The refrain of "casting off tradition" resonates persistently among well-intentioned Christians.
However, with the passage of time, I've discerned this proclamation as nothing short of a contemporary and progressive incantation, deftly wielded by adversaries of God to ensnare unsuspecting believers.
This enchantment crafts an alternate reality, leading those entangled by its spell to forsake the intricate tapestry of the past. Its objective extends beyond liberation, seeking the subversion, disruption, and uprooting of faith itself.
In the profound insights of C.S. Lewis within "The Weight of Glory," the malevolent enchantment of worldliness is explored—a spell insidiously convincing individuals that "the good of man is to be found on earth." As expounded earlier, Lewis critiques secular materialism, a magical influence that captivates the imagination and propels the belief that our ultimate purpose lies solely in earthly pursuits.
Today, my purpose is to illuminate another facet of what I term "That Old Morgul Magic." This enchantment not only dupes us into believing that our ultimate purpose is confined to earthly pursuits, blinding us to evident aspects in our midst, but also persuades us to dismiss the wisdom of those who came before us. It fosters the notion that this contemporary earthly moment is the exclusive repository of all meaning and truth.
Choosing to embrace the goodness, truth, and beauty of the Christian Tradition is the sagacious course for churches.
In 2016, as I embarked on the journey of church planting, our destination was the challenging terrain of the Coalfields in West Virginia, often labeled as "a hard place" in the networks we've engaged with over the years. Situated in an area where more than 70% of the county's population is unchurched, compounded by the absence of creedal and confessional churches in the Tri-County region and the presence of numerous cults, our mission faced daunting odds.
When we first gathered at New Haven Church, not a single soul among us was familiar with the Apostles Creed. The term "liturgy" was foreign to everyone, and the concept of a "catechism" was unheard of. Remarkably, some members couldn't even read.
Fast forward 8 years, and we've grown from a mere handful of individuals to a congregation of around 100 on any given Lord's Day. Astonishingly, every person in our midst can now recite the Apostles Creed by heart. Each one comprehends the meaning of liturgy and the unique character of ours. Families within our community have taken on the task of catechizing their children, instilling in them a profound understanding of their only hope in life and death. Even those who initially struggled with reading have, over time, completed books as part of their journey toward deacon candidacies.
In my sermons, I consistently weave insights from the profound teachings of notable figures such as Augustine, Maximus the Confessor, Dionysius the Areopagite, Julian of Norwich, Thomas Aquinas, John Calvin, and Francis Turretin. Over the course of many years, individuals attending our church have repeatedly shared that their spiritual growth during their time here surpasses the cumulative growth experienced in years spent at previous congregations, emphasizing the transformative impact of our weekly gatherings.
How did we achieve this transformation?
God in his grace has honored our efforts to cultivate a church that is like a Miniature Rivendell. Throughout the years, many people who have never been churched in our community have discovered and fallen in love with the rich lore of an ancient world. Our approach hasn't involved trendy or attention-grabbing tactics. Rather, we've simply sought to craft a space that is timeless and enchanted, inviting people to step into something beyond the ordinary.
Deep roots are untouched by frost, friends. I am concerned that without a strategy deeply rooted in preserving the ancient lore of our faith, we risk succumbing to the frost. A glance at the numerous expositors, artists, and writers who were once deemed faithful but have either compromised or apostatized in the last five years underscores the urgency of this matter.
Much akin to Boromir, many have convened in the hallowed grounds of Rivendell, dismissing its treasures as mere broken heirlooms in pursuit of the seductive allure of the Ring of Power. What we need are individuals in the mold of Aragorn — those who adamantly refuse to discard the fractured legacies of their forebears but, instead, wield them with purpose, even reforging them into potent weapons like Andúril — The Flame of the West.
Witnessing individuals thrive and discover a newfound rootedness for their faith in the Coalfields reinforces the irreplaceable value of tradition. Tradition is not a static relic to be cast aside; rather, it serves as the sacred preservation of a perpetual flame. Attempts to reinvent the wheel seldom prove fruitful. The spirit that asserts "everyone before us got it wrong, and it's us who now have it right" aligns with progressivism, a stance in direct conflict with the Spirit of God.
Neglecting one's forefathers and mothers comes with inherent perils. God honors those who honor their predecessors (Eph. 6:2-3). As the Lord counsels in Jeremiah 6:16, "Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls." In embodying this wisdom, one not only navigates the currents of time but also attains a depth of understanding that transcends the temporal, reaching towards the sublime.
If the Church is going to aim at becoming Miniature Rivendells, one of the things it must do is become a repository for the lost lore of our ancestors.
Liturgy and tradition are the blueprints and roadmap of the world to come. They are not handed down to us from the past, they are handed down to us from the future. We cast them aside at our peril, risking becoming lost and bewildered on our way home.
Another wielder of fractured legacies in Rivendell is Bilbo, chronicling and composing poems/songs (and even Aragorn helps).