Author Archives: Tom Fuerst

The fundamental difference between the Protestant’s cross and the Catholic’s crucifix lies in the Protestant belief that Christ is no longer on the cross. He has resurrected and ascended.

Or so Protestant polemics go.

In what follows, I do not care to discuss Catholic vs. Protestant soteriology or the differences between their accounts of the death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus. All I wish to discuss is the fact that, a few years ago, this here Protestant found immeasurable comfort in Christ on the cross – a crucifix on the wall in a Catholic nursing home chapel.

I’d been in and out of the nursing home visiting my 51-year-old mom in the last days of her fight with cancer. None of us expected the illness to progress as quickly as it did. But in a mere month and a half, we went from optimism about her diagnosis to staring down her mortality and releasing her into the loving hands of Jesus.

My encounter with the crucifix began on the night I had to decide to sign my mom up for hospice care. She was so weak I had to help her hold the pen. Even then she could only make a scratch on the page. Her once-beautiful signature which used to sign my birthday cards, report cards, and detention slips was reduced to a single scratch on several pieces of hospice paperwork.

In this moment I was forced to grapple with the existential angst, fear, and brokenness that smothers ever-shattered souls stepping one inch closer to the inevitable realization of our mortality.

Mortality.

Mom is mortal.

I am mortal.

I needed to leave the room as soon as we signed all the forms. I didn’t know where I was going. I found myself in a wing of the nursing home I hadn’t visited before, looking for some privacy.

Barely holding back tears, I stumbled into the chapel.

Now, despite the fact that I’m a Christian – not to mention a pastor – I did not choose the chapel for some spiritual reason. I simply chose it because no one would be able to find me in there. Or more specifically, no one would be able to hear me weeping in there.

I looked around for a second or two, not noticing anything about the chapel except the fact that the least visible place in the room was on the floor behind the back few pews. It was the perfect place to hide. It was a perfectly private place to grieve.

I don’t know how long I sat there with my face in my knees. Fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes. An hour. I don’t know. But after a while, I looked around the room and saw a plethora of Catholic images and icons, most of which are probably quite familiar to Catholic Christians but are quite foreign to us Protestants, who sanctimoniously brag of our lack of “graven images” and our risen Christ.

It was clear in these various items that the crucifixion of Jesus and the sufferings of Mary are of foremost importance in the hearts of the persons who designed this chapel. From the seven depictions of Christ’s crucifixion story to the mother of Jesus holding her infant son as she stretched out her arms to the weeping worshiper, the entire chapel was an invitation to see our sufferings – our very humanity – in light of the fact that neither Jesus nor Mary was exempt from suffering, pain, or death.

In fact, the truth experienced in that chapel was not merely that Jesus was not exempt from suffering or death, but more specifically, that Jesus shares in our suffering and death and we share in his.

On the opposite wall from the statue of the virgin and her baby boy hung a wooden crucifix. Not a pretty one. Not a bloodless one. A horrific one. A crucifix agonizing to see, even though its monochromatic varnish shields viewers from all the viciousness of the reality it depicts. In this crucifix, I saw that with every broken rib and visible wound, our God hung naked before the world, taking upon himself, not only all of our sin but all of our suffering. This is a God who did not remain indifferent to our suffering, our illnesses, our cancers, but who on that cross waged war against our mortality.

This is a God whose resurrection was preceded by a deep and unrelenting experience of our mortality. Before he ever won the war, he first lost this battle to death.

Could it be that Catholics “leave Christ on the cross,” not because they fail to recognize his resurrection, but because they believe the God who lost his Son on the cross suffers with me as I hide on the floor of this chapel? Maybe God is not just up in the sky somewhere looking down half-callously saying, “Hey, don’t worry about how bad it hurts now. She’s going to heaven because Jesus died for her sins.” He’s not up there saying, “Here, have this opiate and buck up.” Instead, in the crucified Jesus, God draws near to us, weeps with us, feels forsaken with us, knows loss with us, and even dies with us. Even his mother shudders from the pain of it.

Mortality.

Mom is mortal.

I am mortal.

Jesus was mortal.

Jesus died.

God was dead.

And while I know that the story does not end there, while I know Jesus came down off that cross and ascended as the Lord of Life, there is a deep and infinite beauty in knowing that my mother’s broken body is preceded by the broken body of her Creator.

An empty cross certainly announces victory over death. But a crucifix, hoisting the dying Savior with outstretched arms, is a warm welcome to all who are wrecked and weary.

Resurrection is coming.

But for now, we suffer. Together.

This weekend press the play button below and enjoy listening to a powerful sermon on healing, miracles, and the problem of suffering from writer and pastor Rev. Tom Fuerst.

This weekend we are pleased to share a sermon from Wesleyan Accent contributor and Order of the Flame speaker Rev. Tom Fuerst. 

Click the “play” button below to listen now.

The fundamental difference between the Protestant’s cross and the Catholic’s crucifix lies in the Protestant belief that Christ is no longer on the cross. He has resurrected and ascended.

Or so Protestant polemics go.

In what follows, I do not care to discuss Catholic vs. Protestant soteriology or the differences between their accounts of the death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus. All I wish to discuss is the fact that, a few years ago, this here Protestant found immeasurable comfort in Christ on the cross – a crucifix on the wall in a Catholic nursing home chapel.

I’d been in and out of the nursing home visiting my 51-year-old mom in the last days of her fight with cancer. None of us expected the illness to progress as quickly as it did. But in a mere month and a half, we went from optimism about her diagnosis to staring down her mortality and releasing her into the loving hands of Jesus.

My encounter with the crucifix began on the night I had to decide to sign my mom up for hospice care. She was so weak I had to help her hold the pen. Even then she could only make a scratch on the page. Her once-beautiful signature which used to sign my birthday cards, report cards, and detention slips was reduced to a single scratch on several pieces of hospice paperwork.

In this moment I was forced to grapple with the existential angst, fear, and brokenness that smothers ever-shattered souls stepping one inch closer to the inevitable realization of our mortality.

Mortality.

Mom is mortal.

I am mortal.

I needed to leave the room as soon as we signed all the forms. I didn’t know where I was going. I found myself in a wing of the nursing home I hadn’t visited before, looking for some privacy.

Barely holding back tears, I stumbled into the chapel.

Now, despite the fact that I’m a Christian – not to mention a pastor – I did not choose the chapel for some spiritual reason. I simply chose it because no one would be able to find me in there. Or more specifically, no one would be able to hear me weeping in there.

I looked around for a second or two, not noticing anything about the chapel except the fact that the least visible place in the room was on the floor behind the back few pews. It was the perfect place to hide. It was a perfectly private place to grieve.

I don’t know how long I sat there with my face in my knees. Fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes. An hour. I don’t know. But after a while, I looked around the room and saw a plethora of Catholic images and icons, most of which are probably quite familiar to Catholic Christians but are quite foreign to us Protestants, who sanctimoniously brag of our lack of “graven images” and our risen Christ.

It was clear in these various items that the crucifixion of Jesus and the sufferings of Mary are of foremost importance in the hearts of the persons who designed this chapel. From the seven depictions of Christ’s crucifixion story, to the mother of Jesus holding her infant son as she stretched out her arms to the weeping worshipper, the entire chapel was an invitation to see our sufferings – our very humanity – in light of the fact that neither Jesus nor Mary were exempt from suffering, pain, or death.

In fact, the truth experienced in that chapel was not merely that Jesus was not exempt from suffering or death, but more specifically, that Jesus shares in our suffering and death and we share in his.

On the opposite wall from the statue of the virgin and her baby boy hung a wooden crucifix. Not a pretty one. Not a bloodless one. A horrific one. A crucifix agonizing to see, even though its monochromatic varnish shields viewers from all the viciousness of the reality it depicts. In this crucifix, I saw that with every broken rib and visible wound, our God hung naked before the world, taking upon himself, not only all of our sin, but all of our suffering. This is a God who did not remain indifferent to our suffering, our illnesses, our cancers, but who on that cross waged war against our mortality.

This is a God whose resurrection was preceded by a deep and unrelenting experience of our mortality. Before he ever won the war, he first lost this battle to death.

Could it be that Catholics “leave Christ on the cross,” not because they fail to recognize his resurrection, but because they believe the God who lost his Son on the cross suffers with me as I hide on the floor of this chapel? Maybe God is not just up in the sky somewhere looking down half-callously saying, “Hey, don’t worry about how bad it hurts now. She’s going to heaven because Jesus died for her sins.” He’s not up there saying, “Here, have this opiate and buck up.” Instead, in the crucified Jesus, God draws near to us, weeps with us, feels forsaken with us, knows loss with us, and even dies with us. Even his mother shudders from the pain of it.

Mortality.

Mom is mortal.

I am mortal.

Jesus was mortal.

Jesus died.

God was dead.

And while I know that the story does not end there, while I know Jesus came down off that cross and ascended as the Lord of Life, there is a deep and infinite beauty in knowing that my mother’s broken body is preceded by the broken body of her Creator.

An empty cross certainly announces victory over death. But a crucifix, hoisting the dying Savior with outstretched arms, is a warm welcome to all who are wrecked and weary.

Resurrection is coming.

But for now, we suffer. Together.

For many white people, and clearly about 80% of white Evangelical Christians, the election of Donald Trump feels like a high moment in our nation’s history. I’ve heard Evangelical Christians refer to his election as everything from a Cyrus-like moment to a downright deified development. For many Evangelicals, this moment represents making America great again – a return to a pre-women’s liberation, pre-Affirmative Action, pre-Roe vs. Wade, pre-pluralistic, and fully Christianized America. Some Evangelicals lament Trump’s individual morality but laud his pro-life judiciary possibilities. For many, they just did not want Hillary as president.

But the fact is, what seems like victory for many white Evangelicals creates fear in the hearts of those who feel marginalized by Trump’s rhetoric. From promises to send immigrants back to Mexico, to his threats to profile Muslims and forbid them entry into the country, to his dehumanizing imitations of persons with disabilities, to his business track record of taking advantage of small companies, to his sexual assault allegations, and to his clearly perverted antics, many non-male, non-white, non-Evangelical persons feel threatened by his presidency. And not just ideologically threatened – they literally fear for their safety and the safety of their families.

Now, you may say that the fear is unjustified. You may disregard it as the product of liberals telling people they’re oppressed when they’re not. You may think it’s the over-emotional reaction of a thin-skinned generation. Or you may try to qualify or justify his statements and attitude.

I disagree with you. But my point here is bigger than whether we agree or disagree.

Just think about someone else’s experience for just a second: Can you imagine what it must have been like for a Latino family to send their child to school on Wednesday morning knowing the kinds of things they might hear on the school bus? Can you imagine the things Muslim kids had to hear in the halls? Can you imagine the fear many of these children had when they sat down at lunch surrounded by white faces? Can you imagine the fear the parents of gay or transgendered kids felt as they released their kids to school? Can you imagine the thoughts of young girls who know their country just elected a president who has a self-admitted history of using his power to be sexually aggressive toward women?

Now, listen, you don’t have to agree with someone ideologically, politically, or religiously in order to appreciate that their fear is real. No child should have to worry about what will be said to them when they go to school the day after an election.

Yet we also know that kids are cruel. Most of you can remember a moment of racism, classism, sexism, or religious discrimination from your childhood. You can remember, even if you didn’t participate, seeing someone else socially ostracized because of the color of their skin.

In the last 48 hours, I’ve heard (firsthand) and read (on social media) numerous stories from minority parents and teachers saying that their kids are being bullied at school by other children. Latino children are being told by white children that President Trump is going to send them back to Mexico. One African American child was worried because a white kid told him President Trump was going to take his house from his parents.

No kid should have to live with this.

So, instead of just lamenting the problem, here is my proposal. Here is something you can do as white, Evangelical parents to make your world a better, safer place. Here is a way you can love your neighbor as yourself: Tonight at the dinner table, have a very serious conversation with your children about these things. Tell the truth about Trump’s rhetoric, do not justify it, do not excuse it, do not minimize it. Tell the truth about it.

Then, tell them two things very clearly.

• Tell them in no uncertain terms that bullying is not acceptable. They need to hear you tell them that snide remarks, off-hand comments about race and gender, or downright aggression are not acceptable practices.
• Tell them in no uncertain terms that if they see something, they should say something. They should say something to a teacher or school administrator. Or if none of them are around, give them permission to confront the bully.

I know these two things are universally valuable no matter the president or children involved. Bullying is always wrong. Yet the nature of our President-Elect’s rhetoric over the last year (and longer) suggests that this time is at least unique in its intensity.

To that end, two nights ago, my wife and I did just this. We told our kids that Mr. Trump has said really mean things over the last year and that some of their friends at school might feel afraid. We told them other kids at school might even be mean to kids who have disabilities or have a different color skin. We told them we want them to be on the lookout for this.

Fortunately, our kids hadn’t seen anything happening at their school, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going on. We don’t often see what we’re not taught to see. So by telling our children to be on the lookout for such behavior, we were helping attune them to the fears and experiences of others. We were teaching them they don’t have to just accept the injustices of the world as normal. We were teaching them the moral example of the leader of the free world should neither be emulated nor normalized.

Granted, you may think this is not a conversation you need to have with your children. Fine. I understand that. I tend to think my children are pretty good kids who would never bully someone over skin color. And I like to think if they saw something they’d say something.

But teaching our kids the habits of observing injustice and fear is not a passive act. We need to establish habits in our children of intentional observation. White Evangelical kids, who grow up in a segment of society powerful enough to almost single-handedly elect the President of the United States, can be blinded by that privilege. By establishing the habits of observing other people’s sufferings, of taking time to notice the pain and fear around them, we teach our children a genuinely Christian ethic. And in this, my hope is that they become adults who care about justice and equality for everyone. My hope in conversations like this is to sensitize my children to the lived experiences of others. My hope is that our children grow up able to hear, rather than disregard, the fears of others.

The fact is, Donald Trump is our new president. But even if you think his economic policies, foreign relations, social agendas, and Supreme Court appointments make it worth it, the fact is, his moral compass is not something we should want our children emulating. And in so far as we normalize – and do not discuss these things in our homes – we allow our children to think this behavior is acceptable.

You and I may agree or disagree with someone’s religion, politics, sexual ethics, or anything else. But what we cannot do is normalize any behavior that belittles someone for their difference. That is neither an act of love toward God nor neighbor.

So white parents, my call to you today is to talk to your kids at dinner tonight. Begin helping them observe the world around them. Empower them to act. They don’t have to be passive recipients of the way things are. You model this by taking the initiative in this conversation. You model this by refusing to participate in bullying behavior. You model this by silently standing by while you see others harassed at work or in public. It turns out, your children will follow your example more closely than the president’s.

Make it a good one.

This weekend’s sermon on The Apostle’s Creed via The X-Files comes from Rev. Tom Fuerst, Lead Pastor at The Table, Christ UMC in Memphis. Click the “play” button below to listen to the audio.

I just finished reading the New York Times article about Robert L. Dear, Jr, the shooter in the recent Planned Parenthood attack in Colorado Springs. In the article, Dear is described as a serial philanderer, gambler, an abusive husband/boyfriend, and a Christian.

A Christian?

Well, yes, of course. Why not?

I mean, once saved always saved*, right? That’s what Dear believed, anyway: “He says that as long as he believes he will be saved, he can do whatever he pleases.”

And herein lies my biggest problem with not only Robert Dear, but all persons who espouse some doctrine of unchecked “Once Saved, Always Saved.” How are you going to tell me that a person can claim to be a follower of the crucified messiah, claim to be indwelt by the Holy Spirit, and yet live a life that is in complete and utter contradiction with everything that God stands for?

How can you have, as the article contends, “a man of religious conviction who sinned openly, a man who craved solitude and near-constant female company, a man who successfully wooed women but, some of them say, also abused them. [A man who] frequented marijuana websites, then argued with other posters, often through heated religious screeds” who is also a Christian?

This kind of thing, where a man can live in complete contradiction to the character of the gospel and yet still believe himself to be a Christian, is only possible because of a doctrine that is downright false. There is absolutely no point in all of scripture where mere confession of belief warrants a free ticket to heaven no matter what one does in this life. You can ask Jesus into your heart 8 million times, but if you live the kind of life described above, you need to know that you are not a Christian.

This is what I find so problematic about the doctrine of “Once Saved, Always Saved.” It throws the entire gospel under the bus of the human need for security, however false that security may be. It offer certitude where none should be offered. It allows us to live how we want to live without demanding any conformity to the image of Christ, any growth in holiness, any perseverance.

And if you want me to be more exegetical about it, more biblical in my reference, then let me point out that this article about Robert Dear describes a man who lives entirely contrary to Jesus’ teachings in the Sermon on the Mount. A man who “constantly criticizes everyone around him and is very hard to please” falls outside the bounds of Jesus’ call to “judge not” in Matthew 7. A man who “spends a lot of time planning revenge” hardly seems like the kind of person who could “turn the other cheek” or fulfill Jesus call to “love your enemies” in reflection of God’s love for his enemies in Matthew 6. A man who “erupts into fury in seconds” could hardly claim to follow the Jesus who warns us sternly in Matthew 6 about the relationship between anger and murder. A man who is divorced multiple times (because of his abuse of women) would also stand in violation of Matthew 6’s injunctions against divorce that is driven by a dehumanization of women. A man who cheats on multiple wives, even likely rapes a woman, can hardly be within the bounds of Jesus’ ethic of refusing lust so as to avoid adultery.

And to tie it all together, let me finally say that it was Jesus, himself, who said that there will be many who say to him, “Lord, Lord” and he will say, “Depart from me, I never knew you.” And the difference between those who knew him and those who did not was simply a matter, not of faith or confession or creed, but of fruit and character. Mr. Dear argues in his cannabis forums that, “Every knee shall bow and every tongue will confess that JESUS IS LORD,” but he uses this as a threat to others instead of facing the truth that such texts ought to first highlight the massive plank in his own eye.

Clearly, I have taken an extreme example to point out what I believe to be an extreme problem with a faulty Christian doctrine. “Once Saved Always Saved” is a danger to the Christian faith because it offers all the greatness of the gospel without any of the discipline, sacrifice, holiness, perseverance, or love required of those who claim to be disciples of Jesus. Mr. Dear may be an extreme example, but his arrogant assurance reveals an extreme problem.

This is why I’m Wesleyan (not that we are always consistent in our application of our theology): because Wesleyan theology teaches that the pursuit of holiness is not an add-on to the gospel, but the very gospel, itself. There can be no gospel without holiness. There can be no salvation from sin in the next life without a desire for and a work toward being saved from sin in this life. We are to work out our salvation with fear and trembling, knowing that it is God who works in us to will and to do according to his good pleasure. When we assume we can have salvation without the fear and trembling, without the word, and without obedience to the will of God, we give ourselves false assurance that ultimately leads to our destruction, and, in the case of Robert Dear, the destruction of others around him. Robert Dear is not just a deranged individual (he is certainly that), but his is also the product of a half-gospel that demands no life-change, no genuine repentance, no social holiness, and no personal holiness.

*I want to be clear here that while I’m a Wesleyan, my issue here is not with people who believe differently than I do regarding merely whether or not it is possible to be a Christian and walk away from it. Wesleyans and (good) Calvinists disagree on this issue. But I can at least respect that the Calvinist calls for perseverance in holiness for any kind of assurance. They do not believe salvation, once received, can be forfeited like we Wesleyans do, but my point is that my argument in this post is not with those who hold to a position that says “holiness matters,” but with those who have a view of Once Saved Always Saved that says, as Robert Dear does, “I can now do whatever I want because I’m saved.”

I became a Christian just before my junior year of high school. Almost immediately I had an overwhelming desire to read and know the Bible from cover to cover. Not knowing any better, I started in Genesis and decided to read straight through. It was a long, difficult journey, but after a few months I trudged through the Old Testament, admittedly wandering for quite a while in the deserts of the major and minor prophets.

Of what I could understand, one of the texts that stands out to me most after twenty years is the passage where young Solomon asks God to make him wise. The conversation goes like this:

“Give me now wisdom and knowledge to go out and come in before this people, for who can rule this great people of yours?” God answered Solomon, “Because this was in your heart, and you have not asked for possessions, wealth, honor, or the life of those who hate you, and have not even asked for long life, but have asked for wisdom and knowledge for yourself that you may rule my people over whom I have made you king, wisdom and knowledge are granted to you. I will also give you riches, possessions, and honor, such as none of the kings had who were before you, and none after you shall have the like.”

While only 16 years old, the moment I read that passage the Spirit of God moved in my heart in a way I was yet to experience as a new believer. I knew that the desire for money and status (both valuable things to a kid who grew up poor) weren’t ultimately going to make me godly or attuned to the will of God. Immediately, I dropped my Bible on the bed and I fell on my knees on the floor and began to beg for God to make me wise. Whatever else mattered in this world, I knew I could not understand it without wisdom. All I wanted in that moment was for God to give me wisdom.

But I had no idea what I was asking for.

In fact, as I continued to pray that prayer of Solomon’s through the years I realized how dangerous that prayer is. I call the prayer dangerous because it’s almost downright stupid. Praying for wisdom is a prayer for pain.

Wisdom is not just an intelligence bomb that God drops on us one day when we get our first gray hair. It’s not an intellectual realization that hits us one day simply because we’re aged. We’ve all known older folks who are foolish. No, wisdom has less to do with gray hair and more to do with the experience of suffering and making the choice during that suffering to continue to live in engagement with God (whether that engagement is positive or negative does not necessarily matter).

When I prayed for wisdom, I assumed it would just come in an instant. At the very least, it was something God would give me through further education. But when I received my BA, my MA, or my MDiv, “wisdom” wasn’t etched on any of them. Whatever wisdom I have has come through my suffering, and that with God.

When I’ve thought about defining wisdom in recent years, I define it as, “Aligning my actions with the intentions of creation.” Whatever aligns with creation’s purpose is wise (life, goodness, love, justice, virtue), and whatever destroys creation is foolish (hatred, envy, gossip, injustice, idolatry).

But after ruminating on this definition, I realized that any understanding of wisdom must also keep in mind that wisdom’s ultimate expression was the cross of Christ. To the world, Paul says, the cross is foolishness. But to those who believe, it is the wisdom of God.

In other words, in asking for wisdom from within the Christian tradition, what I’m really asking for is a cross. I’m not asking God to cause me to suffer, but I am asking God to teach me, dwell with me, walk with me, and urge me on in my sufferings. Wisdom is not the ability to avoid suffering, but the ability to embrace it and see it as a necessary component to salvation – a cross that must be carried by all followers of the crucified messiah. On some level, wisdom’s connection with pain is hardly even a Christian distinctive, as the book of Job is set within the Old Testament subset of “wisdom literature.”  In Job, wisdom is gained through walking with God – indeed, debating God! – throughout the experience of pain.

In the entire biblical tradition, praised as wisdom is, it’s nearly a fool’s errand. Through its process and in its conclusions, the person who has learned wisdom has had her view of the world shadowed with suffering. But as foolish as it may seem, it is those shadows of suffering that serve the ends of saving the world.