When you enter the sanctuary of Fairfax Presbyterian Church, you can't help but notice the quotation from the prophet Isaiah mounted on the wall behind the pulpit: "A House of Prayer for All Peoples." These words excited me when I became pastor of the church earlier this year, and they still do -- I dream ofattracting people of diverse backgrounds from the growing western edge of this county. But I'm also struck by the challenges such growth entails, and sometimes wonder whether any organization can simultaneously have a broad appeal and maintain a strong identity.

In a sense, the church brings into focus a conflict that has become familiar in our multicultural society -- between the virtues of tolerance and accepting differences, on the one hand, and the need to be true to one's own beliefs and customs on the other. The examples are many, some more profound than others. Should police officers be allowed to wear dreadlocks? Should homosexuals be allowed to be Boy Scout leaders? Should school testing take place on the Sabbath? In each case, individual differences clash with institutionalexpectations.

The prevailing ethos these days is to accept, accommodate and adapt to differences. And the virtue in that approach is evident in the vibrancy of our culture, from the range of foods at the sidewalk cafes to the varied traditions our children learn to appreciate -- and the languages they hear -- in class. There's no doubt in my mind that we all profit from learning about and adapting to such cultural differences. But each time we adapt, we also give something up. And, in the church, which is founded on a set of beliefs, figuring out what we should give up and what we should stick to can be particularly perplexing.

I struggle with these issues every day. A friend recently asked me to help him plan a memorial service for an acquaintance, with the understanding that most of the people attending would not be religious. I hardly knew where to begin. The secular world doesn't accept the ideas of resurrection inherent in Christian theology. Without a common language grounded in the Bible or religious practice, which words should I choose? Even though I was not going to take part in the service, I was struck by the tension in myself between inclusiveness and exclusiveness -- between wanting to help plan an event that would welcome nonreligious participants and allow them to feel comfortable with the service, while preserving the essence of the Christian faith.

On another occasion, when I was asked by a Jewish bride to take down all the crosses in my sanctuary for her marriage to a Christian, I refused. She wasn't pleased, but she was asking me to be more flexible -- more inclusive -- than my faith would allow.

I am hardly alone in these balancing acts. Most religious leaders claim they want to be hospitable to all people in their programs, but they balk if they are asked to abandon a distinctive tradition or modify a long-standing belief. They have good reason: If they dump their distinctiveness, they lose the identity that gives them meaning in the first place. So they live with the tension of guarding their valuables while they throw open their doors.

Signs of this strain pop up constantly. The 1964 Civil Rights Act recognized the peculiar role of religious organizations and gave them the right to discriminate in their hiring -- to employ only people who share their beliefs. But should those organizations be allowed to continue such practices if they receive federal funds to carry out public programs? That issue sparked debate in relation to President Bush's "faith-based" initiative. Should the Salvation Army, which holds the belief that homosexual activity is a sin, be allowed to discriminate against gays in its hiring? While I am certainly not in favor of discrimination, I have to admit that a question is nagging me: If the effectiveness of the Salvation Army comes from uniformity of belief, isn't it logical that Salvation Army staff members be required to share the same convictions?

In this case, the argument should be for inclusiveness, since the Salvation Army receives federal dollars and performs ministry for a broad cross section of the population. But think about it: Exclusiveness is a cherished characteristic of all religious groups. Orthodox Jews don't want to be required to give up their dietary laws; Quakers don't want to be forced to serve in the military; fundamentalist Christians don't want evolution to be taught to their children. If you want to teach evolution, don't expect fundamentalists to accept you as a Sunday school teacher. Likewise, don't eat non-kosher food and expect to be counted an Orthodox Jew. Adhering to a belief system is what religion is all about. "When in Rome . . . ," as the saying goes.

In the church, we often expect people to do what the Romans do, but we also recognize that Rome can change -- and that brings controversies anew. My own denomination, the Presbyterian Church (USA), lost congregations a generation ago when it decided to break with tradition and insist on the ordination of women. While some Presbyterians argued for excluding women from leadership on the grounds of traditional understandings of Scripture, others pushed for acceptance based on a modern belief in divine inclusiveness -- the notion that God desires the inclusion of all people, which is suggested by Scripture such as the "all peoples" passage displayed in my sanctuary. Given the gifts of ministry that my female colleagues clearly have, I am glad that the inclusive forces won that debate.

The drive toward inclusiveness is motivating the National Cathedral in Washington -- long associated with the Episcopal Church -- to increase its outreach to the community and make its ministry more interdenominational. "We acknowledge who we are -- an Episcopal cathedral," says Robert Becker of the Office of Program and Pastoral Ministries. "But we also stress the fact that this cathedral is indeed a house of prayer for all people. Often, that translates into special interfaith services that are held here." In a few months, there will be a dedication of the final stained glass window in the cathedral, one that recalls the hope of the Hebrew people to return to Jerusalem after exile in Babylon. Notable Jewish figures such as Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Rabbi Irving Greenberg, chairman of the United States Holocaust Memorial Council, will take part.

But how "interfaith" can an Episcopal cathedral be, given the centrality of Jesus in the building's liturgy, art and architecture? Michael Wyatt, director of religious education, tells me that " 'A house of prayer for all people' does not mean to me that all individuals would find here -- or are even entitled to find here -- a service that they would have designed on their own. The ownership of ritual prayer is not individualistic." While the cathedral offers a genuine welcome to every guest, its hospitality is grounded in a distinctively Christian tradition.

Indeed, my friend Timothy Merrill, senior editor of the preaching journal Homiletics, doesn't think that it is possible to provide a worship style that appeals to everyone. "What you find in the middle of the road is usually dead, road-kill worship that leaves a bad taste in the mouth for everyone." He argues that there is "a strong movement that leaps back . . . to medieval expressions of piety, such as chants, prayers and plainsong" -- traditions that he senses provide more opportunities for theological reflection than contemporary worship styles.

But what if people are uncomfortable with medieval chants, and are looking for a more "user-friendly," contemporary worship experience? "We live in an 'experience' economy," observes Phil Beauchene, an elder at Fairfax Presbyterian Church, reminding me that "Disney doesn't sell you a ride, it sells you an experience." He is convinced that we could use drama and multimedia to better advantage in worship. And I think he's right. What he's talking about, of course, is changing the way we deliver the message, not changing the message itself.

But sometimes our effort to reach people runs the risk of diluting or altering that message. That's a key issue for Phil and his wife, Carolyn Klein, who is heavily involved in ministries of music and Christian education at Fairfax: Should Fairfax have different types of services to appeal to specific groups? Should the church offer a contemporary service on Saturday evening for those who are on the periphery of organized religion -- a kind of "church lite" that could draw people in? Carolyn and Phil worry that if the church works too hard at being acceptable to everyone,it will end up not standing for anything in particular.

So, how did I resolve the issue of the memorial service involving church outsiders? My friend and I settled on a passage of scripture in which Elisha asks his departing mentor Elijah for "a double share of your spirit" (2 Kings 2:9) -- a passage that is well-grounded in the Bible, but also accessible to a gathering of nonreligious people. In other words, I invited them to Rome, without expecting them to speak Italian immediately.

Such attempts to transmit the tradition will become increasingly important in our multicultural and religiously pluralistic world. In the end, the challenge that religious communities face is not to be relevant, but to be clear -- about their beliefs, their practices, their scriptures, their morals, their outreach projects, their organizational structures. "From the beginning, Christians have said that what is relevant is the tradition," observes Wyatt of the National Cathedral. If the church does not have a distinctive message to offer society, then it has ceased to be a true religious voice. It has become just another cultural phenomenon, one that will quickly be replaced by the next spiritual fad.

That sort of focus on tradition will inevitably lead to the kind of conflict represented by the Salvation Army's response to homosexual activity. Sometimes the church will change, as my denomination did over the ordination of women; sometimes it will stick with tradition, as the Salvation Army is insisting it will. That may lead the organization to back away from federal funding and concentrate on its own community of faith. Such an approach serves as a reminder that most people come to church in search of a distinctive and recognizable "house of prayer" -- an organization that is open to all, but not one that is trying to be all things to all people. That means that pastors like me have to be prepared to make a stand once in a while for things that will be unacceptable to others.

Henry Brinton is senior writer of the preaching journal Homiletics, a magazine for pastors that focuses on emerging cultural and religious trends.

© 2001 The Washington Post Company

Henry Brinton is pastor of Fairfax Presbyterian Church.

Author's e-mail: hgbrinton@aol.com

Link to Henry Brinton's Washington Post Articles Index Page

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