Ten years ago I had never heard of the emerging church. Oh, I was reading postmodern philosophy and asking all sorts of questions that were getting me in trouble, but I had no idea that there were other Christians discussing these sorts of ideas. I had just finished my first round of grad-school having studied Intercultural Studies and Missions at Wheaton College. I often had made my classmates (and a few of my professors) uncomfortable by asking why missions concepts like contextualization of the Gospel, socio-linguistic relativity, and intercultural difference could not also be applied to our own American culture. If it was okay to have the Gospel make sense culturally in some third world country, why couldn’t it make sense to all people in the United States?

But this was the era when “purpose driven” churches were cutting edge and where in a post-9/11 flag-draped America, homogeneity trumped authenticity. Facebook and Twitter were still years away, so it was a lot harder to discover that you weren’t the only one asking the crazy questions. Even so, it was early in 2002 when someone recommended to my husband and me that we might enjoy reading a book by this guy Brian McLaren. As others have often mentioned, what I discovered in A New Kind of Christian wasn’t completely new, but more of an affirmation that there were others exploring the same sorts of questions about faith as I was. And knowing that one is not alone holds a special power. Knowing that I didn’t have to ignore those nagging questions or divorce my intellect from my faith saved my faith. Instead of a hollow and confining static system, it had been transformed into a living reality.

Knowing that there were others out there meant I had to find them – which is where The Ooze enters in. I found that community online, and more specifically its message boards. I created a profile with a fake name (MaraJade) and a false avatar and jumped in with both feet. Over the next few years the evolution of my faith played out on those boards. I eventually added my real name as virtual friendships morphed into physical ones, but it was there that I began to re-imagine theology, and church, and what it even meant to be a Christian. While it was not always the safest place to explore such questions in a public forum, it was the only place where such dialogue could even occur. It is amusing now to think as The Ooze shuts down that all these old conversations, these snapshots of a faith in transition, will now be archived at Fuller Seminary. I pity the sociologist of religion who will sift through them someday for her dissertation.

But as the conversation grew, territories were claimed and lines began to be drawn. Certain groups declared that there was a range of acceptable questions (generally permitting the re-imagining of worship practices but not theological stances) and they (loudly) denounced the rest of us. Others set up camp as either for the Ooze or for Emergent Village – competing for publishing contracts, conference speaking spots, and (of course) advertising dollars. Those of us involved in both observed that tension and felt like we were being made to choose sides. Looking back, it seems so silly that in a conversation about deconstructing the systems of modernism in favor of re-imaging a wholistic and healthy way to be the church such petty fights would ever be waged, but I guess that is the way of man (and I intentionally used the masculine there). For me the conversation was holy in whatever guise it took.

I never made it to a Soularize until this year and I regret that. But there was still something intriguing to enter into that space ten years on and discover where the past decade has taken the conversation. In a struggling economy the trappings of financial success have long since lost the power to sway the conversation. Petty differences have given way to collaboration as those who believe that re-imagining church for a postmodern world is more than just the latest trend to follow. The angst of needing to constantly deconstruct where we all have been has mellowed into a loosely held space where dreams and critique coexist. The urgency to fix the world has passed while the passion to hope for a better world remains.

In short, the emerging conversation I encountered at Soularize this year was one of hope. While it might not burn as brightly as it once did, a bonfire requires too much empty energy to sustain itself. What we have left is a smoldering movement – not in the negative sense of having been reduced to ashes, but of the sort of long-burning coals that warm homes and bake bread. And there are still new people joining the conversation – asking their own questions and desperately attempting to cling to their faith in meaningful ways. But how they enter in looks different now that there are those of us who have matured in this conversation for the past ten years or more there to welcome them in.

Groups like Soularize and The Ooze may be winding down, but that is because the conversation has shifted. We no longer just need space for questions; we need space to build as well. Learning parties are no longer just about questions, they are also about formulating responses with our lives. I am grateful for this last Soularize for serving as a transition in that shift. And I am looking forward to what lies ahead.

And yes, that must be mentally read to the Fiddler on the Roof tune.

Recent discussions here brought up the need to respect and submit to the authority of tradition in the church. Those of us in emerging discussion based churches were accused of just being individualists with no higher authority but ourselves. We were asked what church authority we submit to in the faith with the assumption that everyone should be submitting to someone. Such things like liturgy were championed because they are rooted in tradition and hence are often put forth as therefore the appropriate way to do church. This is a discussion popular in the church these days – even in emerging circles. We have Phyllis Tickle saying that the future of the church is in the hyphenateds – traditional denominations that are engaging the emerging conversation. Jim Belcher's recent book, Deep Church, suggests an alternative to emerging Christianity is to have the church rooted in tradition, specifically the conservative reformed Presbyterian tradition. And Brian McLaren even recently affirmed what Richard Rohr said about the need for Emergents to be rooted in tradition -

It seems to me that the emerging church is emerging because people are finding the ability to have a grateful foot in both camps—one in the Tradition (the mother church) along with another foot inside of a support group that parallels, deepens, broadens, grounds, and personalizes the traditional message. But you don’t throw out the traditional message, or you have to keep rebuilding the infrastructure or creating a superstructure all over again.

I get all that. I see the beauty of tradition. I see the futility in think we are building something from scratch. I don't think tradition should be scoffed at or rejected. I'm not anti-tradition.

It's just that none of those are my traditions. I have never been rooted in liturgical practice. I didn't grow up in denominations with catechisms and standard hymnals and theological tomes that cannot be questioned. I feel no allegiance to Luther, or Calvin, or Barth. I know I am influenced by them and owe my faith to the path they laid, but I've never been part of that tribe. I guess I could choose to adopt their tradition as my own just like I could decide that I wanted to become thoroughly culturally Chinese, but at the moment I feel no inclination to become Lutheran (or Chinese).

I know I am part of a great tradition. My faith does not exist in a vacuum – I respect and am grateful for the heritige of my faith. But I get uneasy with the repeated insistence that I must have at least one foot planted firmly in some tradition in order to have a holistic and healthy faith. I am told that I am rejecting tradition in pursuit of an individualistic faith if I do not. But honestly how can I reject something I never had? Those aren't my tribes. I am just a low-church mutt who has found her place in the emerging conversation.

So given that – the question becomes "is tradition necessary for faith?" Or, can I be a Christian outside of a historic tradition or must I choose to align myself with an established tradition in order to be truly faithful? I know that's the Catholic and Orthodox stance – but is it the official stance of the Lutherans, or Presbyterians, or Anglicans, or the emerging hyphenateds thereof? Must I choose one of those tribes? Or is there actually room for building new infrastructure and making a tribe out of us fringe immigrants who have no home?

This discussion is often framed as a dichotomy between tradition and rejection thereof – but not all of us fit neatly into those two categories. There needs to be room for us too – even if that requires changing the nature of this whole discussion.

Hearing this perspective on church, I couldn't help but recall our experiences visiting churches in Europe on our honeymoon. Mike and I took ten weeks backpacking through Europe for our honeymoon – needless to say, we visited a a lot of churches. Most of these churches were simply museums – places for tourists to admire art and architecture. Any staff present at the churches treated the tourists with disdain. Either they completely ignored us or were the watchdogs insisting that the rules of the church be abided by (silence, no photography, women's heads and shoulders covered…). I remember the incredulity of some who tried to bar our path during service times that we had shown up in truth for the service. So by the end of our trip, we were weary of visiting churches, sick of gilded church art, and had little expectation of encountering anything spiritual at any church we visited. But then we went to Holy Isle.

Holy Isle as it is called today is the historic site of Lindisfarne. In the 7th century St. Aidan came from Iona to establish a monastery there. He was the replacement for the previous missionary, Corman, who had written off the Northumbrians as too stubborn to be converted. Needless to say Aidan's predecessor had failed to learn the native language (English) and expected the people to simply come in droves to join the Christian church. Aidan on the other hand chose to be out amongst the people, serving them and meeting their needs. He is credited with Christianizing England, but did so as a servant leader inviting others to join him on God's mission. Given his story, I'm not surprised that the church on Holy Isle was unique among all the churches we visited that summer. After wandering in the drizzling rain through the ruins of the older monastery, we entered the current church and immediately encountered the priest. He welcomed us into the church, offered to tell us about the church and its history, and asked if we needed prayer or spiritual guidance. Like Aidan before him, he saw his job as serving the people (even us tourists). Lindisfarne has always been more than just the church building.

But I am amazed at how churches today continue to buy into this tourist mentality of church. A local megachurch here in Austin just completed a huge building project and now have a state of the art stadium/sanctuary. Their motto during the project – "if we build it they will come." Same thing with the baptist church I worked at. We had recently painted the entire inside of church and at a church council meeting the group started planning the celebration service to commemorate this major accomplishment. I asked what sort of outreach we would be doing to bring people into the renovated (painted) church. The response I got was – "we painted the church, that's our outreach." It's about attracting tourists who we assume want what we have and want to be just like us. But like the churches in Europe, just because a lot of people might actually walk through the doors doesn't mean they are having a spiritual experience or serving God's Kingdom.

On our honeymoon I got sick of visiting amazing structures that were hollow and unwelcoming. I understand why the world is sick of church. But I'm not ready to give up on the church – just the come and see mentality. I prefer to follow in the footsteps of St. Aidan – serving others and inviting them to be a part of God's missional community.

While on one hand I find this amusing. Does Blue Like Jazz really need a warning label? You've got to be pretty sheltered if you find that book dangerous. But on the other hand I'm disturbed by the unspoken implication that the other books sold at their website don't need as much discernment while reading. Apparently, if something agrees with historical evangelical theology then it gets a pass on reading with a critical eye. We only need to be discerning about those that are discerning about historical evangelical theology since such opinions are only valuable to those those who engage them "strictly for critical study and research." So if an author encourages us to love others, portrays God in feminine form, or narrates a road trip with friends we need to be extra discerning. But if Beth Moore takes every other verse out of context then it's all good because we don't need to critically engage with someone safe.

I'd say either drop the label (or replace it with the "This Book is Dangerous" label they seem to be intending) or stick it on every book. I'd love to see extra discernment and critical thought applied to the typical devotional or Woman's Bible Study. Discernment shouldn't just apply to things we disagree with. We are instructed as Christians to be as wise as serpents at all times – not just when the authorities tell us to be.

(HT – Jeromy)