Thanks, Billy.

I'm working on this paper. I'm not quite sure how it'll turn out, but I have a hunch that it'll be a mixture of the following components: excerpts from 2nd and 3rd century church fathers concerning the New Testament canon, insights from the epistemology of testimony and virtue epistemology (whew!), and Christian catechesis. Maybe. How that'll all fit together is still a mystery to me. (But it needs to all come together in the next 24 hours or so. No worries - it'll work out somehow.)

Today I picked up Canon and Criteria in Christian Theology by William Abraham. The first two chapters (all I've read so far) are fascinating! I wish I had more time to dive into this material. Abraham challenges the notion that the Bible is primarily a source of epistemic justification. In other words, Scripture should not be used as a trump card in religious discussion and life. (That's too simplistic a description, but it'll have to do.) Abraham describes the Christian Scriptures as just one among many canons of the church. Scripture is a means of grace which gives us access to divine revelation. It strikes me that this is quite different from the way that we tend to view Scripture in the church - in a refreshing and life-giving way. Although this seems to run counter to a lot of Protestant Christianity's teaching about the nature and function of Scripture, it actually provides a more balanced, respectful view of Scripture. Here's an excerpt that I found particularly moving:*

We might sum up by thinking of the varied canonical traditions as different elements in the production of a grand symphony. The music which results is the music of salvation, which naturally transposes itself into hymns of praise. Some of the canonical traditions, like the water, oil, bread, and wine of the sacraments, represent various instruments in the orchestra of the Church. Some, like Fathers and bishops, represent various players. Some, like liturgical material, represent the scores, which are best followed according to the programme notes which accompany them. Everyone involved in the orchestra must approach his or her role in a spirit of humility and dependence, joy and praise. Most important of all, everyone must heed and be open to the leading of the great conductor, the Holy Spirit, who, through the use of the canonical traditions of the Church, creates within the participants the melody of Christ the Saviour, a music which leads ineluctably into the unfathomable, unspeakable mystery of the living God.

When I first learned about the historical formation of the New Testament canon, it was somewhat disorienting. It took centuries to fully flower, and it was a messy, ad hoc process. I'll never see Scripture in the same way again... and I think that's a profoundly good thing!

We spend a lot of our religious lives trying to avoid disorientation. We sing happy-clappy (theologically bankrupt) praise songs and pretend that the lament psalms don't exist. (No wonder people fall away from church when they're struggling.) We make up ridiculous, snappy slogans to slap on our bumpers. Sometimes we turn a blind eye to things that might pose a challenge to faith. On the other hand, I've had friends drop their faith like a hot potato when times of disorientation come. These moves are two sides of the same coin - they seek re-orientation at the cost of serious inquiry. (Although the second of the two reactions seems more intellectually honest than the first to me.)

I suggest living into disorientation for a while - even (especially) when it comes to central assumptions in our faith. Unrushed re-orientation is worth the uncomfortable wait; at least, that has been my experience in struggling with the formation of the Christian canon. Disorientation gave way to new appreciation for the church, despite all of its short-comings and foibles. Most importantly, I think got a tiny glimpse of the great conductor, the Holy Spirit, leading us along through confusing tangle of human history. I heard the soft strains of the melody of the Saviour... could it be that in the midst of disorientation I stumbled unawares into the mysterious presence of the living God?

* It moves me partially because of the musical imagery - I'm such a sucker for symphonic metaphors!

"Nada te turbe"

It's been a pretty encouraging week. Aside from my Comprehensive Exam prep class - which drains and stresses me so much that I have to go take a nap once I'm out of class - everything this week has been going my way. When I read these words by Teresa of Avila this afternoon, they went down sweet and sugary, like a savory dessert:

Let nothing disturb you;
nothing dismay you;
all things pass,
but God never changes.
Whoever has God lacks nothing:
if you only have God, you have more than enough.

Dr. Childers (a.k.a. "J. Chill", thanks to Xander) repeats words from Teresa* to soothe our nervous spasms in Comps: "All will be well and all manner of things will be well." (I remember being the obnoxious one of the summer mission team who kept repeating that phrase over and over as we were each dragging three over-sized suitcases from one airport in London to the other. My teammates were models of forbearance.) Yes, aside from when you're being painfully upbeat while everyone else pulls their hair out (in reference to me, not "J. Chill"!), these words are comforting like a nice warm cup of tea.

But it turns out that those words were not only meant to be my afternoon verbal tea.* I needed them desperately tonight... and I think I'll need them more over the coming days. After all, these words of consolation are just that - they bring reorientation in a time of dismay. They are not written for sun-drenched afternoons alone; Teresa's speaking to moments of desolation, big and small. My "desolation" tonight was comparatively small. I was so eerily quiet and serious while on the phone that Amber thought someone had died. But it's not as serious as that.

After a time of latent pessimism about the church, I was feeling some fresh hope. It was like a lamp turned on to illumine a dark room, leaving a few shadowy corners, but hinting that even they might be transformed at the flick of a switch. I was thinking, "It's just as we've been hoping all along. God might actually be at work here!" I'm usually bubbly - this week I've been bubbling over.

Tonight the lamp is flickering a bit. I'm reminded that lights can be turned off as easily as turned on. There's nothing like a little discouragement riding on the coattails of newborn excitement to take the wind out of your sails. At first I tasted the acidity of feeling personally slighted. The acidic taste is gone now. If I really believe the story of Jesus, I can't get bent out of shape every time things don't go the way I'd like them to. But I'm still a bit uneasy. What next?

It isn't that God is not at work in the church. God's just not working that fast. God likes to work in conjunction with the people of God... and we're a bit slower, less certain. We're not a "flick of the switch" bunch. We're more like, "Rub the sticks together until they start to smoke and then blow softly for a little while. Add some tinder. Blow some more. (You might have to start over a few times.)" So what I really need is some patience. And, again, these words:

Let nothing disturb you;
nothing dismay you;
all things pass,
but God never changes.
Whoever has God lacks nothing:
if you only have God, you have more than enough.

They aren't warm and fuzzy anymore. (They're definitely not "annoy your teammates with unabated optimism.") But they are consoling. They're something like Gospel.


*Verbal tea?! Wow, how lame can ya get?

* Jared very gently and indirectly pointed out that J. Chill's favorite quote is actually from Julian of Norwich. And he's right of course. I tend to get my female mystics confused. Julian's an English hermit from before the Reformation. Teresa's the founder of the Discalced ('Shoeless') Carmelites - a part of the Catholic Counter Reformation. One of these days it'll all sink in!

And hope does not disappoint us...

I don’t offer any profound thoughts here, just something I’ve been thinking about this morning. I’ve been thinking about how our present experience doesn’t always (or even often) match up with the portrayal of the world in the Gospel. Seeing the world that way takes some serious, even constant, re-envisioning. It’s an adventure of human imagination – not in the sense of being make-believe, but as a thoughtful and creative engagement of mind, faith, and hands-on experience (and sometimes doubt). It’s shot through with a crazy thing called “hope.”

Did anyone else see Lady in the Water this summer? I know – the critics really tore it up, and it’s not necessarily the best source of thrill and suspense. The plot line is a little obvious, too. However, my friend Erin and I found some of the ideas and themes in the story very engaging. Shyalaman brings up questions of human giftedness and role on the cosmic scene in spite of our inability to grasp what our gifts are and how to use them in conjunction with the gifts of others for the sake of the life of the world. But that’s another post for another time! Today I’m more interested in the idea of hope – a theme that emerges throughout the movie.

Strangely, it is in the midst of great danger and seemingly imminent peril that the light of hope shines most brightly. Perhaps it appears so bright because of its gloomy surroundings, like a diamond set against a piece of black velvet. At the moment when any chance of survival seems lost, the main characters of the film carry out their crazy scheme for salvation, clinging to that faint glimmer of hope like a lifeline. Maybe you could argue that they act more out of desperation than out of a sense of hope. Perhaps, but even an act of desperation implies a refusal to give in to fatalistic despair. That sounds a tiny bit hopeful to me.

Sometimes Christians (myself included) talk about hope as if it’s some kind of future-tense, warm and fuzzy ideal. I’m not denying that hope is implicitly future-oriented, but I am questioning the value of a hope that leaves us content to sit smugly, preferring to dream of better days to come when the present reality is less than desirable. Hope is not simply a balm for the weary human soul, a draft of contentment and peace when our souls thirst for security. Marx's maxim that religion is the "opium of the masses" is naive. Hope has a fiery side, too. Hope – the daring impulse to dream that the world as it is can be different – kindles in us the courage to act boldly even when everything looks bleak and burnt-out. Hope beckons us to be an active part in the great story of God’s love for the world. The quintessence of faith, hope is the ability to look at the messy ambiguity of our world, to see instead new possibilities for its future and to act accordingly in the present.

But I can’t leave this out: speaking from my own convictions, I don’t think there’s much hope for us if God isn’t a part of this. The root of active hope is the belief that God is at work in this world in ways beyond our comprehension and perception and that we can participate in that work despite our limitations and propensity to screw things up. It seems that God prefers it that way, as inexplicable as that is! (Risky partnership over efficiency?! God doesn’t work according to American values – how refreshing is that?! Wow! This is GOOD NEWS for us! But I digress...) As Paul is fond of pointing in Ephesians, when God breaks into the world, mysterious things happen among us and through us. And, crazy as it may seem, that gives me bold, active hope for the present and future of the world.

(When I started this post, I was only going to write a few sentences. Grad school makes me wordy! ... Or maybe it's the caffeine.)