Has “Spiritual Maturity” Lost Its Meaning?

In research for a book project on spiritual maturity, I fear I am discovering that “spiritual maturity” as a term no longer has any currency in Christian talk.  I spent some time in a bookstore yesterday, talking with the manager about this matter and looking at books on the shelves.  “Spirituality” has become the generic term, which, of course, I knew, but the idea that people don’t recognize “spiritual maturity” is more than a little worrisome.

I think I’ve blogged before (I admit, I didn’t check my archives) about the Barna Group – now over a year ago – doing a phone survey on this very matter.  They discovered that neither church leaders nor rank-and-file Christians know how to define “spiritual maturity.”  In fact, the most commonly offered attempt at a definition was “following the rules” (See “Barna Update” for May 11, 2009, http://www.barna.org/barna-update/article/12).  To say the least, we ought to be concerned about this shocking lack of awareness.

I don’t remember which Supreme Court justice said it, but, in hearing the challenges of obscenity laws back in the 1960s, said something like, “I don’t know how to define ‘obscenity,’ but I recognize it when I see it.”   I think the same could be said for spiritual maturity, or, at least, I’d like to be able to say it.  Can we recognize spiritual maturity when we see it even if we can’t define it?  Or do we really think that merely “following the rules” satisfies?  If this is the case, we have drifted a far, far distance from the mark.

Which brings me back to my question: does the term “spiritual maturity,” or “spiritually mature” mean nothing any more?  If so, what word goes in its stead?  “Spirituality” does not cut it for me.  I work in higher education and “spirituality” has crept into our discourse as a replacement for “religion.”  Generally, writings from this quadrant oppose the terms “spirituality” and “religion.”  “Religion,” it is said, has to do with external, institutional and legal matters.  “Spirituality,” on the other hand, refers to expanded consciousness, compassion, openness toward (the omnipresent) “other,” justice, and the like.  To be too blunt (I admit, I’ve become quite frustrated with this constant and ironic barrage about “bad religion,” “good spirituality”), most of the stuff I’ve read in this genre is incoherent and badly argued, filled with sweeping assumptions and redefinitions.  Maybe I’m just reading the wrong stuff.

So, I don’t like “spirituality” as a replacement for “spiritual maturity.”  And I’m worried that most Christians – if the Barna Update is accurate – don’t understand an absolutely fundamental aim of the Christian life.  Golly, if we don’t understand this point, what do we think being Christian is all about?

My question offered to anyone willing to respond: does “spiritual maturity” no longer have meaning for Christians?

The Mystery of Iniquity

Today, on the penultimate day of the Civil Rights Pilgrimage, we spent some time in the Archives at the University of Mississippi library.  We’re here in Oxford because of the James Meredith story.  He was the first African American to attend Ole Miss (1962) and it took a federal court order and military support to make it happen.  Since those days, Ole Miss has made significant strides in leading for racial reconciliation.

The director of the archives gave an informative presentation, using lots of primary source documents from the archives.  One piece particularly caught my attention.  A mimeographed biblical “exposition” from the Klan about why races should be segregated, i.e. “what the Bible says” about race.”  The paper listed several scriptures from the Old Testament.  As I scanned the verses, I thought about how it is possible for people so badly to misread scripture.  The history of the use of the Bible in antebellum arguments is a complex one in itself.  Mark Noll, well-known historian of Christianity, has written has written extensively on this point.

Reading these verses today reminds me of how our own current particular contexts strongly help to shape the way we read scripture.  It is no secret that even among Christians who take the most traditional view, there can be wide disagreement on particular passages, even when everyone believes fully that the Bible is God’s Word.  I am not engaging in a counsel of despair.  I’m simply acknowledging that biblical interpretation is not as straightforward as it sometimes seems.

That point acknowledged, I’m still amazed at how segregationist Christians could read the Bible as they did.  Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 10:3 about tearing down strongholds and taking every thought captive to Christ.  In 2 Thessalonians 2 he refers to the “mystery of lawlessness,” or, as earlier English versions had it, the “mystery of iniquity.”  Off and on I ponder these phrases for what light they shed on the brute fact that sincere people can be sincerely wrong and sometimes in truly chilling ways.

The more distance we have between our own feelings and values and whatever topic of discussion we’re engaging, the more “rational” and objective we can appear to be ab.  The more our own feelings and values are caught up in the issue – the more at stake we have – the harder it is to be detached and “rational.”  And here the mystery of iniquity enters.

I come to the end of this day of the pilgrimage thinking about the mystery of iniquity that twists otherwise good people into upholding certain ideas and convictions that are truly reprehensible.  As I think about what the archivist showed us today, it’s easy for me to put extreme distance between myself and the segregationist Christians who thought the Bible really taught what they thought it taught.  And then I remember that that same mystery works in me as well, not on race, but on some other issue on which I perhaps feel vulnerable and threatened.  We must always remember this propensity in the human heart.  Lord, have mercy on us.

The Risk of Change

After spending the morning in the Rosa Parks Museum in Montgomery (a terrific visual display and a wealth of information), we loaded the bus for Philadelphia, Mississippi.  On the way we watched a movie, “Murder in Mississippi,” telling the story of three slain civil rights workers in 1964: James Chaney, Micky Schwerner and Andrew Goodman, killed by Klan members.  Chaney was an African American man from Meridian, MS and the other two were white college students from New York.  These men were helping black people register to vote.

One of the key scenes in the movie takes place at Mt. Zion Methodist (now United Methodist) Church, an African American congregation east of Philadelphia and up a winding country road.  James Chaney knew the area well and had been often to the church to encourage members to risk attempting to register and they agreed.  They then were targeted by Klan members.  One night, as some church members attended a finance meeting, the Klan set up an ambush and several members were beaten.  The mother and brother of Ms. Jewell, whom we met at the church, were beaten severely. Forty plus years later, her eyes still well with tears as she tells the story.  Many of us did, too.

Before Ms. Jewell spoke, we met the Honorable James Young, Mayor of Philadelphia, the city’s first African American mayor.  He had many interesting things to share, but in response to my question about the racial mix of the city (56% white and 42% African American, with a sizable percentage of Native American [Choctaw] as well), it became clear that he had won the election because he carried two of the three predominantly white-populated election districts.  Big change.

Mayor Young made very clear that he intends to be and is everybody’s mayor, white, black, Native American or otherwise.  He serves all people.  He also made clear, however, the challenges involved.  In response to one student’s question about trying to help people of his race, he asked in return (the student is African American), “If you own a company and 75% of the employees you hire are African American, are you helping your people?”  And the question tagging along, but not spoken: would doing so be right or wrong?  That’s a tough question.

Much of the talk at this gathering was about how Philadelphia is changing.  To make changes, people have to make prior assessments of current conditions.  How much has actually changed?  How does one tell?  What still needs to be done?  What criteria will we use to decide?   It requires careful interpretation, which has its own risks.  President Obama as Candidate Obama, for example, had to make strategic decisions about to what degree would he permit race to play a role in his campaign.  Not that he would raise the issue (imagine the risk), but he had to know that people would ask him about it, and how he responded would be telling.

God bless the folk in Philadelphia.  A citizens group of all races in the county have been working for years to bring the perpetrators of the murders in 1964 to justice.  And they have been successful, even though it has taken a long, long time.  They fully admit that they still have work to do, but they want us to know about the good will of the majority of the citizenry.  We’re listening.

Rainy Day, Sunny People

It’s a sappy title for a blog, but it just seems to fit.

Our trip’s leaders asked us to notice and ponder the contrast between Selma and Montgomery, only 54 miles apart.  Beyond size (Selma is about 20,000 and Montgomery, 200,000), Selma visibly struggles while Montgomery fairly shines.  It’s the State capitol, but other factors play into the picture.  Although today has been gloomy in terms of weather, the people we have met, colleagues of Dr. King and leaders in the Montgomery Bus Boycott, have been testaments of grace (divine and human) and courage.

Last night we met Mrs. Harris and her daughter Dr. Valda Montgomery.  Mrs. Harris’ husband, a pharmacist, owned and operated Dean’s Drugstore, the command center of the Bus Boycott in 1955.  The Graetz’s – Rev. Robert and Jean –  were the white clergy family for an African American Lutheran congregation.  Their house was firebombed during those violent days, but they stood alongside Dr. King and the others.  We heard, naturally, a good deal about Rosa Parks today and we went to Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, the one congregation Dr. King pastored before going full-time as leader of the movement.

I was most taken with their descriptions of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, although they also talked about housing the Freedom Riders in 1961.  The Boycott took place in 1955 and is considered one of the absolutely central events in the formation of the modern Civil Rights movement.  The story is well-known.  Rosa Parks would not give up her seat to a white man and got arrested for her action.  She was removed from the bus and taken to jail.  The boycott ensued.

Almost 50,000 black people lived in Montgomery at the time and, through the network of churches and pastors in the city, they agreed no longer to ride the busses.  Imagine the risk of losing one’s job of committing to such a daring move.  The people organized themselves.  Those with cars volunteered to chauffeur people to and from work.  Many people simply waked to and from work.  The people gathered and collected funds to help with gasoline costs.  They even raised enough money to buy some station wagons to serve as taxis.  With the command center at Dean’s Drugstore, the boycott leaders created a network of transportation support and for over a year the people stayed off those busses.  It worked in dramatic fashion.

An amazing feat pulled off by some amazing people and not without some seriously fearful moments.  We heard of hateful phone calls in the middle of the night, of threats and firebombings.  The people we talked to shared how, in spite of feeling understandable fear in the worst times, they also felt the strengthening, providing presence of God.  And each other.

One nostaligic side note for me: I’m a preacher’s kid who grew up in parsonages.  When we stepped into the home that had been the Kings’ parsonage for Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, I felt as if I had stepped into some place I had once lived.  A small frame home tastefully furnished with 50s era pieces, most of which had literally been in the house when the Kings had inhabited it.  I laughed to myself at the Melmac table settings on the kitchen table.

It was a most enjoyable trip down memory lane.  But what sticks with me the most at the end of this day is the courage and grace of the boycotters.

Meeting Joanne

Probably the key feature of the Civil Rights Pilgrimage is to put human faces on “issues.”  Joanne Bland is one such face.  She led our tour of Selma with drill sergeant-esque precision (she actually had a career in the military).  She was gruff and blunt and intimidating…and then she would smile a kind of wry smile and give us a kind of sideways look.  One of the women in our group had lots of questions on the walking tour.  Joanne started saying, “Where’s that nosy woman?” and then take her off for a brief sidebar explanation.

It would be easy to wonder at first why Joanne still seems angry.  After all, she fully acknowledges how much better things are for black people, even though she knows there’s much more to do.  But then, it doesn’t take long to understand why.  The Voting Rights Museum showed, among numerous other things, the African Americans who served in the U.S. Congress after the Civil War and before states began concocting legislation to prevent black people from sharing in the political process.  (Dennis Simon told me that roughly twenty such persons had served in Congress between 1876 and 1900.)  Real progress and then horrendous setbacks that lasted two generations.  Numerous other such moments happened during the day.

We also learned that Bloody Sunday (March 7, 1965) didn’t stop once the marchers were beaten back across the bridge.  Joanne told us that the beatings lasted all night long.  People huddled and hid in the two churches (Brown Chapel and First Baptist) where the organizing had been done.  If I remember correctly, Joanne said that she was 11 years old at the time and she was one of the marchers on the bridge.  In 1963, two years and more before the Voting Rights Act was passed, people in Selma made regular trips to the courthouse to register to vote, only to be turned away and often arrested (there were city ordinances about the number of black people that could congregate publicly at one time).

I had been forewarned about Joanne.  She brooks no fools and she’s clearly in charge of the tour.   Sometimes she rubs people the wrong way (she knows it and doesn’t much care).  But she also said more than once, “I’m not where I was, but I’m also not where I need to be.”

In free moments yesterday I found my mind returning to the same set of questions.  I’m white, but a “northerner.”  I grew up with parents who taught us not to be prejudiced – all people are created in God’s image.  By the time I went to college, I had very little experience in racially mixed settings (except those 6 years in Texas as a boy).  I didn’t want to be prejudiced, and wasn’t, in a sense, but still had some of the goofy stereotypes.  All that to say, as I listened to Joanne, something inside me wanted to insist, “This problem was not my problem.  Bad white people did this, but not all white people did it.”  I felt myself wanting to distance myself from the problem.  Which is part of the problem.  And a typical one for white people.

Montgomery is quite different from Selma. More to come.