Ever notice how hyphenated Americans (African-, Asian-, Latino-, Republican-) seem to have been assigned a sub-American status among us? Likewise, I sometimes wonder about the terms we use to describe people in the church: missional Christians, emerging Christians, neo-monastic Christians, fundamentalist Christians, universalist Christians (some would omit the word “Christian”), crazy-rabid-apocalyptic Christians (ditto). You may use some of these terms more than others, but the problem remains – why can’t we all just be Christian? Isn’t it enough to be a follower of Christ? Can’t we admit that we (and others) aren’t perfect, that it’s some kind of miracle that so many people with so many different ideas of what it means to be church are still trying every day to live into the image and character of Jesus?

Here’s the problem: we lose sight of what’s important when we take on or assign identifiers. What matters is the person and presence of Jesus among us. What matters is our struggle – sometimes successful, sometimes superficial, sometimes selfish, sometimes stupid, sometimes surreal – to know Christ, to grow in relationship, to become the people we were created to be. There is something to be said about risking a label, working to define who we are in community with other believers. And maybe it’s important to admit that there are real differences between us. But many of those differences are on the non-essentials. They’re not deal-breakers.

On the other hand, to ignore our differences is to lack integrity. We are not the same. God doesn’t require or expect us to be Jesus robots, mechanical contraptions that have no choice but to march and march and march. Labels, used responsibly, can help us to understand who we are (and maybe even to understand others).

Here’s the danger. Labels tend to communicate “I am actually a Christian,” or worse, “I am more of a Christian.”

I am a pacifist. I identify with many of the church’s emergent voices. I want to be missional. I’m an evangelical Quaker, but I love the Catholic mystics and have been challenged by an as-yet-unsuccessful call to reconciliation from Episcopalians (among others). I love the full-sensory experience of an Orthodox service. I’m intrigued by the seeming ease with which Mennonites sling off institutions that channel their efforts at social justice.

These labels help me to understand the nature of the Christian faith I’m pursuing. These labels help me to find my place in the life and community of the church. But I’m discovering that I must hold these labels loosely, that I have to be able to let go (or let loose), that these ideas aren’t necessarily “better” expressions of Christianity than others, that the rule for finding my place in Christian community is humility.

I guess I’ve come full circle.

Labels can be helpful, allowing us to understand and relate. But they are also weapons used to divide, to distance, to accuse.

We must be careful.

Church work is mired in a culture of nice, and that culture keeps bad programs and unnecessary efforts from being eliminated; it also uses up resources that could be and should be used to help good work work better. We're just too nice to call a bad project a bad project. If we criticize, we do so in abstractions or through back channels (gossip). No one has any problem identifying bad products as bad – the Yugo for example. (If you don't remember the Yugo, there's a reason for that; it was bad, and now it's gone.) Maybe the problem is that in the church, we’re addicted to nice.

It boils down to human decency. When good people are making a good faith effort to do work that matters, you feel like the worst kind of jerk calling them out for waste or incompetence. And every program benefits one or two people. Nobody wants to be the one to say that those one or two people weren't worth the effort.

But there are a couple of people who liked Yugos, too. Artist Kevin O'Callaghan, for instance, saw something of beauty in the car that the public rejected. He bought 39 rusty Yugos and asked his students to make objects of functional art from them. That doesn’t keep the rest of us from being able to explain exactly what’s wrong with the car. A Time Magazine review judged the vehicle -- constructed in Soviet-bloc Yugoslavia -- as feeling like something "assembled at gunpoint." The car had "carpet" listed as a standard feature, and several former owners admitted that the rear-window defrost was a nice touch as it kept your hands warm while you pushed it.

Another problem in identifying and eliminating bad programs is social self-interest. Every program and project is initiated and managed by people I like, people I work with, people with whom I worship, people who own the house in which I live, people who are responsible for contributing toward my monthly paycheck. I'm not about to criticize a friend, let alone an employer (at least not directly). But if we all shut up, then sinkholes of mismanagement and despair keep swallowing up our limited resources.

I don’t really know how to fix this. And I'm not ready to tell you exactly which programs suck. (I like my job.)

Still, it's worth thinking about.

Every culture has its mythos or stories of origin.

The Efik people of Nigeria, for instance, hold that God allowed a human couple to settle on the Earth but forbade them from working or reproducing that they might not grow in wisdom.

Mugasa, the sky-god of the Bambuti in eastern Congo, had human children and dwelt among them in a paradise-like land until they angered him, causing him to forsake them.

In the Pacific Northwest, a trickster god, named Yehl, created the earth and the sun and the moon before gifting mankind with fire.

There's the Jewish mythos of the God who created a garden paradise in which he took regular walks with a man and wife, enjoying the beauty of his creation. And of course, there's our own culture's origin story – a tale that tells of primordial ooze, the cradle of all life.

These stories – true or not – are our attempts to answer questions of purpose and existence. Why are we here? What are we here for? But cultural mythos don't answer these questions (and can't). All they tell us is that we're here.

Right here.

Now.

The question that can be answered, however, is one of morality. How ought we to live? And in this, the fact that we're here is the only answer we need.

Integrity, for instance, means being completely and consistently myself, wherever I am, whenever I'm there.

Simplicity means being satisfied with my situation – nothing less and nothing more.

Humility is being honest about who I am, about where I am. Pride is dangerous, then, because it denies weakness. False humility is destructive because it denies the self.

Finally, there is love. If I know myself – who I am and where I stand – then others provide no threat to my identity, and I am free to accept them as they are.

Whenever I find them. Wherever they are.

A few years ago, I came close to losing my job. (I teach English and literature courses at a Christian school.)

I was confronted by a supervisor who wanted to know if I believe the Bible is true. I'd earlier made the claim that the Creation story in Genesis is myth. Of course, I explained that the word "myth" in literature refers to any explanation of origin. It's a question of genre not of truth.

The conversation ended well, and I was encouraged by my colleague's attempt to understand rather than judge. But the incident reminded me of a concern I have with Christian culture and biblical interpretation.

Many Christians claim the Bible is completely and literally true, a claim that fails to account for human subjectivity or theological nuance. Take the book of Leviticus, for example. Christians are quick to point out that the book is completely true, especially when quoting 18:22, a verse that is widely interpreted as a prohibition of homosexuality: "Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is abomination." But these same Christians too often cast off the rest as "cleanliness rules" that no longer apply, especially the bits about mildew and baldness.

There is some reason for this reading. A controversy in the early Church considered how to apply the book of Leviticus to Gentile believers. A special council of elders and apostles was held at Jerusalem (Acts 15), and James recommended that the new followers of the Way be encouraged to abstain from food polluted by idols, from sexual immorality, from the meat of strangled animals, and from blood. In one fell swoop, the council erased all of Leviticus except 7:26-27; 17:10-12; 18:6-25; 19:4, 26 & 29; 20:10-21; and 26:1.

Later, in his first letter to the Corinthian church, the apostle Paul acts without the benefit of the council and further erases all that's left of Leviticus except for 18:6-25; 19:4 & 29; 20:10-21; and 26:1.

In the first case, the council members didn't claim certainty or special knowledge. It just "seemed good." In the second case, Paul appealed to logic in making his argument.

But Christians today widely accept both "reinterpretations" of Leviticus because it's stated in one case that the Holy Spirit inspired or confirmed the decision, and it's implied in the other.

Unfortunately, new "reinterpretations" aren't allowed in fundamentalist or even evangelical circles, and I fear this inability to reconsider is a sign of our weakness, not of our strength.

The Jerusalem council didn't question its ability to hear God and respond in obedience.

Neither should we.

American government tends to operate on the idea that self-defense is a natural right, and many agree. American dads teach their kids to stand up for themselves in a fight. American moms argue with referees at Saturday soccer games. What are our rights? Nowadays, the list starts with life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness and ends somewhere around eye for eye and tooth for tooth.

When I moved to Idaho, I had to take a test to get an Idaho driver's license. I'd been driving for five years, but I was nervous about failing the test, so I spent hours memorizing the Idaho Driver's Manual. I remember a piece of wisdom I discovered in the section on 4-way stops. The manual explained how the sequence of turns takes place. And then I read these words at the top of the next page. "Right of way is something you give, not something you take."

That day, I recognized the core message of peacemaking. It's a difficult message. It's a message we ignore at the peril of increased conflict.

Since that time I've pondered these questions:

What about people who talk behind my back and slander my reputation? I should hold them up in love, noting their positive traits and building their reputations every time I get the chance. What about those who threaten or manipulate in order to get their way? As far as it is within my power, I must give them what they need, not what I think they deserve.

The only way to make peace, the only option for diffusing conflict is to refuse engagement. If they grasp, I let go. If they accuse, I refuse to argue my defense. When they break in, I make them welcome.

Jesus lived and died this truth. I pray for courage to follow.