant Jew, and it is important to remember tht. John says, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” But there was never a moment when Jesus walled himself off inside those walls. Jesus moved into the neighborhood and placed his focus on neighbors. He practiced love for the neighbors. . .
. . . uplifting the dignity of the poor and offering them bread,
. . . healing the ones who were cast out by society, in their bodies, in their relationships,
. . . defending those who were scapegoated and threatened with violence,
. . . welcoming the vulnerable, including children, and widows, and those especially marked by others as ‘sinners.’
Jesus is the dwelling place of God, and he chooses to dwell among the neighbors. This story — this odd-one-out version of the story — is a prelude for the Gospel itself. It moves toward the neighborhood.
Every Gospel writer writes to an audience, and John is no exception. We can’t know if he had others in mind. Perhaps he would have never imagined that these words would reach us today so distanced in culture and time. But how might they speak to us, particularly? How might they speak to First Presbyterian Church of Howell?
We know this much: We have never had a calling to wall ourselves off inside the walls of this church building. Sure, we value this building, and we care for it. But friends, hear this: These walls and this sanctuary have never been the Church. We are the Church — we. . . you and me. . . an embodied community. . . we are the Church.
And if we are going to follow Jesus, this dwelling place of God, this person of grace and truth, we must follow him into the neighborhood. We must place our focus on neighbors. We must practice love for the neighbors.
Do our neighbors experience us in this way? We hope so. But we can also be honest. So often, our neighbors see Christians doing everything we can to bolster the former institutional grandeur – of our buildings, our finances, our image, you name it. . . So often our neighbors see Christians working to bolster these institutional aspects of our collective life as we experience decline.
But why are we experiencing decline? It may not be just one thing, but perhaps our neighbors no longer believe that Christians love neighbors. Perhaps they see the Church at large trying to build itself — its buildings, its influence, maybe even its political power at the expense of protecting the lives of the vulnerable and scapegoated, rather than loving people where they are, loving people as the neighbors of Jesus, the neighbors of God.
So how might we remember our calling again? How might we hear it in a new way?
I don’t think it starts with anything abstract. I think it starts with the neighbors we know. I think it starts with the neighbors we know about. I think it involves an invitation to value those neighbors and learn from them.
It doesn’t start with anything abstract. It starts with God, but even God — the God we ponder with ideas, and big words, and theology; the God who in many ways is beyond our imagination — even God, this God, is not abstract. Because God has become enfleshed. Jesus is the dwelling place of God, and Jesus dwells among the neighbors.
So let’s start there, and let’s see what kind of story might unfold. Let’s see what kind of Gospel might unfold. Like this passage before us today, this invitation might also be a preview to what is to come — Gospel, a renewed vision, a renewed calling, and friends, a renewed following of Jesus, the dwelling place of God.
This week, I had the pleasure to attend a workshop led by John Vest at the Next Church national gathering. It was entitled, An Introduction to Cultivated Ministry: Bearing Fruit through Theology, Accountability, Learning, and Storytelling.
This workshop is connected to an ongoing project and movement within Next Church, considering how we might shift our framework for assessing the visions and directions of ministry and community life together.
The Cultivated Ministry project began when some creative leaders gathered to talk about the ways that we support (or struggle to support) new ministry initiatives. Here are some of the themes that emerged. In this conversation. . .
One of these leaders compared the process to the Hunger Games and said, “You come up with a good — even proven — ministry, and everyone is excited about it. When you ask for help in paying for it, there are three larger churches and a couple of grant programs to go to and these creative ministries end up fighting each other to our own death to get any final resources.”
Touché. I know what this is like personally.
Soon after, a pastor of a large congregation with a multi-million-dollar budget said, “What I hear you asking for is a blank check, and we simply can’t give that to you. In a season where we have many resources, but are facing budget cuts of our own and laying off staff, we have to justify every dollar we spend.”
Another leader spoke up and said, “Our presbytery has money to fund new ventures but we expect them to be growing numerically and financially sustainable within five years.”
“What if we’re working in a community that is financially incapable of being self-sustaining?” someone chimed up.
All of these quotes directly come from the new Cultivated Ministry booklet (it’s a really good resource!) and are a summary of themes that often come up when discussing ways to support and finance new ministry initiatives.
The challenge is often this: The typical metrics for evaluating and supporting ministries are inadequate, and they have not been replaced with new ones. That is what Cultivating Ministry seeks to do.
Let me say more. . .
When it comes to existing churches and new ministry initiatives alike, we often evaluate effectiveness through membership counts, financial totals, and worship attendance. But these are not always good measuring tools, nor are they often what are most fruitful in the life of a shared vision.
In the workshop at Next Church, John Vest shared that we place the expectations of these traditional metrics upon new initiatives and new communities (including whether or not we will fund them) when many of our existing churches cannot meet the expectations of those very same metrics.
The Cultivated Ministry project seeks to provide different metrics. They are. . .
Theology
Mutual Accountability
Learning
Storytelling
Theology – In this workshop, John Vest said, “We often know the the what and the how of what we’re doing, but we don’t always know the why. If you don’t have a theological reason for what you’re doing, come up with one, or do something else.” The shared convictions of our theology can inform and enrich our directions. We are invited into spiritual imagination together.
Mutual Accountability – Likewise, we are invited into a teamwork approach of mutual support and accountability. Notice the word mutual. So often, we consider ‘accountability’ to flow in only one direction, with one group or entity holding sole evaluation power. But we need to be partners. Ministry leaders need to tell the story of what they are doing, and larger communities need to ask how they can best come alongside these new initiatives. The Cultivated Ministry booklet says, “Mutual accountability is a continuous cycle of inviting participation, developing clarity, acting, reflecting, evaluating, and acting again.”
Learning – Discernment is always a crucial element in the Cultivating Ministry process. As a part of discernment, we can ask vital questions to help us consider our impact. If we are not reflecting, learning, and growing regularly, we can get into a rut of merely counting outputs. Outputs are not the same as impact. I think this statement is especially important when it comes to assessment: “The key to making this paradigm shift is understanding that learning is the primary goal of assessment. In a learning-driven approach to assessment, we shift from history to vision, from outputs to impact, from reality to in-breaking possibility. We assess what we have done, not as justification for continued practice, but as the springboard to future innovation.”
Storytelling – Stories help us understand where we came from and where we’re going. Likewise, stories help us make meaning. Stories help connect us and bring us together for shared belonging and shared work. “When we make Cultivated Ministry a priority, it becomes clear that not only do we need ways of gathering information about the effectiveness of our ministry, we must also learn to use that information to tell stories that matter — stories of impact and stories of transformation. Without these stories, we can collect all the quantitative data we want, but it won’t lead to the deep cultural and organizational adaptations we need to fulfill our mission in rapidly changing contexts.
We can change our metrics. We can become better partners. We can do ministry with more intention. We can do ministry with better support.
The Cultivated Ministry project can help with all of these.
During the opening worship service of the Next Church national gathering, someone voiced a phrase right before our time of collective confession. I am going to remember it for a long time. It’s simple, but ultimately, such a reframing.
The leader said,
“We are held in a love we are not required to deserve.”
Oh, that’s so good. So good! Not just as a phrase but an orientation. Suddenly, when pondering love, forgiveness, belonging, or a myriad of other things, all those questions about deserve-dness (are we deserving? are we not?) are just completely off the table.
Because this is a love we are not even required to deserve.
I love that. I will use it in worship. I will say it to myself and others.
Smuggling Grace 