Vulnerability is, well, a vulnerable thing, isn’t it?  My job as a pastor is highly relational, dealing with people from all different backgrounds on all manner of issues.  On one day I’ll be counseling a newly married couple on how to fight fair, another day helping a woman sort out the troubles she has faced in her life and understand where God fits among them, and the next day listening as a young man shares his strongly held vision for where he feels God wants him to use his time and talents.  All of these situations call for incredible vulnerability and trust on the part of those with whom I meet, as they trust me with the intimate details of their marriage, their history, and their heart. 

And then there is the vulnerability that comes from being a pastor and teacher.  As I prepare sermons, I am always reflecting on the Biblical passage or topic in order to see if I have personal stories that will help illustrate the point.  I have found that personal stories are often remembered long after the point of the message is forgotten, and are an integral part of helping the listener connect to me as their pastor and preacher.  But this sort of vulnerability never comes easy.  It is very common for me to go home on Sunday feeling very exposed, like I have put myself – my thoughts, opinions, and experience – out there for all to judge.

In a week and a half, our church will be holding a book discussion on a book called Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller.  Although this book has been around for four years now, and Miller has since released at least three other books, I continue to hear so many testimonies on how this book has affected people.  Unlike most books written by Christian authors, its impact isn’t so much because of the theology communicated or advice for spiritual living, but is due in large part to the manner in which Miller communicates.  Although Blue Like Jazz is one of my favorite books, I really wrestled with whether or not to choose this book for a church discussion, because Miller is so disarmingly honest, and I wasn’t sure how his vulnerability would be received.  Most Christian books teach you how to live – how to pray, how to be a better spouse, how to live up to your God-given potential; Blue Like Jazz is not that kind of book.  It is more like a memoir with theological reflection, filled with Miller’s excellent sense of humor and, yes, no holds barred vulnerability.

And in that vulnerability lies the biggest issue worth discussing, in my opinion.  Because Blue Like Jazz is written in some ways like a memoir, it is filled with thoughts and episodes not usually found in books written by Christian authors – stories of childhood bullying and lust, mockery of a Christian camp he attended, protests of George W. Bush’s foreign policy, and his love for his time at Reed College (selected by the Princeton Review as the college where students are most likely to ignore God).  Miller is candid about how difficult he is for his roommates to get along with, how much of a failure he can be at romantic relationships, and how difficult it is to call himself a Christian at times.  Maybe you can see how all of that messiness and honesty contributed to my uneasiness about choosing the book for discussion – after all, what can be learned from such a flawed person who is clearly no spiritual giant?  

Plenty.  Because I am convinced that when you read the Bible, you realize that the “heroes of the faith” tend to be no different – flawed people who nonetheless are chosen and loved by a God who is not too proud to be associated with them.  There is righteous Noah, passed out drunk in Genesis 9:21; Abraham, letting his wife be taken as a concubine by the Egyptian pharaoh out of self-preservation in Genesis 12; Isaac favoring his son Esau over Jacob, the one God has chosen in Genesis 25; and Jacob, cheating his brother, deceiving his father, and mistreating his wife in Genesis 27 and 29.  There is Peter, denying that he knows Jesus in Matthew 26.  And then there is God, calling himself the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob (Exodus 3:6, among others), and proclaiming that Peter is the rock upon which he will build his church (Matthew 16:18), forever associating himself with his flawed yet beloved followers.

For all who mistakenly believe that the Bible is a bunch of myths thought up by a religious group trying to promote their beliefs, or a series of moralistic stories on how to be good, it is astounding to read just how unedited the stories of the Bible are.  Straight through the Old and New Testaments, there are two consistencies regarding the people God chooses – they are full of sin and weakness, and God loves and uses them anyways.  That is why I believe Donald Miller and Blue Like Jazz have so much to teach us.  For all of Miller’s weaknesses and sins, you get the sense that God likes him, that God is using him anyways, and that because Miller is so vulnerable, God will get the glory for not kicking him to the curb but instead loving, forgiving, and using him to bring others to Him. 

The lesson for us as a church is to consider vulnerability in our interactions with each other.  Vulnerability is a big risk, because there will always be people who will not like what you have to say or reject who God has made you and not like the experiences you have had (remember Jesus’ warning in Matthew 7:6 not to throw your pearls to pigs, because they will trample them under foot and then turn and tear you to pieces).  I guarantee that when I am done preaching on a Sunday, there are some who loved what I had to say and some who didn’t.  But my goal is not to please people, but to speak what I think God wants me to say.  In the same way, consider ways that you might share your experiences, thoughts, and dreams with others at church.  Expect that not everyone will rejoice with you or mourn with you, but I truly believe that anyone who really understands the grace of God will be grateful for your story and come away with a greater picture of the goodness of our God. 

Not everyone’s story is pretty and perfect.  But there can be significant beauty that arises out of ugliness and imperfection.  Consider this story of conversion from Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies.  The story picks up a week after her abortion, as she is drunk and bleeding heavily from the procedure:

After a while, as I lay there, I became aware of someone with me, hunkered down in the corner, and I just assumed it was my father, whose presence I had felt over the years when I was frightened and alone.  The feeling was so strong that I actually turned on the light for a moment to make sure no one was there – of course, there wasn’t.  But after a while, in the dark again, I knew beyond any doubt that it was Jesus.  I felt him as surely as I feel my dog lying nearby as I write this.

And I was appalled.  I thought about my life and my brilliant hilarious progressive friends, I thought about what everyone would think of me if I became a Christian, and it seemed an utterly impossible thing that simply could not be allowed to happen.  I turned to the wall and said out loud, “I would rather die.”

I felt him just sitting there on his haunches in the corner of my sleeping loft, watching me with patience and love, and I squinched my eyes shut, but that didn’t help because that’s not what I was seeing him with.

Finally I fell asleep, and in the morning, he was gone.

This experience spooked me badly, but I thought it was just an apparition, born of fear and self-loathing and booze and loss of blood.  But then everywhere I went, I had the feeling that a little cat was following me, wanting me to reach down and pick it up, wanting me to open the door and let it in.  But I knew what would happen:  you let a cat in one time, give it a little milk, and it stays forever.  So I tried to keep one step ahead of it, slamming my houseboat door when I entered or left.

And one week later, when I went back to church, I was so hungover that I couldn’t stand up for songs, and this time I stayed for the sermon, which I just thought was so ridiculous, like someone trying to convince me of the existence of extraterrestrials, but the last song was so deep and raw and pure that I could not escape.  It was as if the people were singing in between the notes, weeping and joyful at the same time, and I felt like their voices or something was rocking me in its bosom, holding me like a scared kid, and I opened up to that feeling – and it washed over me.

I began to cry and left before the benediction, and I raced home and felt the little cat running along at my heels, and I walked down the dock past dozens of potted flowers, under a sky as blue as one of God’s own dreams, and I opened the door to my houseboat, and I stood there a minute, and then I hung my head and said, “F*%& it:  I quit.”  I took a long deep breath and said out loud, “All right.  You can come in.”

So this was my beautiful moment of conversion.

Not everyone’s story is a G-rated fairy tale.  Don Miller’s Blue Like Jazz is a testimony to that.  But that’s okay.  If God is big enough to love you and choose you with your past, then the church needs to be challenged to see things from God’s perspective and do the same.

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