'Children of Heaven'

At church on Wednesday night, we discussed ways to make the gospel message concrete, especially abstract words that are familiar to Christian people but have little meaning to those who are unfamiliar with Christian terms. When Jesus teaches in the gospels, he doesn't define abstract terms or create syllogisms, he embodies them in action and story. We each reflected on life experiences, and we tried to describe examples of mercy and forgiveness from our lives.

Damon, our preacher, described a journaling project assigned in one of his graduate classes on preaching: over the course of the semester the students had to catalog each time that they saw the gospel or an illustration of the gospel in every day life. Over time an exercise like this should train these aspiring preachers to be constantly on the look out for glimpses of the 'gospel in miniature.' This is also a helpful discipline for those in the pew - no matter what job we get paid for, we all have a part in the missio Dei, the mission of God in the world. Damon challenged us to look for the gospel in miniature, and in keeping with that challenge, I'd like to recommend a film to you.

'Children of Heaven,' a 1997 Iranian film, was nominated for an Academy Award in 1999 in the Best Foreign Language Film category, but it had justly won numerous awards overseas before it caught the attention of Western critics.

The opening scene of the film shows young Ali waiting patiently as a cobbler fixes a rip in Ali's sister's shoes. Ali loses the pair of shoes on his way home. Knowing that their family has no money for a new pair (and fearing a beating from their father), Ali and his sister, Zahra, hatch a plan to share Ali's sneakers until they can find a replacement of Zahra's shoes. They attend school at different times a day, so they engage in a daily shoe relay between classes. Ali later hears about a 4 km boy's race with an alluring third place prize: a brand new pair of sneakers. He swears to Zahra that if he wins third place, he'll trade the new sneakers in for a new pair of shoes for her.

I'll stop there. If you want to see self-giving love personified, this is a great film to check out. I suspect that the kingdom of God is quite like this, making 'Children of Heaven' an aptly named film.

Reflections on Teaching

It's hard to believe it, but I've been out of school and teaching for a year and a half now. Today I've been thinking a bit about the things I like about my job, the challenges teaching presents, and the various in ways I need to grow as an academician. I thought I'd share some thoughts here.

Here's one thing that I really love about my job, something that makes me smile to myself as I climb those grueling, building-code-defying stairs to my office: moments when I can tell that I'm getting through to my students. I've recently discovered anew the joy of trying to find relevant, creative ways to connect our class discussion with my students' realities, particularly their spiritual/religious experiences. I think it's the same thing that I enjoy about crafting sermons - finding and articulating a link between careful theological thinking and the nitty-gritty situations of life. Really, what good is one without the other? Striking an appropriate balance between the two is a major part for how I evaluate my teaching effectiveness these days.

That, of course, is part of the challenge of teaching - having the wisdom to know how best to connect these things. I feel a bit ashamed to own up to the other thing I find challenging: I'm really terrible at articulating student learning outcomes and clearly explaining assignments and expectations. I stare at the computer screen for lengthy periods trying to find the best way to express these things. All I can say is, I hope it gets easier with practice. Or will it always be this painstaking?

There are other growth areas too - certainly more than strengths! I'm very aware of my paucity of experience as an educator and a scholar. I have so much to learn about my subject matter; the more I teach, the more I realize I've got so much to learn. The list is daunting, and on my pessimistic days it feels virtually insurmountable. I've yet to figure out the best way to ask clear questions for class discussion... they're especially convoluted when I'm shooting from the hip.

So, I've got a long way to go. At the same time, this unexpected opportunity to teach has given me plenty of reason to believe that it's a journey well worth taking.

Q & A

Q: Is it possible to "grow thicker skin" and maintain a healthy amount of sensitivity?

A: ??? (Anyone?!)

Or maybe the bumps and bruises along the way are a part of the way of the cross - not to be avoided (though perhaps not to be sought after either) but rather accepted as an integral part of Christian discipleship. (It's just hard to take knocks from the devout person sitting next to me in the pew.) I have this gut feeling that this is only the beginning, and that these little blows can teach me to endure opposition without losing hope for the church or failing in love for my well-meaning brother or sister.

The Missing Valentine

Thursday was my first Valentine's Day without a card from Grandma. It was the third (and final) card missing this year. My grandmother, Elaine, passed away this summer on July 14th (exactly 9 months). She loved to express her affection for others through finding just the right card for the right person on any given occasion. I remember looking forward to opening the mailbox and finding the envelope addressed in her neat, slanted script (it was much like my dad's). While Grandpa was still living, she always signed for him, too. Once I moved to Abilene, the cards were often hand-delivered when we would meet up for lunch on Sundays. Before my last year of graduate school, Amber and I moved into the little lake cabin next door to her house. Amber got a card that year, too. I wish that last year hadn't been so busy, so I could have enjoyed the last months living close to her. I didn't realize our time was so limited, but I guess no one ever does.

I never knew that the little, often sappy, cards she sent me had meant so much. Actually, they probably didn't matter much in themselves - I just miss the woman who sent them so faithfully year after year.

Hypotheticals

This morning I've had a flurry of hypothetical questions on my mind. What if things were different? What if my plans included y instead of x? Would (or will) I regret choosing one set of options over another? What am I willing to relinquish? Other than my faith in Jesus Christ, what will I cling to at all cost? Could the call of God in my life be answered obediently in more than one way? Or maybe it's better asked this way: Is God's calling in my life something that is specific or general? (I think God calls some people to specific tasks and others to more general ones - which kind of calling is mine?) Can I live fully, faithfully, joyfully with a different set of circumstances than those I envision? Can I with the ones I'm choosing now?

Some of these questions we answer for ourselves. We get to learn to live into them, accepting the outcome as the end that we chose over other possible ends with the hope that God is somehow in the midst of that process - guiding us, journeying with us. Some questions are answered for us, for better or for worse, and we learn to live with those too. Other questions we can only answer alongside others. Here's where the questions of what we are willing to leave behind and what we will not release become the most complicated and the most urgent to answer.

Such hypothetical questions and the world of dim, hazy possibilities behind them are like planted seeds. They each seem to hold the potential for life that gives way to more life. Given the conditions of soil, water and temperature, some will germinate while others lie forever dormant. For now, the surface of the soil is still smooth - who can tell which fragile shoots will break through?

The Mantis Parable

I randomly found this short animated film on YouTube while looking for inspiration for the online class I'm writing for ACU. The Mantis Parable is Josh Staub's first film. (You can visit his website and order it here.) I enjoyed it and thought that you might too!



I'm trying to introduce my students to the theological perspectives of the four gospels. That is, the four gospels differ from one another (sometimes in small ways, sometimes significant) because of the theological message that the writer is trying to communicate to the reader. To get them thinking about different perspectives, I thought I'd have them each watch this film and write an interpretation of its meaning. Much like the four evangelists, my students are reflecting and describing the same story, but chances are they will perceive different nuances in that story depending on their own perspectives, contexts, and life experiences. I imagine that in a group of 3 or 4 students, their interpretations will differ significantly even though it's just a short, animated film. Is it any surprise, then, that the gospels differ sometimes slightly, sometimes significantly as they are interpreting a story of much greater length, importance, and ambiguity?

I'm still experimenting with teaching - maybe I'll learn that this isn't the best concrete experience for my subject matter. Still, it's an assignment that I'm excited about. Any feedback?

Homespun

In Abilene, you sometimes find bits of April sprinkled into winter months like January. Today is one of those days, and I took advantage of the welcome sunshine during my lunch break. While walking the track around ACU, my mind wandered the realm of metaphor - that wondrous literary device that bests lengthy expositions with a simple image. I've recently discovered that finding a metaphor to describe my feelings or situation at any given point is extremely satisfying, opening new doors of self-understanding in a way that other descriptions can't. Anyway, here's the metaphor that really stuck with me today.

One thing that I love about reading patristic writers is that they have immersed themselves so deeply in the Scriptures that biblical images and phrases pour freely from their pens and saturate their writing. Some of this is intentional, but some is subconscious. They wield biblical allusions freely, imaginatively, and even playfully - far more creatively than my historical criticism trained mind can begin to fathom. Sometimes the allusions are so subtle that I skim right over them without noticing. Whatever the outcome, for these patristic writers the text has a life that's not quite bound by its original context so that it takes on new meaning and significance in the author's situation. I'm not about to throw cautions about original context to the wind, but I still think there's something beautiful and inspiring about the lively patristic use of the Bible. I'd like for Scripture to capture my imagination that way (instead of quotes from the latest Office episode!).

These patristic writers use Scripture the way a woman quilting by hand works thread in and out of the material. Sometimes the thread is barely visible, even intentionally hidden from sight, but nonetheless it is that which holds the whole tapestry together. However beautiful the material and design may be, the small, careful stitches combine to form the pattern that gives the quilt its appealing texture. In such a way the Scriptures are woven into patristic writings, holding them together, adorning them.

Lord, though life sometimes hands us what seem to be random pieces of material, may your life-giving Word be the thread that binds it all together, bringing order, beauty and texture to our otherwise jumbled existence.

No Man Is An Island

Thanks to a thoughtful gift from my friend Kadie, I've been slowly chewing on the first chapter of Thomas Merton's No Man Is An Island. The beginning of the chapter has been especially poignant for me this week:

A happiness that is sought for ourselves alone can never be found: for a happiness that is diminished by being shared is not big enough to make us happy.

There is a false and momentary happiness in self-satisfaction, but it always leads to sorrow because it narrows and deadens our spirit. True happiness is found in unselfish love, a love which increases in proportion as it is shared. There is no end to the sharing of love, and, therefore, the potential happiness of such love is without limit. Infinite sharing is the law of God's inner life. He has made the sharing of ourselves the law of our own being, so that it is in loving others that we best love ourselves. In disinterested activity we best fulfill our own capacities to act and to be.

Yet there can never be happiness in compulsion. It is not enough for love to be shared: it must be shared freely. That is to say it must be given, not merely taken. Unselfish love that is poured out upon a selfish object does not bring perfect happiness: not because love requires a return or a reward for loving, but because it rests in the happiness of the beloved. And if the one loved receives love selfishly, the lover is not satisfied. He sees that his love has failed to make the beloved happy. It has not awakened his capacity for unselfish love.

Hence the paradox that unselfish love cannot rest perfectly except in a love that is perfectly reciprocated: because it knows that the only true peace is found in selfless love. Selfless love consents to be loved selflessly for the sake of the beloved. In doing so, it perfects itself.

The gift of love is the gift of the power and capacity to love, and, therefore, to give love with full effect is also to receive it. So, love can only be kept by being given away, and it can only be given perfectly when it is also received.

I love this passage of the book, but there's this little skeptical voice that wants me to buck Merton's assertions. Specifically, that voice asks me, "Is such selfless love humanly possible?" Merton is, no doubt, presenting an ideal, but he's presenting it as if it is within reach. Is it? Or, perhaps some of us learn to love in a completely selfless manner - how likely is it for those two persons to meet and love one another so that their love "perfects itself"?* This is an ideal to be lived into, but maybe it is not perfectly achieved until God completes his good work in us (Phil. 1:6).

Merton goes on to nuance his discussion of selfless love: it doesn't just consent to everything the beloved wants. Merton explains that we sometimes fool ourselves into believing that we are selfless when we give in to everything the beloved wants. In truth, we can be enslaving the beloved to ourselves. Also, selfless love desires what is good for the beloved, and that is not always the thing that the beloved wants.

* Note: Merton and I are both referring to all kinds of love, not merely romantic love.

Beginning Again

This morning I arose in time to watch the sunlight break over the eastern horizon. (A rare event for me.) I stood shivering, camera ready, in the crisp morning air, wanting to capture it at just the right moment. I'm not a great photographer, but this seemed like a good image to end my blogging sabbatical. (Chances are no one bothers to check my blog anymore... that's probably for the best.)


I can't explain it, but I felt a baffling sense of loss as the light of dawn spread across the once inky landscape - not my normal response to such scenes. I'm still unsettled by my morning gloominess. I've been on the edge of weeping all day long - just a moment or two away from completely losing it. I managed to keep it together until I got home from work this evening, but it was a stretch. I guess it's just one of those days.

It's been a difficult and wonderful 6 months. There has been heartache and loss (the kind that comes in waves), stress and anxiety, feeling incompetent at nearly every turn, loneliness. But the same months held moments of deep joy (that even outlast the waves of loss), a feeling of completion and accomplishment, new jobs, a sense of calling, meeting new friends, deepening old friendships, and a growing, hopeful realization that God isn't finished with me yet. Needless to say, there's quite a bit to to catch up on.

This is a time of ambiguity and uncertainty in my life, much like the sunrise: whether it begins with bright, golden hues or just the gradual lightening of gray skies, it's hard to tell what the day will hold. The Lord was right: each day has enough trouble of its own. But there's hope and excitement for a fresh start too. Fortunately, we always begin again.

Over the last year, our church has had a cycle of guest preachers. Sometimes this has been refreshing, at other times frustrating. One of our frequent guest preachers is a minister at another local congregation, and he seems to speak only in hyperbole. At first, this made me cringe – I desire a certain level of conscientious nuance in religious speech (a rigorous criterion that I myself rarely meet – maybe I should loosen up a bit!). However, my friend Kadie framed this for me in a different way as we were sitting together in church this Sunday. Kadie wouldn’t have said it this way, but her perspective was a God-sent, “Get over yourself.”

Kadie explained that our speaker’s exaggerated speech made her ask herself what she believed about his statement. For example, when the preacher explained that the most important question for a seeker shouldn’t be, “How can I get to heaven,” but “How can I be a part of this group of people (i.e. the church),” it was clearly an overstatement. Two poles are established, neither of which is rich enough to describe what it means to follow Christ. (But the first one is a primary fixation of Western Christianity.) The speaker was trying to emphasize the importance of community for spiritual formation over against the interests of the individual, so he overstated the case for it. This hyperbolic statement is not meant to be swallowed without question; it’s meant to make the hearers ask themselves and one another, “What do we believe about this?”

Kadie’s reflections have got me thinking too. While I feel a little antsy when a speaker overstates the case, it occurs to me that his preaching does what it sets out to do. That is, it is meant to evoke dialogue and reflection. This is speech that does not claim the final word, however over-confident such claims seem on the surface. The speaker doesn’t do all the thinking for the congregation, but delivers purposely provoking thoughts and gives the community the responsibility to critically sort it out.

So, “hyperbolic” is still not my favorite style of preaching. But because my friend Kadie shared her insight into the function of that style, I appreciate it much more. Her comments were redemptive and convicting for me – once again, I see God beckoning me back into the midst of the church instead of looking on, arms folded, in a critical manner. And suddenly, I feel as if I'm straightening up after spending hours slouched down - a feeling of release and reorientation, of freedom. Praise be to you, O God.

living Hebrews 11

While at a conference this week, I saw Donna Hester perform her Iron Apron Strings, an original theatrical piece written in reflection on the women listed in Jesus' genealogy in Matthew 1 (plus Eve). Hester's work centers in on each of these women in times of uncertainty, when they are struggling to make sense of the twists and turns of life. They're barely getting by, unable to discern their significance in the story of God which is breaking into the world.

Hester's interpretation of Rahab is especially captivating, not because of the monologue (which is well-written and well-performed), but because of the blocking (i.e. actions and props). Rahab describes her descent into prostitution - an occupation which morphes from "what you do" to "who you are." The monologue is gut-wrenching and heart-breaking. Yet, as Rahab unravels her tale of one hard knock after another, she irons a long cord of scarlet fabric. No mention is made of the destiny of that famous length of cloth - its presence is enough to evoke that fateful moment when it would dangle in her window as trumpets blew and Jericho's once sturdy walls shook (Joshua 2-6).

This image strikes a cord with me, as my graduation dates rapidly approaches. I'd like to think that maybe I'm ironing my own scarlet cord - holding in my hands, metaphorically speaking, something seemingly innocuous but that could be a tiny prop in the grand story of God which is unfolding in the life of the church. That may smack a bit of self-aggrandisement, but that's not my intention. The story in Joshua isn't centered around Rahab and her scrap of scarlet cord. It's about the action of God. Rahab happens to be in the right place at the right time, with an eye for the unusual, an imagination that can foresee an altered state of reality, and a willingness to dive in with whatever she has at her disposal even if it doesn't seem like much. She's an unlikely player... and an exemplary one - maybe that's why she also shows up in that long list of heroes of the faith in Hebrews 11.

Perhaps Rahab was also asked, "What are you going to do with that?!" Maybe, like me, sometimes her only response was a shrugging, "I don't know." But walking by faith, if Rahab is indeed an example of this, means carrying on in the midst of uncertainty and preparing for what currently seems unlikely or impossible.

To this end, I think I'm going to commit myself to a new discipline - a discipline that I will probably just allude to from time to time here. It's an unlikely one, one that will probably seem pointless and fruitless to many: I think I'll start writing sermons and practicing delivering them as a spiritual discipline.* Do I dare compare that to "ironing a scarlet cord" or building an ark?


* I think spiritual disciplines are best practiced in the context of community. Are there any of my female seminary friends out there who would like to participate?

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!

John 15:1-17

I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. You are already clean* because of the word I have spoken to you. Remain in me, and as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.

I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. If you do not remain in me, you are like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire and burned. If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. This is to my Father's glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.

As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you keep my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call your servants, because servants do not know their master's business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit - fruit that will last - and so that whatever you ask in my name the Father will give you. This is my command: Love each other.


This picture is currently the wallpaper on my computer, and every time I see it I think about this passage. Thinking about it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy... until I actually attend to Jesus' words! This is a pretty challenging vision of Christian life together! Here's just an off-the-cuff list of my observations:

• God is the one who prunes the vine. (I think we tend to forget that from time to time.)
• As branches in the True Vine, we are participants in the love of the divine communion(!).
• The allure of autonomy is deceptive. A branch hoping to produce fruit on its own ends up in quite the opposite state: tossed away, withered - good only for firewood. Kinda puts my prideful strivings in perspective!
• "Friends" - wow. I suspect that this is a more robust notion of friendship than those we inherited from Romanticism. That alone is worthy of several posts.
  
• Love is costly here. It's easy to read the final "love one another" without glancing at the first, more demanding command: "Love each other as I have loved you." And, of course, on the lips of Jesus, the reference to laying down one's life is no empty exhortation. (Ironically, what may appear as being cut off from the land of the living is actually remaining in the True Vine.) I wonder - what could we say about the nature of the church from this passage?
  

One more random thought: this passage makes me think of Polycarp - a second century bishop of Smyrna and a disciple of the apostle John. His name is derived from two Greek words that appear in this passage: polu karpos or "much fruit." And the name fits. In 155, facing certain execution at the hands of local magistrates, Polycarp refused to curse Christ saying, "I have been his servant for 86 and he has never mistreated me. Then how can I blaspheme the King who saved me?" With his decision to remain in Christ, Polycarp's life was forfeit - they burned and stabbed him. And yet, in laying down his life, Polycarp became a living sermon - a vivid illustration of the very passage from which he derives his name. (If you're interested, you can read a 2nd century account of his martyrdom here.)

* A Johannine play-on-words: the word translated "clean" is the same as the one translated "prune" in the previous verse.

Black and Blue

Maybe it wasn't obvious, but as I wrote last night's post, I was emotionally raw. I actually shed some tears, alternating with a clenched jaw and a hard stare. Playfulness tends to creep into my writing even when I'm furious, hurt or sad. It's my best mask. Anyway, last night I was letting frustration and hurt out, but I decided that once the new day had dawned, I would not be acting out of those feelings anymore.

That, of course, is easier said than done. Mentor group this morning helped. We probed topics of vocation and calling to ministry - what God's call has felt like and looked like in our lives. Not exactly a "safe" topic (I had a few teary-eyed moments), but definitely a good one. I cried a little as we prayed. Tera invited me in to sit on her couch and share my latest news and frustration. She kindly reminded me that I can't just will myself not to be hurt or mad. And she's right. Will power has it's limitations (especially mine!). I can't just stuff my frustration and hurt in a bottle, hurl it out to sea and brush the sand from my hands as it drifts out with the tide.

No - the hurt is going to stay a while longer. (Yet another thing that we can't switch off like a light... Hmm, sort of like a pointless but lingering crush.) Today it's more of a bruise: the sharp sting of the initial blow is gone, but the tender spot of black and blue remains. If I bump into things in the wrong way, it'll remind me that I'm still healing, but most of the day I almost forget that it's there.

Today is a good day to remember the kind of life that characterizes a person who has been buried with Christ in the waters of baptism and raised to new life together with him by the power of God.* It is a day to recall that I have taken off anger, wrath, malice, slander, and abusive language from my mouth. I might as well add a few more for good measure: self-centered complaining, sarcastic words, biting humor, defensive rhetoric. These are the filthy, tattered raiments of the old self - they don't fit anymore... well, at least, they shouldn't.

Stripping off the old self, I've clothed myself with the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its Creator. That doesn't exempt me from hurt, frustration or discouragement, but it does change the way I should respond:

... clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. ...

I know I can't just flip a switch and turn off all of the hurt. But I think that maybe I can live into a different sort of response than the rage and frustration that seem to be my default. Some of those "new clothes" don't just come in a vacuum - sometimes it takes some friction to develop such virtues. I'll keep praying - these are fruits that mature through the active presence of the Holy Spirit. I can't cut it on my own.


* I live in Colossians these days. It's so full of rich baptismal imagery. I'm just drinking it in!

"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!

Habit-forming Prayer

The Orans or Orante, one of the most common images in early Christian art,
depicts a woman praying with her arms outstretched and her head covered.

When my family gathers around the dinner table to eat (on the nights when we're not eating in front of the t.v.), my dad has always said the same prayer. Well, at least, the prayer always had the same structure, rhythm and intonation. There was a flexible part: in the portion usually reserved for thanking God for each member of our family, thanksgiving for the presence of any guests was always included. Sometimes Dad said the prayer so quickly that, if I hadn't heard it nearly every day for my entire life, it would have been difficult to pick out the individual words.

I think it's probably fair to say that the closest thing to a liturgical prayer I heard growing up was at our dinner table. Other than the occassional (redundant and more or less nonsensical), "guide, guard and direct us," Dad was the only one I ever heard praying something out of habit. Among my peers at church (and I suspect among people of all ages), praying by rote or reading a prepared prayer was considered less "spiritual."

This attitude took me a while to outgrow - even after I'd grown to appreciate a more structured form of prayer, kicking my perceived need for spontaneity was hard. But the pressure of being continually new and creative becomes pretty overwhelming, even paralyzing at times (and I don't think it's actually Christian to always need something new and fresh to be spiritually alive). Lately I've been paying attention to the ways ritual prayer affect the daily lives of people around me. Here are some of my findings:

Last fall, I ate lunch at Aunt Yvonne and Uncle Roger's. As Roger ages, he stutters more and more. Yvonne can usually clear up what he's trying to say, but sometimes it's even hard for her to understand. As we sat down for lunch, we joined hands to pray, and I expected that my cousin Scott would give thanks for the food. It quickly became apparent, however, that this is Uncle Roger's house, and he was going to say the prayer. As we bowed our heads, I wondered how long this would take and how hard it might be for him to get the words out. To my surprise, the words rolled off his tongue with ease, loud and clear - the words of a prayer that he's been saying over his family's dinner table for 50+ years. Not a single stutter. I was amazed, but I shouldn't have been. It shouldn't be surprising that a prayer prayed over and over during the course of an entire lifetime has actually formed the person who prays it. After all, none of the fruits of the Spirit are virtues that just spontaneously surface; they're habits formed by a lifetime of discipline.

Here's another, different example: My friend Jared, who was confirmed in the Episcopal church last spring, includes a prayer in nearly every post on his blog, Scribere Orare Est (Latin for "to write is to pray"). More often than not, the prayers are from the Book of Common Prayer. It strikes me nearly every time I read something by Jared that the written, ritual prayers of his communal and personal worship often provide orientation for his daily experiences, even (or perhaps especially) those that are not easily explained or resolved. I think there's something to that.

The Beginning, Pt. 1

I've been thinking a lot about creation stories lately, mostly due to conversations I've had with Mom lately. She teaches fourth grade at a large private school in the metro Atlanta area, and lately they've been talking a lot about evolution vs. creation. Actually, one of her fellow teachers has been devouring information from groups like the Apologetics Press and decided to spearhead an effort to debunk evolution. The middle school and high school chose not to participate in the workshop, but the elementary school kids will be getting a full dose of creationist polemics.

I think this is a pretty bad idea. Mom agrees, but she can't voice her disagreement at school. Several years ago, a few teachers were let go because they believed in evolution, and everyone's been skirting the issue since. There's an eerie silence among the teachers - they must all take their classes to the workshop, but they are obviously unenthused about it. This week, they watched a video preview of the workshop during their teacher workday. Apparently, it was mostly full of anecdotal "evidence" against evolution and unconvincing logical arguments. One of the arguments went something like, "If the creation story is not taken as a literal 6 day event then the reliability of the whole Bible is called into question, allowing room for all kinds of immorality and faithlessness, and Christianity falls to pieces." The speaker on the video went on to link all the things that are wrong with contemporary society with belief in the theory of evolution.

Now, I don't mind someone holding or sharing honest doubts about evolution. I'd probably have a few too, if I actually took some time to study up on it. Biology isn't my area of expertise or interest; my frustration with the apologetics material is more along the lines of theology, biblical interpretation, and Christian discipleship. Is it really beneficial to make such an egregious overstatement about the importance of the literal interpretation of Genesis 1 and 2? Does the truth of the Bible, of the Christian faith really hinge on this? Placing the blame for all the evils of society on the theory of evolution makes about as much sense as using The DaVinci Code as a history textbook. I don't think that the best way to teach people, young or old, to follow Jesus is by loading them up with arguments and strategies for aggressively confronting people who don't believe.

Here's something that I think creationists are right about: the creation story matters. Stories of origin have an impact on how we see the world and our place in it. I think it's important for Christians to continue asserting that God is Creator and that God created human beings, both male and female, in God's image. The way the creation story describes God the Creator matters, too. It is not an option to simply scrap the opening chapters of the Bible (or any part of the Scriptures for that matter!) and accept whatever theory of origins is in vogue for the time being. However, I don't think that a literal interpretation is the only faithful option for Christians. More to come on this topic in the future...