The True Ekklesia

“The True Ekklesia,” Frank Rivas, March 4, 2012

I have been thinking about church, particularly about what makes a good church. I have come to identify three characteristics that are essential for me. I make no claim to having identified these characteristics for the first time; I have simply affirmed them for myself.

The first—and most important—characteristic is that the church is a safe place.

We come to the church as who we are, and we do not want to feel compelled wear to a mask. Whether we are theist or atheist, we’re safe. Whether we’re Latino or Anglo, African American or Asian American, we’re safe. Whether we’re straight or gay, whether we’re coupled or single, we’re safe. In a good church our safety goes beyond such categories. In our struggles, in our failures, with our pain, with our dreams, we are safe. We don’t have to pretend ever to be other than who we are. The most important quality of a good church is that it makes us feel safe.

The second characteristic is that a church is a place for spiritual formation. We come to church for lots of reasons—to hear great music, to be in fellowship, to provide a religious education for our children. However, a church is fundamentally about spiritual formation. This does not mean that the minister has the right to tell you what you ought to believe. Rather, in a good church, we grow as spiritual beings among other spiritual beings. Universalists were fond of saying that there is that of God in each of us. There is that of God in me, and that of God in each person here. It is only by encountering the holy in each other, only in speaking openly about our own lives and by listening to one another that we grow in our experience of the holy.

During my last visit, I spoke about a time I spent with wild horses. The encounter with horses deepened my life; even though the experience was vicarious for you, some of your lives deepened as well. So it is with each of our stories. Some of you have experienced the birth of a child. I never have. In that birth you may have experienced something holy, and if you share that experience with me, my understanding grows. For some people here, the word “holy” itself is difficult, but the experience of something transcendent remains. One member, for example, seldom uses the word “holy,” but he glides above the earth and in the process experiences something transcendent. We are here for spiritual formation. We gather in community not only to be accepted for who we are, but also to grow in loving connection with one another. This is the second characteristic of a healthy church.

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The third characteristic is that we are here not just to care about ourselves, but to reach beyond these walls to the greater community. In his Letter from a Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King, Jr., disappointed at the Church’s poor response to the civil rights movement, wrote, “Perhaps I must turn my faith to the inner spiritual church, the church within the church, the true ekklesia, and the hope of the world.”

It is not sufficient for us to create beloved community within these walls; rather, we are called to recognize that every person on this planet is worthy of respect, of justice, and of peace. Prophets from every tradition have articulated this truth. The Hebrew prophets, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the rest, insisted on justice and mercy. The Bodhisattva, from the Buddhist tradition, pointed out that it’s not sufficient to find our own nirvana; rather, we are also called to make clear the path for others. Unitarian Theodore Parker was such a strong spokesman for the emancipation of slaves that his life was constantly threatened. Martin Luther King, Jr., was a prophet in our own time.

King, who was always precise in his language, chose the word “ekklesia” to talk about what the church ought to look like. “Ekklesia,” the Greek word from which we get English words like “ecclesiastical” and “ecclesiology,” did not initially refer to churches at all. In the first century of the Common Era there was no word for church.

Churches were a new phenomenon. After Jesus died, people gathered to try to make sense of what had happened. They called these new gatherings “ekklesiae,” the Greek word for “contentious gatherings,” because they argued so much.

When he was alive, Jesus profoundly affected many people. People felt more empowered. They developed a bigger vision of life. They thought that he might be the Messiah. “Messiah” is a Hebrew word that means “the one who is going to bring about the Realm of God, the realm of justice and peace.”

When Jesus was executed as a criminal, however, the messianic notions were challenged. How could the realm of justice and peace be ushered in by violent execution? Members of the early church argued about how to interpret these events.

Some said, “The whole Messiah thing is a fantasy. We should have known all along that justice and peace is never going to happen on this planet. Let’s just let go of it.”

Others said “The Messiah is a fantasy, but it’s a useful fantasy. Even though there never will be a Messiah, even though there will always be strife in this world, still it’s useful to keep the fiction because it sets our eyes on a goal that matters. We must 2

continue to work toward a world of justice and peace even though we know that it will never come.”

Still others said “No, neither of those perspectives is adequate.” They said, “The realm of justice and peace didn’t come the way that we thought it would, but maybe it was never intended to be external. Maybe Jesus was talking about the Realm of God within us. If we can identify the Realm in ourselves, then it will incrementally manifest itself in the world.”

So they argued. No one ever said “If you don’t believe it the way I believe it, you are out of this ekklesia.” Everyone was included. No matter how they interpreted the Jesus event, they were included and their voices were heard.

The church was never intended to be a place where one point of view is heard. It was never intended to be a place where theology is static and passed on intact from generation to generation. It was never intended to be an institution that supported the status quo. It was never intended to be a place to support the Roman occupation during the time of Jesus. It was never intended to be a place that supported separate but equal facilities in the United States. Rather, the church was intended to be open to ongoing revelation, to be fluid, to be informed by the insight of each of its members.

The church was intended to be a group of people who argue about what is true and who try to figure out together what right action looks like.

I served this church very briefly four years ago, and you came remarkably close to the true ekklesia.

I remember Megan preaching a sermon from a pagan perspective. I didn’t know what to expect but I came away richer, and I think everyone in this room did. It was a good sermon, and the congregation was open to hearing it.

I remember discussions about Richard Dawkins. I remember people in this congregation saying “So what if I disagree with him? Undoubtedly there is something that is useful in what he says. I could hear his words. I could disagree with him. And I will probably learn something.” I heard an openness not unlike that of the ekklesia of the first and second centuries.

I remember that while I use God-talk and some of you don’t, responses were generally accepting. No one felt compelled to use my language, but each was able to take away what make sense to him or her.

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I remember that you had a director of religious education who was brought up in another tradition and who had no credentials to be the director of religious education.

Her lack of credentials did not stop this congregation from recognizing something ministerial in her words and in her presence.

I remember when you started preparing meals for the homeless just a block from here. The project wasn’t only about preparing and serving meals. People who participated were encouraged to sit at the tables, to break bread, to converse with the homeless as real people who were worth listening to. The project came remarkably close to embodying the true ekklesia, and I fell in love.

Between four years ago and today there have been some difficult times.

The same three characteristics that define a good church are true now even as they were true four years ago. In addition, we have to deal with our grief. We have to reflect on what happened. We have to identify our own complicity. We have to make changes in our behavior.

Even as we try to make sense of our own past, we must continue in our calling as a church. Our work continues: to welcome people as they are, whatever their beliefs, whatever their pain, whatever their failures, to welcome them as they are; to engage in spiritual formation by engaging deeply with one another; to learn more fully about the holy by encountering one another; and to do the work of the true ekklesia, insisting on justice and mercy, not only in here in this congregation, but beyond these walls.

Last Friday I met with members of the Board of Trustees and the search committee. I met mainly to thank church leaders for all their work though this difficult time. In addition, I asked a question. “You’ve worked long hours with little thanks,” I said. “What kept you going? What do you love so much about this church?”

Almost everybody said “the people.” “What keeps me here are my connections with people. These are solidly good people.” Several people used the word “family.”

“It’s like family here,” one said. “When I go through difficult times, they stay with me.

Now that the church is going through a difficult time, I will stay with them.” I agree; it’s the people.

The second thing people said most often was that here they get to be who they really are. If they believe something different than other people, that is just fine. I love the openness of this church too.

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Another person talked about the high level of discourse, both intellectually and emotionally honest. Yet another talked about the inspiring, almost 150 year, history of this church.

But one person’s response scared me. Ben Wallace said something that I was afraid to articulate myself. He said “We are at the cusp of something amazing.” I felt that, but didn’t want to say it. “We are at the cusp of something amazing.” For me that “something amazing” is that we would not only be close to being the true ekklesia, but perhaps we might actually become a new manifestation of the ekklesia.

The concept is scary because the word “ekklesia” is a little bit like the word “Messiah.” Once we start believing in the Messiah, we are bound to get hurt, and once we start believing that we are at the cusp of becoming a new manifestation of the ekklesia, we are setting ourselves up for disappointment.

So I thought to myself, “To be at the cusp is a good place. We not need to expect anything more. After all, we are human beings.” But the next morning I allowed myself to think that maybe we really are at the cusp. Maybe we really can take the next step, I thought to myself. Maybe we have it in ourselves to be open about who we are, about our faith, about our pain, about our dreams. Maybe we have it in ourselves to really listen to the holy in another. Maybe we have it in ourselves to acknowledge the voice that Isaiah and the Bodhisattva and Martin Luther King heard; maybe we have it in ourselves to make a difference in the world. Maybe we have it in ourselves to be the true ekklesia, to make a positive difference in the world.

I conclude with the words of Annie Dillard. You may recognize the words as coming from the 24th Psalm. Dillard reinterprets the psalm, but she keeps the word “Lord.” You might not be comfortable with the word “Lord”; I know that I’m not. I’m not comfortable because the word “Lord” anthropomorphizes the holy, and I’m not comfortable because the word is hierarchical and controlling. The word “Lord,” however, does not exist in the Hebrew text. Instead, the Hebrew word is the tetragrammaton.

You’ll remember the story about Moses and the burning bush. Moses encountered this bush, and the bush told him to confront the pharaoh, to free his people. Like any rational being, Moses said “No way.” The bush responded, “This is not a request.” Moses replied, “Okay I’ll go, but first tell me who is telling me to do this.” Moses wanted the name of an ancient god, but that’s not what he got. What he heard instead is a name that we don’t know how to pronounce. We know, however, 5

that this word is a form of “to be” that has been lost. It means something like “I am” or “I become.” The holy is about process. The holy is what is. It runs through all life.

Annie Dillard’s rendering of the 24th Psalm, with minor adjustments: Who shall ascend the hill of our wholeness? Or who shall stand in this holy place? There is no one but us. There is no one to send, nor a clean hand, nor a pure heart on the face of the earth, nor in the earth, but only us, a generation comforting ourselves with the notion that we have come at an awkward time, that our innocent fathers are all dead — as if innocence had ever been — and our children busy and troubled and we ourselves unfit, not yet ready, having each of us chosen wrongly, made a false start, failed, yielded to impulse and the tangled comfort of pleasures, and grown exhausted, unable to seek the thread, weak, and involved.

But there is no one but us. There never has been.

There is no one but us. There never has been.

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