Dear High Church, Thurible Swinging Guy,
It's come to my attention that you heard about my recent letter to that guy across town who annoys you. I know it's somewhat common for you to find validation in his failures and embarrassments. But just so that you don't get your brain turned upside down in all your excitement, let me set the record straight for you as well. So here goes:
I don't like you either.
Now, you may not want to think that's true. You may be certain that things will be different if I just watch you get your reverence on. You may hope that the piety emanating from your vocal chords and pointy fingers will captivate me in a way that I've never been captivated before. You may be confident that your butter-smooth pulpit prose will soothe the acid burn in my throat that first started when that guy across town started doing a sermon series based on Coldplay lyrics...which caused me to throw up in my mouth a little.
But don't think that the reason barf surged up my esophagus was because I hate bad sermons about Jesus. It was because I hate sermons about Jesus, good, bad or otherwise. It's not the level of reverence that I despise. It's the thing being revered that I can't stand.
So don't fool yourself. Don't think that your ancient traditions and unflinching liturgical composure will somehow bring me to the faith. I hate the Gospel. I hate it if it's sung from a bed of power chords and distortion pedals and I hate it if it's chanted from gold covered lectionaries cradled in white gloved hands. I hate Jesus. I hate Him when His blood is poured into mini Dixie cups and I hate Him when His blood is drunk from ruby encrusted silver chalices. I'm not interested in the story of salvation if it's poorly told by twirling girls in leotards and I'm not interested in it if it's beautifully told by men who wafted through tufts of frankincense smoke and ascended into hand carved acacia pulpits in order to tell it.
And even if I think that your way of telling the story has more art and culture than does the story of the guy down the street, don't think this means that I've come to faith. It just means that I have taste. Just because I'd love to flash-mob-sing the Hallelujah chorus with you in a crowded mall on Saturday afternoon doesn't mean I have any interest in truly confessing the King of Kings with you on Sunday morning. I don't. Because I hate Him. And as long as that is the case, I'll always hate you too.