I haven’t stopped thinking about Andy Crouch’s piece on Christians and celebrity since I first read it. Two reasons for this, I think.
One: I have spent several years now in Christian institutions, movements, and networks that are particularly afflicted with this problem. In many of our strongest, most trendsetting evangelical people and places, platform is what matters above all. The rat race is on. Even spaces that purportedly exist to train future ministers adapt a ruthlessly celebritarian mindset when it comes to how their stuff is run. In every situation where I’ve experienced this, there was a total lack of self-awareness as to the culture this mindset was creating. Everyone was in denial. Gospel-centeredness was supposed to make us immune to that sort of thing…right?
Two: My Dad was a pastor for over twenty years. His legacy is one of faithful obscurity. That hasn’t always sat well with me. I’ve struggled with the idea that my Dad’s war wounds in tireless ministry (in 20 years of pastoring, we took one (1) 2-week vacation as a family; no sabbatical, no furlough, no breaks) somehow will mean less than the blogs and podcasts of M.Div. students who were fortunate enough to be social media savvy at the right time in American evangelical history. Watching a Spirit-filled, Jesus-obsessed, family-treasuring, church-serving father has challenged my instincts about what matters in conservative evangelicalism.
So, Andy’s piece resonated deeply with me. Please don’t get the idea that I write as somebody who think he’s “above it all.” Quite the contrary. Just last week I had to pray earnestly that God would help me rejoice with friends who were rejoicing in their growing platforms. Jealousy is pathetic. I could not possibly recall all the ways that I am blessed beyond measure right now, but I still have to hit my knees to avoid bitterness at friends (friends!) who seem to be getting what I want and don’t have.
That’s the point. A cavernous thirst for more success, more publicity, more book deals, more Retweets, more “Likes,” more speaking invitations…all that is perfectly ordinary. It’s perfectly worldly. It’s the way that successful and ambitious people have to think if they want to get ahead. It’s not shocking that CEOs do this. It’s shocking when disciples of Jesus Christ do it too. In the world, such an attitude is normal. In the church it is (or should be) spiritual warfare.
Andy’s essay is an alarm that something is broken, not being fixed, and has destroyed much and will destroy much more if we don’t repent. I believe this. I believe that the half-dozen scandals of conservative evangelical churches and movements that I can think of merely as I’m typing this are a warning. The brokenness is not in our theology, it’s in our desires. It’s not the people who rarely or never go to church, it’s those of us who scramble to go to every conference. We need more visits to graves. We need a churchyard faithfulness.
Churchyard faithfulness is the gospel among the tombstones. It’s ambition that’s pointed down, not up. Churchyard faithfulness is the non-extraordinary, non-Instagrammable, non-TED Talkable life of quiet obedience, patient chastity, behind-the-scenes generosity, anonymous service, and low-profile Christlikeness. It’s the sanctification of memento mori: Remember your death, and live your life and position your joy as if no one will be able to find your tombstone in a churchyard 100 years from now.
Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” is more than a beautiful poem. It’s a manifesto about the kingdom. In the poem, Gray observes a collection of anonymous, seemingly unremarkable graves. Do these unremarkable graves reveal meaningless lives? On the contrary:
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
The picture attached to this post is of a church my wife and I passed on the way home from an Easter dinner. The church’s parking lot was closed for some reason and the grounds are right off a busy highway, so unfortunately the best I could do was slow down to look and let her take a picture. The beauty of the sight smote my soul. The church was small but its white steeple contrasted against the grey churchyard in a way that exploded with spiritual meaning for me. I felt there was something deeply correct about a graveyard connected to a church. The two places seem to exist in harmony.
The virus at the center of evangelical celebrity culture is the virus of mortality forgetfulness. Churchyard faithfulness is not fun. It may not let you buy your dream home. It won’t ensure that people know your name (in fact, it may prevent it!). But churchyard faithfulness is the faithfulness that lives in the shadow of mortality. It’s reined in by the humility that comes from considering how well the world runs without you and how well it will run long after you are an Ancestry.com pop-up. The sight of the churchyard makes the rat race feel ridiculous. That’s how we as Christians need to feel about it.
Churchyards are hard to find nowadays. The modern church planting movements don’t see much value in them. But I love how Russell Moore once described the spiritual value of graves on church grounds:
When you get a moment, find an old church graveyard and walk through it. Not for the goose bumps or ghost stories, of course, but to remind yourself of some matters of eternal weight. Walk about and see the headstones weathered and ground down by the elements. Contemplate the fact that beneath your feet are men and women who once had youthful skin and quick steps and hectic calendars, but who are now piles of forgotten bones. Think about the fact that the scattered teeth in the earth below you once sang hymns of hope–maybe “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder I’ll Be There” or “When We All Get to Heaven.”
They are silent now. But they will sing again. They will preach again. They will testify again.
Those singing voices are not the voices of the platformed. They’re not the voices of the supremely talented, the exceptionally skilled or the really, really ridiculously good looking. They’re the voices of the kingdom. They will one day inherit the earth. And at that moment we will swear we knew their names all along.