To many people unaffiliated with a church, and even to some who are, "church" means being among other people who are just like you: look like you, talk like you, think like you, work and play like you, and believe like you.  It is part of foundational human behavior built into our DNA - we are inclined to form ourselves into groups ("tribes," as author Seth Rogen likes to call them).  And we are inclined to do so based on some common shared characteristic.  The problem for the church comes when we let this, and not the gospel, be what defines us.

I'm convinced, along with lots of other folks, that if the American church of the 21st century is going to flourish and live into its calling in the future, it must first clear this hurdle.  And it's got to be more than simply opening our doors and saying a hearty, "Y'all come!"  Instead, we're going to need to seek out those who are not like us and engage them on their own turf.  It also means not allowing doctrine and dogma to supercede the relational nature of the body of Christ - as Paul said, and certainly got raked over the coals, we are all one in Christ Jesus. No single truth is as simple and as scandalous.

I don't know if it's reassuring or depressing that the same problems we face today in the church were faced by that Galatian church a mere 25 years after the end of Jesus' earthly life.  I guess it depends on how you look at it.  The thing is, if we're going to clear this hurdle, we have to intentionally put ourselves in those uncomfortable positions where we, ironically, are not the authority - for that is how we demonstrate to those on the outside of the church that it is not about us, it was never about us, but it was and is always about God.  And we have to be creative in how we do it - not for creativity's sake, but to demonstrate in bold and convincing fashion that we are truly willing to move on from what has not worked and plunge head-first into the unknown and into what may actually work this time.

And that is why I will forever love the story told by author Don Miller in his book Blue Like Jazz, of the Confession Booth.  If you aren't familiar with this story, I dare you to read it below and tell me on the other side that you're not changed. If you've heard it before, don't pass up an opportunity to read it again.

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Each year at Reed College they have a festival called Ren Fayre.  They shut down the campus so students can party.  Security keeps the authorities away, and everybody gets pretty drunk and high.  Some of the Christian students in our little group decided this was a pretty good place to let everybody know there were a few Christians on campus.  I said we should build a confession booth in the middle of campus and paint a sign on it that said, CONFESS YOUR SINS.  I said this because I knew a lot of people would be sinning, and Christian spiritually begins by confessing our sins and repenting.  I also said it as a joke.
            But Tony thought it was brilliant.  He sat there on my couch with his mind in the clouds, and he was scaring me because I actually believed he wanted to do it.
            “We are not going to do this,” I told him.
            “Oh, we are, Don.  We are going to build a confession booth!”
            Nadine smiled.  “They may very well burn it down,” she said.
            “Okay you guys.”  Tony gathered everybody's attention.  “Here's the catch. We are not actually going to accept confessions.”  We all looked at him in confusion.  He continued.  “We are going to confess to them.  We are going to confess that, as followers of Jesus, we have not been very loving; we have been bitter, and for that we are sorry.  We will apologize for the Crusades, we will apologize for those televangelists who steal people's money, we will apologize for neglecting the poor and the lonely, we will ask them to forgive us, and we will tell them that in our selfishness we have misrepresented Jesus on this campus.  We will tell people who come into the booth that Jesus loves them.”
            All of us sat there in silence because it was obvious that something beautiful and true had hit the table.  We all thought it was a great idea.  It would feel so good to apologize, to apologize for the Crusades, for Columbus and the genocide he committed in the Bahamas in the name of God. I wanted so desperately to apologize for the many ways I had misrepresented the Lord. 
            So we set to work on the confession booth throughout the beginning of Ren Fayre.  And the further along we got on the booth, though, the more I began to wonder if our idea was such a hot one.  As we began to put the finishing touches on it, someone opened up the curtain and walked in, saying they were our first customer.
            “What's up, man?”  Duder sat himself on the chair with a smile on his face.  He said his name was Jake.  “So, what is this?  I'm supposed to tell you all of the juicy gossip I've done at Ren Fayre, right?”
            “No.”
            “Okay, then what?  What's the game?”  he asked.
            “Not really a game.  More of a confession thing.”
            “You want me to confess my sins, right?”
            “No, that's not what we're doing, really.”
            “What's the deal, man?”
            “Well, we are a group of Christians here on campus, you know.”
            “I see.  Strange place for Christians, but I am listening.”
            “Thanks,” I told him.  He was being very patient and gracious.  “Anyway, there is this group of us, just a few of us who were thinking about the way Christians have sort of wronged people over time.  You know, the Crusades, all that stuff....”
            “Well, I doubt you personally were involved in any of that.”
            “No, I wasn't,” I told him.  “But the thing is, we are followers of Jesus.  And we believe he represented certain ideas that we have not done a good job at representing.  He has asked us to represent Him well, and we've failed him in that.”
            “I see,” Jake said.
            “So there is this group of us on campus who wanted to confess to you.”
            “You are confessing to me!”  Jake said with a laugh.
            “Yeah.  We are confessing to you.  I mean, I am confessing to you.”
            “You're serious.”  His laugh turned to something of a straight face.
            I told him I was.  He looked at me and told me I didn't have to.  I told him I did, and I felt very strongly in that moment that I was supposed to tell Jake that I was sorry for everything.
            “What are you confessing?”  he asked.
            “Well, there's a lot.  I will keep it short.  Jesus said to feed the poor and to heal the sick.  I have never done very much about that.  Jesus said to love those who persecute me.  I tend to lash out, especially if I feel threatened.  Jesus did not mix His spirituality with politics.  I grew up doing that.  I know all of this was wrong, and I know that a lot of people will not listen to the words of Christ because people like me, who know Him, carry our own agendas into the conversation rather than just relaying the message Christ wanted to get across.  So I've not been a good follower of Jesus.  There's a lot more, you know.”
            “It's all right, man,” Jake said, very tenderly.  His eyes were starting to water.
            “Well,” I said, clearing my throat, “I am sorry for all of that.”
            “I forgive you,” Jake said.  And he meant it.
            “Thanks,” I told him.
            He sat there and looked at the floor, then into the fire of a candle.  “It's really cool what you guys are doing,” he said.  “A lot of people need to hear this.”
            “I don't know whether to thank you for that or not,” I laughed.  “I have to sit here and confess all my crap.”
            He looked at me very seriously.  “It's worth it,” he said.  He shook my hand, and when he left the booth there was somebody else ready to get in.  It went like that for a couple of hours.  I talked to about thirty people, and Tony took confessions on a picnic table outside the booth.  Many people wanted to hug me when we were done.
            All of the people who visited the booth were grateful and gracious.  I was being changed through the process.  And I think those who came into the booth were being changed, too.

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I'm not saying this single thing is the answer to all the church's woes (although part of me loves the idea of trying this out sometime).  I'm simply suggesting that the thinking that led to this is what the church needs today - in order to remain faithful, relevant, true to its mission to transform lives and even the world.

So - what do you think?  What new ideas does the church today need to put into action?

I am standing beside a tiny creek that runs parallel to Hwy. 103, about a mile outside of Mount Airy.  I'm in that area where the ground becomes less firm, and I can feel my black Sunday dress shoes giving in to the soft earth.  I am there with a dozen or so folks, including the family who invited me to be here with them after their loved one died in late spring; invited me to join them behind the small structure on the side of the road that used to house the family store. We've come to this place to spread the ashes of their beloved wife and mother in the creek behind the old store; a space that has deep meaning for them.  Sacred spaces can be hallowed sanctuaries of brick and mortar and stained glass, but they can also be a small creek off a remote highway.  And that is where we are now.

I am standing there with the full realization that I've never done anything like this before.  Funerals and memorial services, graveside committals, even the burying of ashes - I've done plenty of those in my nearly 17 years of ministry.  But spreading ashes in a creek?  This is something new.

They are looking at me to tell me they're ready to begin.  I've planned out a few things to say - but I've also left a lot of space, because I've done this sort of thing long enough to know when I need to script it out and when I need to step aside and get out of the way.  And so I begin by acknowledging the beautiful day, by reading a few scriptures about rivers and water, and by telling them how rivers are a metaphor for life: they flow constantly, and they only flow one way.  There's no reversing the course of the river, and there's no way to stop the water from running the way it goes.  Life, it turns out, acts much the same way.  And so as we commit these ashes to the waters, knowing they will be taken somewhere, I tell them that we commit our loved one to the journey that we are not yet able to go on ourselves.  But one day it'll be our time to take a trip down the river, where we will meet our God and the loved one who went on before us.

I've said all I need to say.  I motion to the widower and his middle-aged daughters, and together the three remove their shoes and step out into the creek, where the water's flow is strongest.  Those standing on the bank are tossing small flowers in, and it is a beautiful scene.

And that is when Mumford & Sons' "Awake My Soul" starts playing.

I'd almost forgotten that they told me they were going to do this - a song they said she loved.  With us unaware, the son-in-law had pulled the car up behind the small gathering and opened its windows, and now the space is filled with that familiar, flowing octave-D intro.  Small flowers continue to fill the air and water as the words come....

        How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes
        I struggle to find any truth in your lies
        And now I am certain of things I don't know
        My weakness I feel I must finally show.

It is never easy to let go of our loved ones when it is their time.  We are created to live; and while dying is a part of life, it's that part further down the river that we can't see.  So we are afraid of it, for ourselves and for others.  And yet, in order to let go, we have to go into our weakness - just as these three were doing, stepping into the chilly water and onto the rocky uneven creek bed, holding each other's hands for both physical and emotional stability.... 

        Lend me your hand and I'll conquer them all
        But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall
        Lend me your eyes, I can change what you see
        But your soul you must keep totally free

They open the plastic bag and tip the end down so the ashes begin their descent into the flowing waters. The journey has begun.  And as the water turns a smoky white, the descant fills the air around us like a musical benediction:

        Awake, my soul
        Awake, my soul

Yes, we are on holy ground, the likes of which I've never been on before.  

        In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
        Where you invest your love, you invest your life.

Memories of this person flow through my mind as her ashes now flow through the waters.  Her love for music and the people who shared that love.  Her passion for basketball - which reminds me of the last conversation I had with her at the Hospice home days before her death, when she snapped out of her cancer-driven fog long enough to describe in great detail the ball she was passing to me on some distant court.   Her amazing ability to get along with everyone and smile perpetually, even as her body failed her.  This woman had invested her love in so many places with so many people, and because of that her life would live on long after her remains made their way through the water into the woods.

The bag is now empty, and all the ashes have been sent on their way.  And so the three step out of the water and back on to the marshy land.  Tears fill their eyes, as they are filling the eyes of the rest of us.  A flowing water of a different kind.  The song is now picking up its tempo; the soft-flowing melody making way for the pulsing celebration as the creek begins to return to its normal color...

        Awake my soul
        Awake my soul
        Awake my soul
        You were made to meet your maker