Journeys Home (21 page)

Listen to me! When God woke me up in college, and I began searching
for Jesus and rest for my soul, all the Baptists could give me
was a book. Thankfully, it was the New Testament. All the while,
right across the street from my dormitory was a Catholic church.
I was desperately searching for Jesus, and He was present in the
Tabernacle fifty yards away from me.
But nobody told me!

I can't say that I would have listened. But I can say that nobody
told me that Jesus was there. In fact, my anti-Catholic bias,
picked up from the pages of the Scofield Bible, left me with the
impression of Jesus sitting outside the Catholic Church on the
curb, alone and forlorn, while the worshippers gathered inside.

I didn't have to launch out across the ocean in a leaky boat with
no map. But I did. I left that unvisited Tabernacle far behind,
took a wife, went to seminary, took my first congregation, started
our family, and began my restless wandering.

I loved the Church, and I got that from the pages of Scripture.
Surprisingly, the Baptist seminary I attended emphasized quite
strongly the primacy of the local church with Christ as its head.
But already, in my first ministry, I began to realize that the
authority of Christ was not present in that congregation.

We left that denomination and tried an independent work, mostly
composed of Catholics who had left their church in the charismatic
renewal of the seventies. Those poor souls had never been instructed
in their own faith. They left Jesus in the Tabernacle to go wander
in the desert.

We met in a picnic shelter in a state park every Sunday to sing
new songs and learn the doctrines of C. I. Scofield under the
guise of teaching "just the Bible." During that time, I had the
opportunity to work fulltime and minister part-time, but after
five years I was restless and irritable again. Somewhere, there
had to be a real Church.

How could I find my way home when those who were already there
didn't stay? How could I find the life-giving Food my soul craved
when those who had dined on It despised It?

I created a tumult by leaving that church in the park in the hands
of the elders (I never was one) to attend a church that had just
welcomed our oldest daughter into its inaugural first-grade class.
No one understood what my soul needed. I certainly didn't. The
new church was part of a fellowship of churches with a statement
of faith devoted to Scofield's teaching, so I was happy. I was
even happier when, in a strange set of circumstances, that church
called me to be its pastor. After five years of hard work, the
school grew; the church did not. I was frustrated.

That kind of frustration multiplied, as did my listening for faint
whispers of whatever was missing in my ministry. Our denomination
had an aggressive missionary ministry around the world, including
France. We met some of the French missionaries, considered whether
our gifts and talents would be better used over there, and even
made a visit to explore the possibility.

My Scofieldism was still intact, and all the prophecy preachers
I trusted agreed that the Church would surely, surely be whisked
off the Earth before the year 2000. What better place to spend
our last years on Earth than right in the heart of Antichrist's
ten-nation confederacy taking shape before our very eyes in Europe?
That was at least one of my reasons for being interested.

As silly as it sounds, I can assure you that this doctrine has
millions under its sway. It would be difficult to estimate how
many zealous missionary endeavors are fueled by this kind of thinking.

Laura always had more common sense than I did, and so she always
listened with a yawn when I began lining up the prophetic "signs
of the times." But this time it was Laura who said, "Yes, let's
go to France." So we did. Trauma. Turmoil. Upset. Confusion. Uprooting
my children and throwing them into a whole new world really hurt
them, making it impossible for them ever to trust me again.

We all eventually adapted, of course, and all of us would go back
if we could. We all loved our six years in France. But we lost
sight of the Lord's face.

When I saw my children thrown to the wolves in French-speaking
schools, there was no amount of consolation or prayer that would
touch them. They learned to turn their hearts to the same degree
of stoniness they found in their classmates. As their dad, I couldn't
even go in at night to tuck them in and pray with them.

That move cost too much. I couldn't pray any more. I studied and
taught, but my private devotional life dried up. My hope was that
the Rapture would come as predicted, and then my children would
forgive me.

But Jesus didn't come. I was lost. I really was. I initiated theological
conflicts with my colleagues, thinking that fidelity to our statement
of faith was the way to restore order to our lives. I could no
longer live with authority that had deceived me.

What were we doing there anyway? France is a Catholic country,
n'est-ce pas?
Once again, I have to say that, though I met some
very vocal Catholics who tried to defend their faith, they simply
didn't know enough of what they believed to make an impression.
And they certainly didn't know enough of what I believed to be
able to counter it.

The closest I got to understanding a Catholic was once in a conversation
with a devout man lamenting the fact that some modern priest had
not baptized his infant son because, the priest said, it is better
to wait until he can profess faith. The baby fell sick, and the
priest did not arrive in time. The father was weeping as he told
me his baby was not born of the Spirit.

I tried to console him by saying that the Bible does not teach
that an infant is born again through baptism (for such we believed).
In exasperation, he replied, "Well, that may not be what the Bible
teaches, but it is what my Church teaches!"

He knew where authority lies. I did not. How sad that I spent
six years in a land full of empty church buildings that are little
more than museums. Woe to the shepherds who do not watch the flock!

While in France, I met the author of the only comprehensive biography
ever written of C. I. Scofield. It seems Scofield was incapable
of writing the notes that bear his name, and the origins of those
notes remain shrouded in mystery. It is clear, however, that this
system of thought was devised near the end of the nineteenth century.

I say this to my immortal shame: Woe unto shepherds when they
feed the sheep doctrine invented yesterday! As I shared my discoveries
with my colleagues in ministry, I was stunned to find that they
didn't care.

Our whole statement of faith was based on Scofield's system. Perhaps
they sensed the upheaval I would experience as I began to extract
myself from its influences. They simply didn't want to face it.

I needed time to sort it all out and discover just what I did
believe, what -- or whom -- I could trust. Our work in France
was done, and we were due for a year back home, after which we
could report for a new mission elsewhere in France. Our oldest
daughter was ready to enter college, and the others would follow
shortly after her.

We made the decision to return home permanently. I considered
stepping out of the ministry but knew that the theological questions
would not go away. I hoped to find a small church in our denomination
where I could devote time to extensive study and rethinking.

We found such a church and began to face the same trauma we had
faced in moving to France -- reverse culture shock. Our girls
were rootless and alone as they faced the challenges of American
life and culture. As their dad, I was changing so much that they
decided to tune me out.

I kept my public preaching and teaching within the bounds of our
statement of faith. But I knew that a crisis was coming. I tried
to develop a business on the side so that I might have something
to support me when it hit.

This was change number four for my family and the biggest trauma
I had ever faced. My world was shaken. I felt betrayed by men
I had trusted to teach me the Word of God.

I didn't know how to approach the Scriptures. The issue of authority
was now a wide-open question. I began reading everything and anyone,
some of it quite novel and bizarre.

But, of course, I read no Catholics. They were the enemy. The
question spurring me on was this: "Who has the authority to speak
for God?" I had to conclude from the very apparent evidence: anyone,
absolutely anyone. Anybody can start a church; anyone can get
on the radio or TV and speak in Jesus' name.

I had painted myself into a corner. Our denomination was composed
of autonomous churches voluntarily cooperating in a fellowship
that we insisted was not a denomination. There was no hierarchy,
no central authority, only voluntary organizations formed from
the churches to accomplish various tasks such as foreign mission
work, education, or the planting of new churches.

We had groups of pastors in a region that met in what we called
a ministerium. This group had no authority over the churches.
Though we would examine a man for ordination, for example, it
was his own local church that ordained him. Each church owned
its own property and incorporated independently of any other authority.

I raised certain questions in our ministerium in regard to our
statement of faith, a woefully inadequate document that essentially
said: "We believe the Bible, and the Bible teaches this ..." followed
by fourteen headings (not explained) of what we believe. I had
hoped to initiate a district-wide study of certain of these headings
that I had become convinced were not taught in the Bible. Not
even the terminology could be found in the Bible.

I had realized that a study of these things could lead to my resignation.
But I had hoped at least to provoke some others to rethink these
things in order to avoid the damage they create when taught and
believed.

I should have known better. I was too weary in mind and spirit,
though. My mind was constantly racing in those days as I studied
some new aspect of my quest and had to make room for it in my
theology. I was constantly shifting everything, because one new
doctrine affects all the others.

I felt as if my mind were one of those puzzles with sliding tiles
and one empty spot that allows you to shift everything around
to get a picture or a message. I was shuffling those tiles frantically
in my mind, night and day, trying to put it all together. I prepared
a document for my colleagues, outlining my concerns. But it was
too pointed, too critical, and too intimidating.

I should have foreseen their reaction. They simply wanted to know
if I believed our statement of faith. No study. Very little discussion.
I said no. They said, "Then you must resign."

I was imbued with the spirit of Martin Luther at this point. I
said, "I do believe what our statement of faith affirms in its
one opening statement, that the Bible alone is our source for
all doctrine and practice. I do believe the Bible. But I do not
believe the Bible teaches some of the fourteen points listed,
and I can demonstrate that to you."

They again asked me to resign. I was perverse enough at this point
to realize that one reason they wanted me to resign was because
they had no authority to take any action. I pressed my point.

"No," I said. "I will not resign, because I want you to go on
record as saying that all fourteen articles of our faith are taught
in the Bible."

What I had hoped to accomplish is not at all clear in my mind.
I suppose I had a bit of a martyr complex. It had taken me more
than twenty-five years to get to that point, and I wasn't going
to turn back.

I had the full support of the leadership of my church, as I kept
them posted on all the proceedings. I fasted for several days
and went to face my sentence. The ministerium met and determined
that they would have to remove me from the list of approved ministers
in our denomination.

I smiled inwardly because I knew that no such list existed. They
could not, and in fact did not, revoke my ordination. But I got
the point. They threw me out.

As this incident was reported by others, I had been "defrocked."
That was not true. Had I known this was how it would be viewed,
I would have simply resigned. I think. I cannot speak for my state
of mind at that time. The congregation of my church then had to
decide to ask me to resign or leave the fellowship. I offered
my resignation, arranged a business meeting of the congregation,
and invited officials from the ministerium to come address the
meeting while I left town. The church overwhelmingly voted to
leave the fellowship, which they were perfectly free to do in
the voluntary association we had.

Once again, the telling of the tale was worse than the act. Word
was that I "stole" the church from our fellowship. It is difficult
for a Catholic to understand the structure of independent, autonomous
churches in denominations like ours. But the congregation owned
that church, and at the end of the ordeal, they still did.

Had I exercised better judgment, however, I would have resigned
and moved on, if for no other reason than the rest I needed. I
now found myself at the head of a congregation eager to learn
what I had been unable to teach them up to that point. In addition,
I wanted to find a new denomination for us to join.

We finally settled on the Reformed camp of Protestants because
they at least had historical roots back to the Reformation. This
camp included all the various Presbyterian denominations. History
was becoming important to us.

Here I absolutely ran out of gas. Mainline Reformed denominations
were already straying far from the Bible as their authority, and
that left me with the disgruntled, the divisive, the self-righteous,
and the confused Reformed and Presbyterian pastors, most of whom
were trying to form new denominations. I finally settled on a
medium-sized Presbyterian group that had its problems but would
give us some identity and sense of history.