Pandemic Lessons in Sabbath

As we’re entering what seems to be the post-pandemic era, I can finally admit: I had a wonderful quarantine.

I hold a lot of guilt for even saying that; I know of far too many people who suffered get loss and tragedy in this time. Yet in our household, we were able to maintain our health and gain quality time. Forced to pause my normally hectic travel schedule, I found time to complete unfinished tasks. The isolation from the outside world also brought our family closer together. I’m refreshed and ready for what lies ahead.

Regardless of how you endured the pandemic, now is a good time to take stock of the lessons learned during the process. For me, perhaps the greatest takeaway was that I truly need to structure my life with times of Sabbath.

When I was preaching regularly, I always found opportunities to discuss the topic of Sabbath in sermons. There’s an old adage that says, “if you want to find out what your preacher struggles with, listen to the sins he brings up most regularly,” and for me, it was lack of Sabbath. The step back brought about by COVID seemingly made me more contemplative, calmer, and content with what I have in life.

While Jesus observed, “The Sabbath was created for the sake of man and not man for the sake of the Sabbath,” it doesn’t mean we Christians are designed solely for work. One of the issues of the Protestant Work Ethic (identified by German sociologist Max Weber) and the intermingling of call and vocation is that we feel as if it’s a sin to rest and reflect. While sloth ought to be avoided, Sabbath is a discipline to be pursued.

Early on in the pandemic, I ran across a sermon delivered by a man named Fletcher Parrish. He served as pastor of the Eleventh Avenue Methodist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The sermon was from October 1918, delivered in the midst of the Spanish Flu epidemic. Over 100 years later, his spiritual observations on rest seemed incredibly apt as I maneuvered through social distancing:

“Meditation is very profitable for the soul, but the rush of the world is so great at present that very little time is given to cogitation and reflection . . . Men think they have no time to walk out in the fields for contemplation, or to sit quietly by the fireside and muse.

"However, we have a God-given opportunity for this helpful indulgence by reason of this unique Sabbath which has dawned upon us. Out of necessity our churches are closed, and all public gatherings must be discontinued. We cannot go motoring, and we would not go to business if we could, and even the fields are dangerous lest we should come in contact with goldenrod and ragweed and take influenza. But we can sit by the fire and give ourselves to thought and reflection which will bring great profit to us.”

I found this encouraging as, even in a time before the internet and smart phones, a preacher from Alabama observed that the world was moving far too quickly . . . that people never found sufficient time to Sabbath. The question for us moderns is will we resume our full-throttled lifestyle now that the pandemic is over or will we carve our moments to break our rhythm? Will we continue to rest?

John Mark Comer in his book, Garden City, summarized it well and I offer his words here:

“Sabbath is an expression of faith. Faith that there is a Creator and he’s good. We are his creation. This is his world. We live under his roof, drink his water, eat his food, breathe his oxygen. So on the Sabbath, we don’t just take a day off from work; we take a day off from toil. We give him all our fear and anxiety and stress and worry. We let go. We stop ruling and subduing, and we just be . . . It’s more of a rhythm in creation than a rule in a book . . . Sabbath isn’t just a Pause button — it’s a full, complete, total system restart. We power down, cool off, let the fan wind down, and then reboot. Sabbath is a chance to take a long, hard look at our lives and to retune them to the right key.”

How are you retuning your life? How are you handing over your burdens to God?

The Sin of Pastoral Narcissism

“A man hears what he wants to hear and he disregards the rest”

— Simon & Garfunkel

Daily I interact with church leaders, mostly to discuss the strategic side of operating their ministries. As a church grows larger, the logistical obligations grow more intense, and I get the opportunity to walk them through solutions. This can lead to some passionate exchanges; it’s challenging for some pastors to view ministry obstacles as anything but an unholy impediment.

With these kinds of pastors, if you’re not actively assisting their vision for the church, you’re potentially an agent of Satan. So when I’m forced to push back against to the desires of ministry leaders, I can be viewed as a spiritual roadblock, or even worse, an adversary of the gospel.

Personally, I’ve grown accustomed to such conflict and deal with it well. I recognize the immense stress that pastors face. These are challenging times for church leaders in the American church, requiring levels of patience and creativity for which no seminary could prepare them.

Yet more than ever in my nearly three decades of church work, I’ve begun to witness unprecedented acts of pastoral narcissism. Again, I can deal with it (I mean, they’re not my pastor) but it makes me concerned for the flocks they shepherd.

Some recent incidents lead me to explore the sin of narcissism. To be clear, I have no desire to bash on pastors; as an ordained minister myself, I know that it’s not helpful to pile on servants. Still (and you’ll note this in my take-aways) the American church and its leadership are in need of healthy accountability and this narcissism must be confronted.

If you’re reading this, you’re likely either a pastor or someone interested in the expansion of churches for the kingdom. Regardless of your position, I’m hoping you can use they words to glean some info and use it for positive changes in the church.

THE STORY SELDOM TOLD
Narcissism in a religious leader can have massive spiritual ramifications. Worshippers tend to put spiritual figures on pedestals so, when they fail, it has far reaching resonance. Unfortunately, it appears that narcissism is on the rise or, at the very least, that we’re finally acknowledging it. Generally, it’s believed that only 1% of the population has Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD); of this amount, the vast majority are men. Although that number isn’t too alarming, a 2015 study of Canadian pastors revealed that nearly 30% of respondents had NPD. Despite the average age of respondents being 60 years old, the NPD numbers are struggling. I can’t think that the emerging generations of pastors will struggle with narcissism less than their predecessors.

In presenting the research about pastoral narcissism, the study clarified what many often misunderstand about this disorder. We think that the narcissist is merely in love with himself. In reality, as the study affirms, “narcissism is more about shame and self-hatred . . . seeing oneself not as guilty of something separate from oneself, but . . . broken, ugly, and beyond repair. This shame is unbearable and must be defeated.”

The researchers continue, “shame is so intolerable to the narcissist that he develops various means to block it entirely from his experience. Instead, the shame is directed outward towards others—it can never be his or her fault. Thus the narcissist, who cannot be wrong, is vaulted into the role of victim when something goes wrong, which in itself is a powerful role.”

When the narcissistic pastor frames himself as the victim in these situations, he is actually likening himself to Jesus, mistakenly casting detractors in the roles of the Pharisees and the Roman government. The pastor with NPD would frame himself as the persecuted and scorned—as one caught in the midst of a spiritual battle. He’s forced to persevere in the light of unjust circumstances, believing that he’s carrying his cross for the kingdom.

A FIGHTER BY HIS TRADE
The quote at the beginning of this post is one I’ve often quoted. It makes sense since Simon and Garfunkel’s The Boxer is one of my favorite songs.

Written in 1965, The Boxer is a song about a man who has grappled with poverty and loneliness. He moves to New York to seek his fortune, and, though the realities of his world were brutal, he found success in boxing ring. While he emerged from the arena victoriously, his life still lacks comfort as the crowds see the boxer as nothing more than a source of entertainment; the punches that the man absorbed in the ring are similar to the metaphorical blows he’s taken from critics. In the end, he walks away, leaving it all behind.

Paul Simon wrote this as a catharsis to a life experience. As he and his musical partner Art Garfunkel catapulted to fame in the mid-60’s, the began to experience intense backlash from their growing popularity.

Yet as I examine the lyrics of the song, I see the life trajectory of most narcissistic pastors I’ve encountered.

These leaders generally have humble origins; their lack of pedigree meant they weren’t well-known as they started their career. But as they found success, they became lauded for their depth and brilliance, and the scope of their spiritual influence expanded. Even though they grew to bask in the limelight of pastoral celebrity culture, they still struggled to believe they truly belonged. Thus, they masked their shame, their brokenness, and the ugliness of not being enough. They then focused their ire on detractors while calling down curses on the haters. Grappling with self-hatred, they were like a bomb waiting to explode.

I’m not sure that Paul Simon was narcissistic when he channeled his experiences in writing The Boxer. Nor do I believe that all pastors that emerge from modest contexts are prone to this sin. Still, I think we need to acknowledge that ministers may have baggage that impacts the way they view their kingdom work. No matter how you slice it, narcissism isn’t redeemable. It needs to be called out and confronted.

CHANGES UPON CHANGES
The problem with the sin of pastoral narcissism is that it’s difficult to recognize it before it’s too late. The key, then, is for pastors to arrange their lives so they operate in systems to prevent it from happening. Three things that should value here:

1. Internal accountability
I get leery when I work with churches where the lead pastor is THE leader of the congregation. The model of church governance from the book of Acts is leadership by group. A plurality of voices (both staffers and volunteers) creates the environment for mutual submission. As much as we love the idea of visionary leader, churches are better (and more biblical) when power is dispersed among multiple people.

2. External accountability
I’ve always served in non-denominational settings. While I prefer autonomous churches/ministries, I see the benefit of denominational structures, especially when they provide accountability outside of the local church. In the absence of this, pastors ought to have healthy friendships with other church leaders. Ministers need to let other ministers speak prophetically into their lives. This, combined with internal congregational accountability, create a dynamic where the Spirit can speak to the pastor through a myriad of relationships. It’s a web that, conceivably, limits the possibility of narcissism.

3. Self accountability
There’s a great power that accompanies the ability to speak into the spiritual lives of other humans. When the preacher believes that he or she has a special position in the kingdom of God, that’s when this power can be corrupted. Braggadocious pastors always leave me concerned because they have seemingly forgotten the source of their spiritual power. We hold ourselves accountable when we’re in pursuit of humility. If you aspire to lead in Christ’s church, I suggest a deep study of Philippians 2 to see how the Savior lived this out in His life.

Regardless of your place in the world, a consideration of the sin of pastoral narcissism should lead to self-reflection. We should all take the time to look in the mirror and ask ourselves difficult questions. As much as I’ve witnessed narcissism recently, I’m using these opportunities to determine if I too suffer from NPD. Writing all this out is essentially another way of holding myself accountable.

This is why we must constantly preach the gospel to ourselves. We’re not victims, nor are we Jesus. But unless we admit that we’re in desperate need of His grace, we have little hope in being used by Him to make His kingdom come.

Jesus and John Wayne: Just History

How did the American church become so fractured?

At the end of 2020, Liveright Publishing released a book that attempted to address this issue. In Jesus and John Wayne, How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation, Kristen Kobes Du Mez explores the recent history of the American church, specifically, from an evangelical perspective. Du Mez is a professor of history and gender studies at Calvin College, a Christian Reformed university in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She brings a level of scholarship to a topic that has engulfed many Christians throughout the pandemic: when and why did American evangelicals become obsessed with political power? Du Mez suggests that this has been decades in the making, the result of a flawed faith system, and in reality, a religion constructed on masculinity and nationalism.

Du Mez isn't the first person to launch such a critique, nor is she the first academic to take a research-based approach to explaining it. Yet her book is striking a chord, resonating with readers both Christian and skeptic alike. Du Mez thoughtfully exposes topics that evangelicals have long ignored. As a result, this is an important work and should push the American church to do better as we wield the gospel.

While I appreciate her desire to make American Christians address the missteps of our forefathers, I was also extremely frustrated while reading Jesus and John Wayne As someone who agrees with her on multiple points, there were many times when I felt her math was mistaken. In my view, Du Mez was selective with her research, avoiding key counterpoints, to prove her hypothesis.

If you haven’t read the book, you might want to stop reading my take. Or perhaps you may want to use my thoughts as a primer before you dive into the book. Regardless, I took copious notes of Jesus and John Wayne thinking that I’d write a multitiered reflection on it. But because I want this to be a constructive critique, I focus on the titular character and what I believe Du Mez misses in her analysis of the American church’s understanding of masculinity and nationalism.

DECONSTRUCTING JOHN WAYNE
Throughout the book, the author suggests a generation of Christian men (and in turn, most of American Christianity) were influenced by the masculinity of John Wayne. Essentially I was one of those men. I didn’t arrive there through happenstance: my father was a veteran of the Vietnam War and part of the bonding experience he and my brothers participated in was watching John Wayne movies. Du Mez suggests this was an indoctrination, but I feel that she overstates that influence. While a fan of “the Duke,” I was also a child of the 1980’s; John Wayne died when I was three. I always viewed him as an historical figure; he was fascinating, but not an idol.

And while Du Mex uses Wayne’s life and movie career to define the current Christian patriarchy, she overlooks some key parts of his story. In fact, she avoids what is perhaps the most definitive role of his movie career.

The Man Who Shot Liberty Vallance is one of the most lauded of John Wayne’s films. In 1962 director John Ford, who was in the twilight of his career, decided to make a movie featuring two aging stars: John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart. It was shot on a Hollywood soundstage so missing in production are the sweeping views of the Wild West that Ford featured in Stagecoach and She Wore A Yellow Ribbon. Ford is one of the most prolific directors of American westerns and could be credited with making John Wayne a star. An aside I’ve always found fascinating: Ford devoted the years of the Second World War to using his skills in the fight against the Nazis; a navy commander, he was actually present on Omaha Beach on D-Day.

The hyper-masculinity that many associate with John Wayne was in fact the creation of John Ford.

If you’ve never watched Liberty Vallance, I’d suggest it or, at the very least, read Roger Ebert’s review of it. The movie is a flashback, a story told by a successful senator (Jimmy Stewart) who established his career in a wild west town. Returning to the town to attend the funeral of the cowboy (John Wayne), the senator’s arrival is a newsworthy event. The local newspaper, represented by a young reporter and a seasoned editor, press the senator to recount the event that made him successful: he was thrust onto a national stage because (spoiler alert) he shot the nefarious Liberty Vallance. Yet unbeknownst to the public, the senator’s defining moment of heroism was the action of the cowboy.

The central thesis of the movie is the exercise of power. The senator was a peace-loving man who believed in the rightness of law. The cowboy, the only character who stands up to Vallance, believes that violence is the only resort to challenge a corrupt bully. The cowboy struts along as he always does in John Wayne movies but, in the end, it’s the man of law and justice who survives and thrives.

With this movie, Ford lays to rest the mystique of John Wayne; he does this literally, as the movie centers around his character's funeral. Yes, Ford created the immortal image of the romanticized pioneer who tamed the range but in Liberty Vallance, life goes on without John Wayne. And, in fact, his death ushers in a new era. No longer is the projection of masculinity the gunslinging, punch-wielding cowboy but rather the gentle senator who not only gets the girl, but spends the movie standing up for the disenfranchised (women and minorities).

RECONSTRUCTING HISTORY
My breakdown of a movie made six decades ago seemingly has nothing in common with American Christianity, but it’s apt if we are to accept Du Mez’s articulation of the American church today. She opines that hyper-masculinity and nationalism are the cause of the fracture of the American church. If this is the case, we need to clearly delineate all the historical events that speak into this. My diatribe on The Man Who Shot Liberty Vallance stands as a contradiction to her thesis. How does John Ford’s final commentary on Western masculinity impact the current trajectory of the American church?

In response, I’m assuming that Du Mez would reject my take as either an outlier or a superfluous critique. But as a John Wayne movie fan (I also enjoy professional wrestling, so my culture palate is diverse), I can’t imagine avoiding Liberty Vallance when considering his career. To be clear, Du Mez offers anecdotes from Wayne’s personal life (most importantly, some of his racist comments) as an amplifier of this trend toward toxic masculinity. But she blurs the lines between the characters portrayed by John Wayne and what he personally believed. This, in my view, takes the critique beyond the work of the historian to that of cultural interpretation.

In a recent New York Times article, Du Mez highlighted the criticism she’s received from evangelicals about her book. When considering the impact her words could have on Christianity, she rejected any potential negative outcomes of her work by nothing that it’s purely history and “history isn’t a marketing campaign to win converts.”

Du Mez understands it as just history. This is why I struggled with the book: it’s more than just history.

Even though Du Mez is a trained historian, she identifies as a follower of Jesus and works at a Christian seminary. I’d argue that the reason the Du Mez’s book gained such popularity is because of her role on the faculty of a seminary. Her critique comes from what the masses perceive as a pastoral position. There’s a preference among scholars to view their contributions as merely academic endeavors—somehow staking a position participating in a process that hovers above orthopraxy (the practice of faith). But in situations like this, it is impossible to divorce the history (the collection/systemization of a series of events) from practical theology. Like it or not, her words have greater weight than that of a simple academician. It’s accepted as work of theology.

To be fair, Du Mez does solid work as a historian; her citations are many and diverse. But in her desire to prove her hypothesis correct, she approaches history more selectively than a secular theologian would. She takes advantage of the pastoral position to prove a case: American Christians refuse to address the flawed figures of our past. Even if she’s right, it’s not just history; it’s commentary on evangelicalism.

There’s nothing wrong with subjectivity unless you’re suggesting that it’s actually fact. And this isn’t to say that Du Mez doesn’t offer some compelling facts that many in the evangelical world have avoided Her blindspot, however, is exposed as she discusses those who have committed wrongs. For example, I take issue with Du Mez’s merciless critique of Billy Graham for his missteps. While his transgressions (his political exploits and hesitation to support parts of the Civil Rights struggles) should be confronted, they needn’t negate other areas of life where he made considerable positive impact; in fact, I appreciated the recent PBS documentary on Graham’s life (apparently directed by a non-Christian) that acknowledged personal failings but showing he learned from and moved beyond them. All humans have highs and lows; we should be careful not to summarize one’s contributions by their extremes.

CONFRONTING CYNICISM
Again I repeat that Du Mez’s work is important because American Christians can’t continue to ignore the skeletons in our closest. We should own the scandalous parts of our past as the current times make transparency inevitable. Jesus taught that the evil hate the light because their evil deeds will be illuminated (John 3); the digital world have made His words a reality. I’m thankful for Du Mez’s passion in exposing the sins of masculinity and nationalism yet her tone is far too cynical for my taste. If that’s how I, someone who agrees with many of her assertions, interprets the book, how can it be a force for positively impact? Unfortunately, this is lacking.

The effectiveness of biblical Christianity is rooted in the power of Gospel. And the power of the Gospel is realized in the application of redemption. While the hyper-masculinity and nationalism in the American church today bring me sadness, I cannot find any benefit in a complete rejection of anything associated with American evangelicalism. This movement is no more noble than any of its predecessors, but neither does it deviate from the template. All movements are flawed but the failings of humanity are redeemed by Christ. Sanctification is an elusive goal, but that doesn’t mean we stop trying.

The book led my thoughts to my father, who instilled in me a love John Wayne movies. He was not a war-monger; in fact, I can count on one hand how many times he discussed specific experiences from his time serving in Vietnam. He witnessed firsthand the brutality of war and was able to separate cinema from reality. He was my model of masculinity and nationalism and, in all things, his understanding of them were rooted in Christian identity. Yet I felt that Du Mez convicts him as guilty by association. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional (she has never met my father), but when we speak on spiritual things, we must always be pastoral. Otherwise, all we’ve done is throw logs on the fire of cynicism.

Cynicism is incompatible with the Gospel. This doesn’t mean we are forbidden to critique, but I believe Christians must follow deconstruction with reconstruction. The story of the Gospel is a story of hope through which we should consider all other human history. Yes, we’re still forced to confront evil and misdeeds, but we recognize that evil is powerless when compared to the message of Christian Scriptures. In the end, the Lord will rights all wrongs. In the end, corrupted systems and ideologies give way to the kingdom of God.

At the end of The Man Who Shot Liberty Vallance the characters struggle with what to do with their newfound truth; reality was far more complex than they ever imagined. When the newspaper editor nixes the true story the senator asks why. He responds, “this is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

In an inverted sense, this is what Du Mez decided with the recent history of American evangelicalism: she told a great story. Yet in order to accomplish this, she amplified all the wrongs and refused to give credit to the good it’s accomplished. The story of the church (yes, even the American church) cannot be fully told unless intertwined with the story of the Gospel—the continued journey of a people in pursuit of God while needing redemption.

That’s more than just history.