Our church has long struggled with an idolatry of being different or "doing church different(ly)." Some of this, no doubt, comes from starting as a church plant just over a decade ago—to even have a reason to exist, there was a pull to find identity in our distinctive qualities. Our mission, likewise, was often put in terms of "getting it" and helping others "get it." Indeed, the gospel itself is news that transforms by the power of the Holy Spirit—Jesus is making all things new. But even that newness and difference isn't Jesus; it's only fruit, and we get in trouble if we worship it.
Idolatry of how different we are can really hobble us. We can look snidely at others' efforts to be faithful, and sometimes, perhaps, there's even a fear that their successes may make us less special as those who see/do things differently. We can become extremely conservative about our cutting edge-ness, finding ourselves unable to imagine other approaches and points of view than the ones we've come to love. Once "I can't imagine" becomes part of our vocabulary, our view of God and everything grows sorely limited. And anyone who doesn't see it our way doesn't "get it"—one of the harshest indictments we idolaters of difference can bring to bear.
I'm stunned by how deeply this idolatry of difference has seeped into my life, and I suspect I'm only seeing the tip of the iceberg. It's huge. Likewise, even though lots of its symptoms have been relatively quiet in our church over the last few years, it's still there, rooted in some deep and unexpected ways. When those roots attach themselves to legitimate and important concerns, they're so much harder from which to be ripped free.
We can't risk throwing out our hearts with the idols that have entangled them, yet neither can we leave our idols undisturbed in an effort to protect our hearts, for they will surely kill us if we do. Only the Great Physician can perform the surgery we need to survive, and even then it may well hurt.
In the process, He will likely make use of His Word and His Church. We'll need to listen well, not only for those things that comfort, but also for those things that put us "under the knife." I'm no fan of hard things for their own sake or using difficulty as a measure of truth—I've seen way too much abuse under such auspices. But if we who need surgery seek only our own safety and comfort, we will never be made well. In one instance, Jesus asks someone if he wants to be healed (John 5:6); perhaps this is part of the reason why.
By the same token, the antidote to the poisons brought into us by our idolatry of difference may be terribly ordinary. Doesn't that make sense? Ordinary doesn't mean abdication of truth, beauty, and glory; if this were so, the gospel would have little to offer. But we may be called to accept that we're never going to be lauded by the masses, that no one will be drawn to us because of how special we are, that faithfulness may not make us heroes. Our friends may not be that interesting, our family may not be a model, our work may not be our passion, our commitments may not be riveting, our communities may not be filled with only the people we'd pick, and those in authority over us may not be performing up to our expectations. And that might just be part of the cure.
Can we submit to that, out of trust in our Physician? Do we want to be healed? Do I?