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For centuries the question has been debated among Christians: When did the Church begin? Did it start that day along the lake shore in Galilee when Jesus invited four fishermen to follow him and began assembling his twelve disciples? Did it evolve in the months that followed when he sent them out two--by--two to proclaim the message that the Kingdom of God had come, or later when the number of those sent out had grown to seventy and they had become a more cohesive fellowship? Or was it the day of Pentecost, fifty days after Jesus' resurrection, when the Holy Spirit filled those early Christians with power?

The majority of Christians today would undoubtedly vote for the latter, claiming that the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost marked the beginning of the Church. And I would not quarrel with that conclusion. But I wonder if a case could not be made to ascribe its beginning to another occasion, one that will shock you when I suggest it. You will think I am out of my mind. For the occasion to which I am referring took place on the eve of the crucifixion when Jesus, for the final time before his death, met with his disciples in that upper chamber of a house in Jerusalem and instituted the sacrament we call Holy Communion. And specifically the moment I have in mind was when he said to his disciples, "One of you will betray me!" and all around the room their responses came back, "Is it I, Lord? Surely you don't mean me, do you?"

I grant that most people have assessed that as one of the darkest hours in history. For Jesus it had to be a time of incredible pain. Here he was, only hours away from being arrested, tried by a kangaroo court, beaten mercilessly, sentenced to die, forced to carry his own cross to Golgotha, and nailed to it - here he was facing all that and needing so desperately the support of these men whom he loved. How he must have longed for the assurance that, while one of his disciples would fail him, the rest would be faithful to the end! And yet to the statement that one of the twelve would betray him their pathetic response was, "Surely you don't mean me, do you?" Not a single one of the disciples said what instinctively we wish they had said: "Lord, such a thing will never happen to you. We won't let it happen! Tell us who the culprit is and we will deal with him!" They didn't say that. Their only response was the weak and cowardly, "Is it I, Lord?" And we despise them for it!

But I wonder if our instincts are wrong. Maybe we have misjudged that hour. For consider what the response we would prefer would really be saying: "Lord, if one of us is going to betray you, I want you to know it won't be me. I will be loyal to you until I die. Now, James here, that's another matter. I'm not so sure about him. Thomas has always seemed a little detached. And Judas, I've never trusted him. I've always had suspicions that he wasn't really one of us. Tell us, Lord, which of these will betray you and I'll prevent it." Cocksureness, you see. Total self--assurance. The very attitude that later that night Peter would exhibit when, told that he would deny Jesus, he responded with a loud and angry protest: "Others might deny you, but I never will!" And yet before the night was over, three times Peter denied that he even knew Jesus.

Let it be said to the credit of the disciples that in the Upper Room there was none of that. If their failure to offer assurance of their loyalty disappoints us, it should be of some consolation that at least they did not point the finger at one another while boasting of their undying faithfulness. And if behind the question, "Is it I, Lord?" was an acknowledgment that any of them was capable of betraying Jesus, then that was indeed a high hour. If it was not the actual beginning of the Church, then it was at least an important step toward its becoming what the Church is forever called to be: not a collection of the noble and the good, but a fellowship of sinners who know that they stand forever in need of God's grace; a koinonia, a body of people who have learned to love and accept one another, warts and all, and who endeavor to live without sham or pretense.

Now, I don't need to tell you that if we Christians fail at any point, it is here! Instead of being that accepting, loving fellowship into which people are drawn and received, warmly embraced and lovingly cared for, so often the church remains a collection of isolated individuals who function in their own little orbit of interests and concerns, and who remain at arm's length from one another. We talk of love and acceptance, but the circle of our friendships remains tightly closed and restricted. People come to the church hoping to find a community of support, but so often they feel unwelcome, if not rejected.

There is a scene in Hannah Green's book, I Never Promised You A Rose Garden, where a teenage girl is released from a mental hospital and seeks to win a place in the workaday world. The novelist writes this description:

Although Deborah had gone to the choir practice at the church and sewing classes at the high school and even a teenage outing club, she went and returned, sharing her sewing machine, a hymn book, a map, and "good evening" and "good night" and no more. Everyone was polite and so was she, but their lives had been walled against her.


So often it's that way in society, isn't it? And, tragically, it's often that way in the church! And why? Because you and I who are part of the church are far more prone to boast, "Lord, I would never betray you," than to ask, "Is it I?" which would be far more truthful. So often and for so much of the time we go around wearing masks and pretending to be better than we really are and to know more than we really do. We never acknowledge how badly we sometimes feel about ourselves, how frightened and weak we sometimes are, how inferior we see ourselves as being, how unworthy, how much in need of God's forgiveness we are. All of that we cover up with a fa ade of strength and adequacy. And the result is an inadvertent pushing of people away. We avoid the kind of vulnerability that draws people and lets them in. To be vulnerable seems too scary!

Am I advocating that we go around boasting about how bad we are, how weak and unworthy? Of course not! Only that we quit pretending to be what we are not. What I plead for is a willingness to be honest, to put an end to sham, to acknowledge that maybe our greatest sin is not so much the wrong things we do as the pretense that we are above doing those things. Perhaps our chief problem is the pride that refuses to admit that we too can, and sometimes do, betray our Lord.

Strength, you see, resides not in hiding that fact from others and often from ourselves, but in admitting it. Is that not the secret of Alcoholics Anonymous and the basis of its power? "My name is __________, and I'm an alcoholic. I have discovered that I'm powerless to stop drinking. My life is out of control. I need a strength beyond myself or I'm lost." Such an admission seems like weakness. But that very acknowledgment is the beginning of real strength, for with it comes an openness to change. Where there is no longer the necessity to deny the truth of one's problem and to appear self--sufficient, the problem can finally be dealt with in a fellowship of acceptance.

Don't you see what it could do for the Church if we dared such openness? In one of his books, Bruce Larson tells how one night as a group of Christian men met for sharing and praying in an office building in New York, they were joined by another man whom no one in the group knew. Each thought that the stranger had been referred to the group by someone else in the circle, and so it was suggested that he pull up a chair and join the six or eight men who were there. The stranger sat and listened as several of the men shared their struggle to become whole persons and effective Christians. Finally, the leader turned to the visitor and asked his name. "My name is Paul," he said, "and as long as you have been honest I will be honest, too. I came here to rob this office and to get a fix, but I think I have found something better." He stayed to pray and ask God's help for his enormous problem because he heard some other men being honest.

Is it I, Lord? If we can't say that and risk being honest in the church where our Lord accepts us and loves us unconditionally, where can it happen? And surely now is the moment to begin!