Hi folks! I promised on the last podcast that I'd post a bonus episode this week, since I missed last week. So here it is!
A lot of you have probably already heard this version of my song "God's Sleeves," but I thought it was a fun example of some scripture foolery.
If you're interested in learning more about some of the surprising (rather than spectacular) aspects of the weird and wild book of Revelation, check out Brian Blount's book Can I Get a Witness, which (among other things) reads Revelation through a hip hop lens.
If you haven't already, check out my Patreon page -- patrons have access to even more bonus content! Every little bit helps -- even just $1/month.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Monday, September 5, 2016
Fooling with Scripture podcast, Ep 5 -- When Healing Calls
You can read the full story -- it's a quick read! -- in Mark 10:56-42.
My favorite commentary on Mark's gospel comes from the first chapter of a book by William Placher called Narratives of a Vulnerable God: Christ, Theology, and Scripture (Westminster John Knox Press, 1994).
I mention a couple of sources about calling and vocation in the podcast. The first is the famous definition of vocation from Frederick Buechner. I've seen a bunch of different versions of that quote from different sources; here's an extended quote from one source, Buechner's book Wishful Thinking: A Seeker's ABC (HarperSanFrancisco, 1973, 1993):
It comes from the Latin vocare, to call, and means the work a person is called to by God. There are all different kinds of voices calling you to all different kinds of work, and the problem is to find out which is the voice of God rather than of Society, say, or the Superego, or Self-Interest. By and large a good rule for finding out is this: The kind of work God usually calls you to is the kind of work (a) that you need most to do and (b) that the world most needs to have done....The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet (pgs. 118-119)I also mentioned Parker Palmer's book Let Your Life Speak (John Wiley & Sons, 2000), which is one of my all-time favorites. The paraphrase of Father Howard Gray is from a personal conversation I was privileged to have with him a few years back.
Also, if you're interested in questions of purpose and calling, and especially if you're a young adult, check out the latest issue of Ignited Magazine -- and consider submitting your writing and/or art!
I hope you find some of this helpful, and even more so that you find a space for healing and wholeness this week!
Questions? Comments? Want a particular scripture fooled with? Want to be a guest? Email me!
Like what I'm doing? Please support me on Patreon! Every little bit helps -- even $1/month -- and I'd really like to get some better technology, which will improve the quality of the recording and also let me add more voices to the podcast. So please help out if you are able!
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Remembering Bennett, Remembering Cuba
On Tuesday, I drove out to the Eastern Shore of Maryland for a memorial service celebrating the life of a wonderful human being named Bennett Lamond. It has been almost a decade since I graduated from Washington College and moved out of Chestertown, but somehow, driving across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge still feels like going home. It was a perfect Chestertown day: blue skies, sun sparkling off the water as I crossed the Chester River bridge, a bit of a breeze. A good day for remembering Professor Lamond.
I did not ever have the opportunity to take a class with Professor Lamond. I can not claim him as a close friend, or even really as a mentor, except in the sense that he seemed to be able to befriend and mentor everyone he met with his affectionate smile, sparkling eyes, rich laugh, encouraging words, and just the right story for the occasion, told in his inimitable voice. While I never had a class with him, I did have the privilege to travel with him to Cuba. It was the summer after my freshman year -- 2004 -- and with the exception of a high school ski trip to Canada, it was my first time leaving the United States.
That trip changed the trajectory of my life, or at least clarified a change that had already begun. Up until that point, I still had, at least in the back of my head, the idea of majoring in English, or at least picking up a Creative Writing minor, one of the reasons I'd chosen Washington College to begin with. After Cuba -- a trip led by Dr. Christine Wade, who would eventually advise my senior thesis -- I gave in and declared an International Studies major. I was a young progressive, convinced of my own rightness, a walking embodiment of the tongue-in-cheek-truism that "nobody knows more than a college freshman." The U.S. had invaded Iraq the year before. I went to Cuba eager to hear political critique, to study the revolution 50 years later -- a revolution, so many of the Cubans we spoke with insisted, that was ongoing. I soaked up the alternative viewpoints we heard, voices that turned on their head U.S.-centric impressions of the island. Afterwards, I wrote what must have been a stunningly inexpert research paper on propaganda and ideology.
And yet, there with us in Cuba was Bennett Lamond, the poet and beloved professor of literature. To remember my time in Cuba is to remember Bennett, to be reminded of the beauty of the place, its poetry.
I wish, now, that I would have spent more time asking Professor Lamond what he thought of it all, and just listening. Remembering Bennett there makes me imagine seeing the place and the people through his lively, twinkling eyes. I remember him, and I remember the stunningly clear blueness of the water, the spray of waves on the Malecón, the taste of mangoes cut fresh from a tree. I remember conversations with the bartender in one of our hotels; the long bus ride across the island. Making children laugh by trying to dance salsa in the streets of Trinidad. Ernest Hemingway's house. I remember the artists, the authors. I remember misunderstanding and under-appreciating an architectural tour.
I wish I could go back and see it again, with Professor Lamond's eyes. To see and to hear it all as a story, as a poem.
Bennett Lamond had the soul of a poet, not only the profession. In the Hebrew Bible, the term we translate into English as "soul" is nfesh. The Hebrew word does not mean some incorporeal aspect of a person -- the Hebrews had little patience for the disembodied or the immaterial, for the escapist, perhaps unlike the medievalists whose work Bennett taught. Rather nfesh means the deepest part of one's being, or the whole of it -- the embodiment and more-than-embodiment, the fullness of it. Professor Lamond had the soul, the nfesh, of a poet.
He was kind, funny, whimsical but in no way shallow. He loved students and was a mentor for so many, students and faculty alike, at Washington College. The priest's homily at his memorial service referenced 1 John 3:18 -- "My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth." It was a beautiful tribute to his life and the way he truly loved, but -- I thought -- the scriptural reference was ever-so-slightly misplaced. For while Professor Lamond surely loved in deed and in truth, he also surely loved words, and loved in words. For the poet, the professor of literature, there is no such easy separation between word, and tongue, and deed, and truth. The words, the tongues, reflect and generate and give life to the deed. They reveal the truth.
The memorial service was held at Emmanuel Church in downtown Chestertown, on Cross Street. Emmanuel -- another Hebrew word -- means "God with us." For Christians, the term evokes the announcement of Jesus' birth in Matthew's gospel. The term is of course much older than that, from the Hebrew prophet Isaiah, and bears with it the promise of freedom and return from Exile.
I associate the word with all of the people and places which remind me of God's presence in our midst, which help me remember -- in the words of one of Professor Lamond's favorite poets, Gerard Manley Hopkins -- that "the world is charged with the grandeur of God."
The people and places which help me remember that there is something beautiful, something more, right there in front of our eyes.
Professor Bennett Lamond was one of those people who reminded me -- who reminded so many people -- of something beautiful, something more.
To which the only proper response is gratitude.
Thank you, Bennett.
I did not ever have the opportunity to take a class with Professor Lamond. I can not claim him as a close friend, or even really as a mentor, except in the sense that he seemed to be able to befriend and mentor everyone he met with his affectionate smile, sparkling eyes, rich laugh, encouraging words, and just the right story for the occasion, told in his inimitable voice. While I never had a class with him, I did have the privilege to travel with him to Cuba. It was the summer after my freshman year -- 2004 -- and with the exception of a high school ski trip to Canada, it was my first time leaving the United States.
That trip changed the trajectory of my life, or at least clarified a change that had already begun. Up until that point, I still had, at least in the back of my head, the idea of majoring in English, or at least picking up a Creative Writing minor, one of the reasons I'd chosen Washington College to begin with. After Cuba -- a trip led by Dr. Christine Wade, who would eventually advise my senior thesis -- I gave in and declared an International Studies major. I was a young progressive, convinced of my own rightness, a walking embodiment of the tongue-in-cheek-truism that "nobody knows more than a college freshman." The U.S. had invaded Iraq the year before. I went to Cuba eager to hear political critique, to study the revolution 50 years later -- a revolution, so many of the Cubans we spoke with insisted, that was ongoing. I soaked up the alternative viewpoints we heard, voices that turned on their head U.S.-centric impressions of the island. Afterwards, I wrote what must have been a stunningly inexpert research paper on propaganda and ideology.
And yet, there with us in Cuba was Bennett Lamond, the poet and beloved professor of literature. To remember my time in Cuba is to remember Bennett, to be reminded of the beauty of the place, its poetry.I wish, now, that I would have spent more time asking Professor Lamond what he thought of it all, and just listening. Remembering Bennett there makes me imagine seeing the place and the people through his lively, twinkling eyes. I remember him, and I remember the stunningly clear blueness of the water, the spray of waves on the Malecón, the taste of mangoes cut fresh from a tree. I remember conversations with the bartender in one of our hotels; the long bus ride across the island. Making children laugh by trying to dance salsa in the streets of Trinidad. Ernest Hemingway's house. I remember the artists, the authors. I remember misunderstanding and under-appreciating an architectural tour.
I wish I could go back and see it again, with Professor Lamond's eyes. To see and to hear it all as a story, as a poem.
Bennett Lamond had the soul of a poet, not only the profession. In the Hebrew Bible, the term we translate into English as "soul" is nfesh. The Hebrew word does not mean some incorporeal aspect of a person -- the Hebrews had little patience for the disembodied or the immaterial, for the escapist, perhaps unlike the medievalists whose work Bennett taught. Rather nfesh means the deepest part of one's being, or the whole of it -- the embodiment and more-than-embodiment, the fullness of it. Professor Lamond had the soul, the nfesh, of a poet.
He was kind, funny, whimsical but in no way shallow. He loved students and was a mentor for so many, students and faculty alike, at Washington College. The priest's homily at his memorial service referenced 1 John 3:18 -- "My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth." It was a beautiful tribute to his life and the way he truly loved, but -- I thought -- the scriptural reference was ever-so-slightly misplaced. For while Professor Lamond surely loved in deed and in truth, he also surely loved words, and loved in words. For the poet, the professor of literature, there is no such easy separation between word, and tongue, and deed, and truth. The words, the tongues, reflect and generate and give life to the deed. They reveal the truth.
The memorial service was held at Emmanuel Church in downtown Chestertown, on Cross Street. Emmanuel -- another Hebrew word -- means "God with us." For Christians, the term evokes the announcement of Jesus' birth in Matthew's gospel. The term is of course much older than that, from the Hebrew prophet Isaiah, and bears with it the promise of freedom and return from Exile.
I associate the word with all of the people and places which remind me of God's presence in our midst, which help me remember -- in the words of one of Professor Lamond's favorite poets, Gerard Manley Hopkins -- that "the world is charged with the grandeur of God."
The people and places which help me remember that there is something beautiful, something more, right there in front of our eyes.
Professor Bennett Lamond was one of those people who reminded me -- who reminded so many people -- of something beautiful, something more.
To which the only proper response is gratitude.
Thank you, Bennett.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Fooling with Scripture podcast, Ep 4 -- Spooky Jesus
This is one of my favorite stories in the New Testament, for many of the reasons I discuss in the podcast -- I love all of the surprising elements of the story. And I love Peter's reaction to Jesus as a model for a disciple's prayer: "Jesus, if that's you, call me out on the water."
Matthew is actually my favorite of the gospel narratives, largely for personal reasons. While I was studying abroad in Morocco, my chaplain and pastor, Karen, suggested we read through the whole of Matthew's gospel with an eye to its narrative elements, understanding it as a story. I stayed up all night to do it, and it was a powerful experience for me -- it was the first time I understood myself, not as held up against an abstract set of laws and moral guidelines, but rather as part of a story, a story which includes me but which is vastly prior to me and is much, much bigger than me.
My favorite commentary on Matthew's gospel is from a book that isn't actually about Matthew, or even about scripture specifically. David Bosch's Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission has a section on New Testament models of mission which includes a chapter on Matthew's gospel. It's been very helpful for me in understanding the text in its context and with its narrative purpose in view. Bosch also points out that Matthew is the only gospel writer to use the term ekklesia, which we translate as "church"; the story in this week's podcast is one of many in Matthew's gospel that is very open to interpretation as a model for church (or at least for ekklesia, which could also be translated as an "assembly" or a group that is called out to serve), which is how I ended my reflections this week.
I mention that Matthew is the first book in the New Testament, but it's not the oldest -- it's predated by the gospel of Mark and by Paul's letters. So by the time it's being written, there's already an ekklesia -- some sort of established community of Jesus-followers -- out of which the particular features of gospel emerge. On a surface level, Matthew's gospel is a story about Jesus; on a deeper level, its a story about this particular community; on an even deeper level, the story of Jesus and the story of community are united in a way that invites all of us, centuries later, into the story.
--
Comments? Questions? Feedback? Ideas? Send me an email!
Like this? Want to support my creative work? Become a patron!
Monday, August 15, 2016
Fooling with Scripture podcast, Ep 3 -- Angry Praying
Check out episode 3 of the Fooling with Scripture podcast. This one is called "Angry Praying," and it's a follow-up on a concept I played with last week, "the revelation is in the distraction."
In this episode, we'll be taking a look one of my favorite psalms, Psalm 139. If you're not familiar with it, you can read it in full by clicking here. I could say a lot about the psalms -- they are one of my favorite things to talk about! For now, though, here are a few resources if you want to read more.
In this episode, we'll be taking a look one of my favorite psalms, Psalm 139. If you're not familiar with it, you can read it in full by clicking here. I could say a lot about the psalms -- they are one of my favorite things to talk about! For now, though, here are a few resources if you want to read more.
The modern classic in Psalm interpretation is Walter Brueggemann's The Message of the Psalms (Fortress Press, 1985), in which he introduces the concept of psalms of orientation, disorientation, and new orientation. Unsurprisingly, though, my favorite resource for understanding the psalms is a book by my professor Denise Dombkowski Hopkins called Journey Through the Psalms (Chalice Press, 2002), which includes creative ways to engage with the texts. She's also coming out with a new commentary on the psalms which re-imagines them as prayers of women from the Hebrew Bible.
Which reminds me...
I realized as I was listening back over the recording that I kept referring to the author/speaker of the psalm as "he." I think it's because I was purposefully projecting my own experience, including my gender, into the psalm. But, while it's probably true that the composers of the texts were mainly men, the psalms are supposed to represent the full voice of the gathered community. So you could just as easily say "she" or "they" or any other pronoun you choose, and (I would argue) be on point theologically. Whoever you are, the voice of the psalms includes and reflects you.
Comments? Questions? Feedback? Ideas? Send me an email!
Like this? Want to support my creative work? Become a patron!
Comments? Questions? Feedback? Ideas? Send me an email!
Like this? Want to support my creative work? Become a patron!
Thursday, August 11, 2016
"I Wished for a War" -- Hamilton the Musical and America's conflicted relationship with violence
"As a kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war
I knew that I was poor
I knew it was the only way to --
Rise up" -- "Right Hand Man," from the Broadway musical Hamilton
I love the Hamilton soundtrack. I say this enthusiastically and unironically. I love Lin-Manuel Miranda's lyrics and his portrayal of the musical's mercurial namesake. I love the rhythms, the pace. I love that Miranda chose to write "a story about America then, told by America now," intentionally casting black and brown actors to play the white (and often overtly, slave-holding-ly racist) historical characters the show revolves around, messing with perceptions of race and subverting our USAmerican tendency to whitewash history.
I was listening to the soundtrack on a plane the other day, and -- this is literally true -- I had to put on a pair of sunglasses so my seatmates wouldn't be freaked out by me getting all weepy.
I love it.
And also. I'm fascinated by what my love of Hamilton -- and it ain't just me -- says about my conflicted relationship with violence. About this country's conflicted nation with violence.
"As I kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war," Miranda's Hamilton riffs in "Right Hand Man," a song which also features Christopher Jackson's George Washington pounding out: "Sh-boom goes the cannon, watch the blood and the shit spray."
(As an entirely unrelated aside, Jackson was at this year's commencement at my alma mater, Washington College, where he presented the George Washington Medal, the highest honor bestowed by the school. So that's cool.)
I cheer on the Hamilton cast as they make names for themselves in a violent uprising against the British monarchy.
And then I turn to news of state violence: another unarmed black person killed by police. Another bombing of civilians by this state's military or another's. Or of threats of violence: a presidential candidate suggesting that the "2nd Amendment people" could do something about his opponent -- "Who will rid me of this troublesome priest?" -- a comment that would be less scary if our national comfort with guns wasn't so deeply ensconced. Or the duty to honor violence: the supposedly liberal party in this country leaning on a narrative of national military strength and wearing connections to soldiers and veterans as a political badge.
Violence is woven into our national narrative. It's easier to believe African American and Latino actors as Founding Fathers then it would be to pretend they weren't men who knew how to kill people.
And yet, fear of violence perpetrated by the other, particularly by people of color, is also deeply woven into our (white) national consciousness. Guns in the home -- ostensibly to protect us from the tyranny of the state -- and in the hands of police officers -- representatives of the state -- we barely bat an eye at.
But burn a CVS or smash a car window in a protest, and you're considered too violent, too radical, a criminal. Certainly outside of the mainstream discourse.
We cheer on the black and brown actors in Hamilton, but the truth is, most of the folks loving the musical would be at least a bit uncomfortable with a group of black and brown people calling for the violent overthrow of the national government. Which is literally the plot of the entire first act.
The second act is all lead up to Leslie Odom, Jr.'s Aaron Burr shooting Miranda's Hamilton.
I've been reflecting on this as I have dug into the Movement for Black Lives recently released policy platform. (Yesterday, the organization I serve as board chair, Friends of Sabeel-North America, endorsed the platform).The platform has received criticism for its characterization of Israeli actions against Palestinians as "apartheid" and "genocide." Its call for reparations has, already, been dismissed out of hand as unrealistic, as too radical, too outside of mainstream discourse.
We are comfortable with the violence of our heroes. We are uncomfortable with demands for freedom, justice, economic equity. Those voices should be more patient, less angry, less radical.
"As a kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war," Alexander Hamilton raps.
"As a kid in Gaza I wished for a war."
"As a kid in Baltimore I wished for a war."
That musical might not get the same level of popular acclaim.
I am a person who believes, because of my faith and because of some of my experiences, in the power of nonviolence. And so I am fascinated by what my love of Hamilton has to say about me, about my inconsistencies, my prejudices. I am fascinated by what it has to say about our country.
I'm going to go and listen to the soundtrack again, now.
And, as ineffectual and silly as it seems, I'm going to keep wishing, and praying, for peace.
I knew that I was poor
I knew it was the only way to --
Rise up" -- "Right Hand Man," from the Broadway musical Hamilton
I love the Hamilton soundtrack. I say this enthusiastically and unironically. I love Lin-Manuel Miranda's lyrics and his portrayal of the musical's mercurial namesake. I love the rhythms, the pace. I love that Miranda chose to write "a story about America then, told by America now," intentionally casting black and brown actors to play the white (and often overtly, slave-holding-ly racist) historical characters the show revolves around, messing with perceptions of race and subverting our USAmerican tendency to whitewash history.
I was listening to the soundtrack on a plane the other day, and -- this is literally true -- I had to put on a pair of sunglasses so my seatmates wouldn't be freaked out by me getting all weepy.
I love it.
And also. I'm fascinated by what my love of Hamilton -- and it ain't just me -- says about my conflicted relationship with violence. About this country's conflicted nation with violence.
"As I kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war," Miranda's Hamilton riffs in "Right Hand Man," a song which also features Christopher Jackson's George Washington pounding out: "Sh-boom goes the cannon, watch the blood and the shit spray."
(As an entirely unrelated aside, Jackson was at this year's commencement at my alma mater, Washington College, where he presented the George Washington Medal, the highest honor bestowed by the school. So that's cool.)
I cheer on the Hamilton cast as they make names for themselves in a violent uprising against the British monarchy.
And then I turn to news of state violence: another unarmed black person killed by police. Another bombing of civilians by this state's military or another's. Or of threats of violence: a presidential candidate suggesting that the "2nd Amendment people" could do something about his opponent -- "Who will rid me of this troublesome priest?" -- a comment that would be less scary if our national comfort with guns wasn't so deeply ensconced. Or the duty to honor violence: the supposedly liberal party in this country leaning on a narrative of national military strength and wearing connections to soldiers and veterans as a political badge.
Violence is woven into our national narrative. It's easier to believe African American and Latino actors as Founding Fathers then it would be to pretend they weren't men who knew how to kill people.
And yet, fear of violence perpetrated by the other, particularly by people of color, is also deeply woven into our (white) national consciousness. Guns in the home -- ostensibly to protect us from the tyranny of the state -- and in the hands of police officers -- representatives of the state -- we barely bat an eye at.
But burn a CVS or smash a car window in a protest, and you're considered too violent, too radical, a criminal. Certainly outside of the mainstream discourse.
We cheer on the black and brown actors in Hamilton, but the truth is, most of the folks loving the musical would be at least a bit uncomfortable with a group of black and brown people calling for the violent overthrow of the national government. Which is literally the plot of the entire first act.
The second act is all lead up to Leslie Odom, Jr.'s Aaron Burr shooting Miranda's Hamilton.
I've been reflecting on this as I have dug into the Movement for Black Lives recently released policy platform. (Yesterday, the organization I serve as board chair, Friends of Sabeel-North America, endorsed the platform).The platform has received criticism for its characterization of Israeli actions against Palestinians as "apartheid" and "genocide." Its call for reparations has, already, been dismissed out of hand as unrealistic, as too radical, too outside of mainstream discourse.
We are comfortable with the violence of our heroes. We are uncomfortable with demands for freedom, justice, economic equity. Those voices should be more patient, less angry, less radical.
"As a kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war," Alexander Hamilton raps.
"As a kid in Gaza I wished for a war."
"As a kid in Baltimore I wished for a war."
That musical might not get the same level of popular acclaim.
I am a person who believes, because of my faith and because of some of my experiences, in the power of nonviolence. And so I am fascinated by what my love of Hamilton has to say about me, about my inconsistencies, my prejudices. I am fascinated by what it has to say about our country.
I'm going to go and listen to the soundtrack again, now.
And, as ineffectual and silly as it seems, I'm going to keep wishing, and praying, for peace.
Monday, August 8, 2016
Fooling with Scripture podcast, Ep 2 -- Dreaming of Bacon
Check out the second episode of the Fooling with Scripture podcast. This one is called "Dreaming of Bacon":
In this episode, we're looking at the story of Peter and Cornelius from Acts 10, which you can read in full by clicking here.
This story, and its broader implications in the book of Acts, is an important text for those who believe that the church should be a place of inclusion. It's not only Cornelius and his household who have a conversion experience in this story -- it's also Peter, and eventually the whole church, who undergo a conversion to include people who previously would have been excluded from the community. And importantly, as I try to highlight in this podcast, this only happens because Peter actually journeys with and converses with Gentiles -- with those who previously would have been excluded. We can't interpret texts and discuss issues of inclusion without being in conversation, and sharing the journey, with those who are being "talked about." People's stories are central to our communal task of interpretation.
There are a lot of great examples of interpretive work on this story. One that's been very meaningful to me comes from the very first chapter of James Alison's excellent and accessible book, On Being Liked (Crossroad Publishing, 2004).
In the podcast, I mention a Henri Nouwen quote, about solitude and monkey brain. That quote is from a book called The Way of the Heart: The Spirituality of the Desert Fathers and Mothers (HarperOne, 1981). Here's a bit more of that quote, from pg. 27-28, about the many distractions that arise whenever we try to sit in solitude and prayer, which I think is quite relevant to Peter's dreams of bacon and our own struggles with prayer:
Like this episode? Want to support this kind of work? Become a patron by clicking here!
In this episode, we're looking at the story of Peter and Cornelius from Acts 10, which you can read in full by clicking here.
This story, and its broader implications in the book of Acts, is an important text for those who believe that the church should be a place of inclusion. It's not only Cornelius and his household who have a conversion experience in this story -- it's also Peter, and eventually the whole church, who undergo a conversion to include people who previously would have been excluded from the community. And importantly, as I try to highlight in this podcast, this only happens because Peter actually journeys with and converses with Gentiles -- with those who previously would have been excluded. We can't interpret texts and discuss issues of inclusion without being in conversation, and sharing the journey, with those who are being "talked about." People's stories are central to our communal task of interpretation.
There are a lot of great examples of interpretive work on this story. One that's been very meaningful to me comes from the very first chapter of James Alison's excellent and accessible book, On Being Liked (Crossroad Publishing, 2004).
In the podcast, I mention a Henri Nouwen quote, about solitude and monkey brain. That quote is from a book called The Way of the Heart: The Spirituality of the Desert Fathers and Mothers (HarperOne, 1981). Here's a bit more of that quote, from pg. 27-28, about the many distractions that arise whenever we try to sit in solitude and prayer, which I think is quite relevant to Peter's dreams of bacon and our own struggles with prayer:
In order to understand the meaning of solitude, we must first unmask the ways in which the idea of solitude has been distorted by our world. We say to each other that we need some solitude in our lives. What we really are thinking of, however, is a time and a place for ourselves in which we are not bothered by other people, can think our own thoughts, express our own complaints, and do our own thing, whatever it may be. For us, solitude most often means privacy....[But]....As soon as I decide to stay in my solitude, confusing ideas, disturbing images, wild fantasies, and weird associations jump about in my mind like monkeys in a banana tree. Anger and greed begin to show their ugly faces. I give long, hostile speeches to my enemies and dream lustful dreams in which I am wealthy, influential, and very attractive -- or poor, ugly, and in need of immediate consolation. Thus I try again to run from the dark abyss of my nothingness and restore my false self in all its vainglory.Questions or comments about this week's episode, or about fooling with scripture in general? Send me an email by clicking here.
Like this episode? Want to support this kind of work? Become a patron by clicking here!
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
I am him.
There's a memory that's been scrolling through my mind recently.
Not a story, exactly -- more an image, or a series of images, a few moments caught in time that reveal something about me, and this country that we live in, and how we all might be doing our best but sometimes our best still hurts.
I'm in a CVS, in Silver Spring. There's a long line at the pharmacy. Everybody's frustrated. Nobody loves picking up their meds from the CVS pharmacy.
There's a man ahead of me. He's white, middle aged. Something has gone wrong with his prescription. It got filled at the wrong pharmacy, or he had the address wrong, or something. He is upset. Red in the face. Yelling at the people behind the counter, things like, "My time is valuable!" and "I demand an answer!" and "You're liars!"
The people behind the counter avoid eye contact with him and with the rest of us. They are all young. None of them are white. They don't have an answer for this man. His complaint is not going to get resolved. Somebody made a mistake -- maybe it was him. Maybe it was them. Maybe it was a faceless company that nobody there had any say in. Doesn't matter. A mistake was made. This man is frustrated. There is little or nothing the people behind the counter can do.
I hold this memory, this short film, up in front of my face. Turn it. Look at it from different angles.
From one, a snapshot of privilege. A white man, probably relatively affluent, yelling at people of color behind a counter. They, in a service industry, forced to take the stream of verbal abuse. The rest of us, forced to wait while this plays out. Power, unveiled, unhinged.
From another angle, I recognize that man. I see my face -- red, angry, yelling at people who I know, rationally, are not to blame for the faceless juggernaut of the U.S. health care system; and yet who, in the emotional distortion of my frustration and illness, are standing in for a system that is unjust, that is unfair, that does not care about my time, or about my health, or about me. Suddenly slammed up against a wall of powerlessness, of hopelessness.
I am him. He is me.
The ineffectual rage, the inability or unwillingness to lose the fight, the situation that could be calmed with just a few deep breaths but instead it's getting harder and harder to breathe. I am on the phone with the insurance company, on hold for 45 minutes, again. Or with the hospital, trying to figure out why they keep telling me I haven't paid bills I've paid already. Red in the face. Angry. Yelling at people whose fault this is not. But when will I ever get to speak to the people whose fault it may very well be?
I've been thinking about that man a lot recently. About how I am him, and he is me.
Ecce homo. I behold the man.
As I read, reluctantly, another article about the current political situation, or watch a snippet of horrifying words or violence at a rally, I think about his face.
I see my face.
I remember that it starts with me, because it has to, because that is the only place I can begin.
I remember -- I hope I remember -- to breathe.
--
Like this post? Want to support my writing? Check out my Patreon site.
Not a story, exactly -- more an image, or a series of images, a few moments caught in time that reveal something about me, and this country that we live in, and how we all might be doing our best but sometimes our best still hurts.
I'm in a CVS, in Silver Spring. There's a long line at the pharmacy. Everybody's frustrated. Nobody loves picking up their meds from the CVS pharmacy.
There's a man ahead of me. He's white, middle aged. Something has gone wrong with his prescription. It got filled at the wrong pharmacy, or he had the address wrong, or something. He is upset. Red in the face. Yelling at the people behind the counter, things like, "My time is valuable!" and "I demand an answer!" and "You're liars!"
The people behind the counter avoid eye contact with him and with the rest of us. They are all young. None of them are white. They don't have an answer for this man. His complaint is not going to get resolved. Somebody made a mistake -- maybe it was him. Maybe it was them. Maybe it was a faceless company that nobody there had any say in. Doesn't matter. A mistake was made. This man is frustrated. There is little or nothing the people behind the counter can do.
I hold this memory, this short film, up in front of my face. Turn it. Look at it from different angles.
From one, a snapshot of privilege. A white man, probably relatively affluent, yelling at people of color behind a counter. They, in a service industry, forced to take the stream of verbal abuse. The rest of us, forced to wait while this plays out. Power, unveiled, unhinged.
From another angle, I recognize that man. I see my face -- red, angry, yelling at people who I know, rationally, are not to blame for the faceless juggernaut of the U.S. health care system; and yet who, in the emotional distortion of my frustration and illness, are standing in for a system that is unjust, that is unfair, that does not care about my time, or about my health, or about me. Suddenly slammed up against a wall of powerlessness, of hopelessness.
I am him. He is me.
The ineffectual rage, the inability or unwillingness to lose the fight, the situation that could be calmed with just a few deep breaths but instead it's getting harder and harder to breathe. I am on the phone with the insurance company, on hold for 45 minutes, again. Or with the hospital, trying to figure out why they keep telling me I haven't paid bills I've paid already. Red in the face. Angry. Yelling at people whose fault this is not. But when will I ever get to speak to the people whose fault it may very well be?
I've been thinking about that man a lot recently. About how I am him, and he is me.
Ecce homo. I behold the man.
As I read, reluctantly, another article about the current political situation, or watch a snippet of horrifying words or violence at a rally, I think about his face.
I see my face.
I remember that it starts with me, because it has to, because that is the only place I can begin.
I remember -- I hope I remember -- to breathe.
--
Like this post? Want to support my writing? Check out my Patreon site.
Monday, August 1, 2016
Fooling with Scripture podcast, Ep 1 -- Divine Foolishness
Hey folks! Posting my first experiment with podcasting. I'm calling this project "Fooling with Scripture." If you're curious why, then have a listen:
The plan is to post an episode on Monday morning each week. In each episode I'll "fool with" a different text, to see if I can dig up any surprising inspiration and challenge for today's world.
On the blog, I'll also post some additional resources if you're interested in digging into the week's text a little deeper.
This week, we're looking at the first chapter of 1 Corinthians, particularly verses 18-29, which you can read in full here.
If you read the full section, you can see clearly some of the divisions in this early Christian community. Paul's generalizations about "Jews" and "Greeks" sound a bit jarring to modern ears, but he's addressing head-on a very present conflict between different groups in the Corinthian community. In their commentary in the New Interpreter's Bible, J. Paul Sampley summarizes it like this: "Paul has abandoned the former divisions of humanity into Jews and Greeks because he recognizes that God has called both Jews and Greeks." (see Volume X of The New Interpreter's Bible Commentary, Nashville: Abingdon, 2002).
Another great resource on the Corinthian community, if you really want get your hands dirty, is The First Urban Christians by Wayne Meeks (Yale University, 2003).
And if you really want to get into the philosophical weeds, you can take a crack at The Weakness of God: A Theology of the Event, by Jack Caputo (Indiana University, 2006). I can't make heads or tails of the thing, but maybe you can.
Questions? Comments? Email me here.
Like this? Want to support my creative work? Become a patron by clicking here!
The plan is to post an episode on Monday morning each week. In each episode I'll "fool with" a different text, to see if I can dig up any surprising inspiration and challenge for today's world.
On the blog, I'll also post some additional resources if you're interested in digging into the week's text a little deeper.
This week, we're looking at the first chapter of 1 Corinthians, particularly verses 18-29, which you can read in full here.
If you read the full section, you can see clearly some of the divisions in this early Christian community. Paul's generalizations about "Jews" and "Greeks" sound a bit jarring to modern ears, but he's addressing head-on a very present conflict between different groups in the Corinthian community. In their commentary in the New Interpreter's Bible, J. Paul Sampley summarizes it like this: "Paul has abandoned the former divisions of humanity into Jews and Greeks because he recognizes that God has called both Jews and Greeks." (see Volume X of The New Interpreter's Bible Commentary, Nashville: Abingdon, 2002).
Another great resource on the Corinthian community, if you really want get your hands dirty, is The First Urban Christians by Wayne Meeks (Yale University, 2003).
And if you really want to get into the philosophical weeds, you can take a crack at The Weakness of God: A Theology of the Event, by Jack Caputo (Indiana University, 2006). I can't make heads or tails of the thing, but maybe you can.
Questions? Comments? Email me here.
Like this? Want to support my creative work? Become a patron by clicking here!
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Nobody killed Freddie Gray.
When I lived in Jerusalem, one of our Palestinian mission partners wrote an article for a United Methodist Publication.
The article was about Gaza.
The article mentioned that one of our church-funded projects had been damaged by "Israeli bombs."
The article got a lot of criticism. People were upset that they author had written "Israeli bombs." They said it sounded blaming. They said it sounded one-sided.
So. Nobody dropped the bombs. That clinic bombed itself.
Yesterday, in Baltimore, it was decided --
-- Yes. Notice the passive voice. --
that nobody killed Freddie Gray.
I stood on the corner where he was arrested.
A mural on the wall, now.
A community garden across the street.
Nobody killed Freddie Gray.
His spine crushed itself.
And what if I told you
that it was U.S. bombs
just this week
that killed 50 civilians
in Syria?
Would you flinch at "U.S. bombs"?
Did those children bomb themselves?
And I think of Jesus, on the cross --
saying, "Father, forgive them."
He prayed to God to forgive.
In that moment, he could not do it himself.
And I imagine the devil --
having returned to Jesus at this, the next opportunity,
whispering:
"There is no them, sir. There is only you. You did this to yourself."
Somebody pulls the trigger.
Somebody drops the bomb.
Somebody makes the call,
drives the van,
somebody
some human body
is responsible.
And so:
if, like me, your hands are not so clean --
if, like me, you can be hidden inside the passive voice --
repent.
The kingdom of heaven has come near.
The article was about Gaza.
The article mentioned that one of our church-funded projects had been damaged by "Israeli bombs."
The article got a lot of criticism. People were upset that they author had written "Israeli bombs." They said it sounded blaming. They said it sounded one-sided.
So. Nobody dropped the bombs. That clinic bombed itself.
Yesterday, in Baltimore, it was decided --
-- Yes. Notice the passive voice. --
that nobody killed Freddie Gray.
I stood on the corner where he was arrested.
A mural on the wall, now.
A community garden across the street.
Nobody killed Freddie Gray.
His spine crushed itself.
And what if I told you
that it was U.S. bombs
just this week
that killed 50 civilians
in Syria?
Would you flinch at "U.S. bombs"?
Did those children bomb themselves?
And I think of Jesus, on the cross --
saying, "Father, forgive them."
He prayed to God to forgive.
In that moment, he could not do it himself.
And I imagine the devil --
having returned to Jesus at this, the next opportunity,
whispering:
"There is no them, sir. There is only you. You did this to yourself."
Somebody pulls the trigger.
Somebody drops the bomb.
Somebody makes the call,
drives the van,
somebody
some human body
is responsible.
And so:
if, like me, your hands are not so clean --
if, like me, you can be hidden inside the passive voice --
repent.
The kingdom of heaven has come near.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Stories and Self-Harm -- a few reflections from Wild Goose 2016
Leigh and I went to the Wild Goose Festival in Hot Springs, NC again this year. I didn't think I'd get a chance to speak like I did last year, but at the last minute my friend Sarah got a mental health panel put together. The theme of this year's Wild Goose was 'Story,' and so I've been thinking a lot lately about telling stories of mental illness and mental health struggles. Last night I went to hear Monica Coleman speak at Busboys & Poets about her new book, Bipolar Faith -- which is fantastic, and I highly recommend -- and I was reminded again of just how powerful and courageous an act it is to share these stories, which are so often silenced, stigmatized, or shamed.
So I thought I would share some of what I shared at Wild Goose this year about stories as an act of resistance in the face of mental health struggles:
Mental illness is an experience of fragmentation and alienation. It shatters our narratives and forces us into the hardest task of our lives -- to somehow reintegrate all these broken bits into some kind of whole. To try to make some sense of it, out loud or on paper or on canvas, to try somehow to forge communication and connection out of silence stigma, is the sort of counter-hegemonic, counter-intuitive act that the word 'gospel' is meant to describe.
In particular, at Wild Goose this year, I reflected on the power that stories have in the face of one of the most stigmatized and difficult to explain aspects of my experience with mental illness: self-harm.
It's a very difficult experience to explain because it's exactly a sort of breakdown of any ability to communicate an internal reality. It's not just self-punishment, nor is it suicide-attempt lite. It's an act of communication, albeit a desperate one. An effort to express the inexpressible. It's what happened when I ran out of words, when there just seemed to be no way for me to make my outsides match my insides -- my insides that already felt cut up, fragmented, jagged.
The cuts and burns said -- when I didn't trust that words could -- "This is how it is for me. This is what I feel like. No matter what mask I put on, this is the real me."
And so to find words. To find words -- to choose the pen instead of the razor -- this is a victory. An act of resistance. Good news to be shouted from the mountaintop. An announcement to be carried by the swift feet of messengers.
One evening, five years ago, wracked with pain, I picked up a marker instead of a blade. And what I meant to write on my arm was the language of shame. Of self-accusation. I meant to write: "I thought you were over this."
And instead, by some grace beyond my ability, I wrote:
"My grace is sufficient for you."
Grace. Gospel. Victory.
And that is my prayer for all of us. That we find the grace -- not always amazing. Not always transformative. Not always abundant.
Sometimes just sufficient. Sometimes just enough.
So we can live. And find words. And tell our stories.
---
Appreciate this post? Want to support my writing? Check out my Patreon Page.
So I thought I would share some of what I shared at Wild Goose this year about stories as an act of resistance in the face of mental health struggles:
Mental illness is an experience of fragmentation and alienation. It shatters our narratives and forces us into the hardest task of our lives -- to somehow reintegrate all these broken bits into some kind of whole. To try to make some sense of it, out loud or on paper or on canvas, to try somehow to forge communication and connection out of silence stigma, is the sort of counter-hegemonic, counter-intuitive act that the word 'gospel' is meant to describe.
In particular, at Wild Goose this year, I reflected on the power that stories have in the face of one of the most stigmatized and difficult to explain aspects of my experience with mental illness: self-harm.
It's a very difficult experience to explain because it's exactly a sort of breakdown of any ability to communicate an internal reality. It's not just self-punishment, nor is it suicide-attempt lite. It's an act of communication, albeit a desperate one. An effort to express the inexpressible. It's what happened when I ran out of words, when there just seemed to be no way for me to make my outsides match my insides -- my insides that already felt cut up, fragmented, jagged.
The cuts and burns said -- when I didn't trust that words could -- "This is how it is for me. This is what I feel like. No matter what mask I put on, this is the real me."
And so to find words. To find words -- to choose the pen instead of the razor -- this is a victory. An act of resistance. Good news to be shouted from the mountaintop. An announcement to be carried by the swift feet of messengers.
One evening, five years ago, wracked with pain, I picked up a marker instead of a blade. And what I meant to write on my arm was the language of shame. Of self-accusation. I meant to write: "I thought you were over this."
And instead, by some grace beyond my ability, I wrote:
"My grace is sufficient for you."
Grace. Gospel. Victory.
And that is my prayer for all of us. That we find the grace -- not always amazing. Not always transformative. Not always abundant.
Sometimes just sufficient. Sometimes just enough.
So we can live. And find words. And tell our stories.
---
Appreciate this post? Want to support my writing? Check out my Patreon Page.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
A personal update
(This is a long-ish personal update. TL;DR version: check out my new Patreon page and help support my creative projects!)
Hello readers! Thanks for being here.
I kept waiting for a more appropriate time to post a (somewhat self-indulgent) personal update, but the world keeps spinning, and bad news is abundant. I decided a long time ago not to force myself to blog about every thing that happens in a news cycle. There are plenty of insightful political, social, theological, and economic commentaries about current events, and I don't always have something better to say.
So, I'll go ahead and share this:
As many of you know, at the end of February I finished up my time in ministry at American University. I loved my work there, and am so grateful for all I learned from the AU students. There were so many God sightings during my time there.
Leigh and I are chaplains-in-residence at Georgetown, which means our neighbors are 100 or so college freshman. That's a fun gig, and gives us housing (plus we get to have a puppy!) -- but it's part time, and doesn't come with a paycheck.
So since February, I've been looking for other work, and coming up dry. I've had some part-time contract work here and there, but nothing long-term or even really part-time. Other than that, it's been rejection letter after rejection letter, and it's been wearing me down.
The odd thing about this is that I actually have all sorts of projects and opportunities I'm really excited about right now. To share a few examples:
So I've decided to try an experiment. I've created a page over at Patreon, which is a website that lets people become patrons for artists, musicians, authors, and other creative-types.
Basically, if you enjoy reading my blog, and would like to see me post on here more often; if you want to hear more about the book and even get some sneak peaks as I'm writing; or if you just like my smiling face and want to share some love; then you can check out the page and become one of my first patrons!
There's different reward levels listed on the Patreon site, but even if you just have a buck or two to donate in a month, I will thank you sincerely and profusely (and give you a shout-out on the podcast when I start posting it)!
And if you can't or don't want to donate at Patreon, don't worry -- my posts on the blog are free, and always will be. Just the fact that people read my stuff is awesome, and I'm grateful that you're here!
Thank you for reading, and be kind out there.
Thanks and peace,
David
P.S. -- Also if you have any job leads, hit me up! Looking in the areas of church ministry, campus ministry, and higher ed/student affairs
P.P.S. -- Since I mentioned the Convergence folks, here's a cool summary of what they're about, featuring the face of yours truly with some super cool friends:
P.P.P.S. -- aaaaaand here's a puppy picture for good measure:
Hello readers! Thanks for being here.
I kept waiting for a more appropriate time to post a (somewhat self-indulgent) personal update, but the world keeps spinning, and bad news is abundant. I decided a long time ago not to force myself to blog about every thing that happens in a news cycle. There are plenty of insightful political, social, theological, and economic commentaries about current events, and I don't always have something better to say.
So, I'll go ahead and share this:
As many of you know, at the end of February I finished up my time in ministry at American University. I loved my work there, and am so grateful for all I learned from the AU students. There were so many God sightings during my time there.
Leigh and I are chaplains-in-residence at Georgetown, which means our neighbors are 100 or so college freshman. That's a fun gig, and gives us housing (plus we get to have a puppy!) -- but it's part time, and doesn't come with a paycheck.
So since February, I've been looking for other work, and coming up dry. I've had some part-time contract work here and there, but nothing long-term or even really part-time. Other than that, it's been rejection letter after rejection letter, and it's been wearing me down.
The odd thing about this is that I actually have all sorts of projects and opportunities I'm really excited about right now. To share a few examples:
- I'm working on a book manuscript about my experiences with mental illness and faith, tentatively titled Christ on the Psych Ward.
- Leigh and I went to Wild Goose again this year, and although I didn't think I'd get a chance to speak this year, at the last minute my friend Sarah put together a panel and asked me to be a part of it, which was great.
- I recently took on the role of board chair for Friends of Sabeel (the U.S. partner of the organization I worked for in Jerusalem), and am feeling energized and excited about their work amplifying the voice of Palestinian Christians for justice and peace.
- I've decided to start messing around with a podcast idea, which I'm going to call "Fooling with Scripture" -- I'll be posting those on this blog. Leigh and I are also talking about working on an audio project together, which could be really cool.
- I'm messing around with some new music and am hoping to record a few new songs in the next year.
- And I'm going to be collaborating with some folks at the Convergence project to resource progressive campus ministries on campuses with little or no support network for that kind of thing.
So, lots of exciting, creative, cool things going on.
It's just...none of them help me eat. Or help Penny eat.
And just look at her. She needs food:
It's just...none of them help me eat. Or help Penny eat.
And just look at her. She needs food:
So I've decided to try an experiment. I've created a page over at Patreon, which is a website that lets people become patrons for artists, musicians, authors, and other creative-types.
Basically, if you enjoy reading my blog, and would like to see me post on here more often; if you want to hear more about the book and even get some sneak peaks as I'm writing; or if you just like my smiling face and want to share some love; then you can check out the page and become one of my first patrons!
There's different reward levels listed on the Patreon site, but even if you just have a buck or two to donate in a month, I will thank you sincerely and profusely (and give you a shout-out on the podcast when I start posting it)!
And if you can't or don't want to donate at Patreon, don't worry -- my posts on the blog are free, and always will be. Just the fact that people read my stuff is awesome, and I'm grateful that you're here!
Thank you for reading, and be kind out there.
Thanks and peace,
David
P.S. -- Also if you have any job leads, hit me up! Looking in the areas of church ministry, campus ministry, and higher ed/student affairs
P.P.S. -- Since I mentioned the Convergence folks, here's a cool summary of what they're about, featuring the face of yours truly with some super cool friends:
P.P.P.S. -- aaaaaand here's a puppy picture for good measure:
Friday, July 15, 2016
We know how.
"I don't know how."
Searching. Searching for words. I've been searching for words for weeks.
(What a privilege, to spend time searching for words, when people are falling, when words are being wrenched out of their mouths, when breath is being wrenched out of their lungs)
Searching for words, and the words that keep echoing in my head all start the same:
"I don't know how..."
But that is a lie. I know how. We know how.
--
I left Jerusalem in the night. Loaded into the taxi with one last sip of Taybeh still on my tongue. And sat, clenched fists, sweating, the whole way to the airport.
Clawed my way out of Tel Aviv, escaping. Some can't. Most don't want to. Not forever.
A tightly wound ball of anger and hurt, lurching left and right through life until --
-- five years ago now, can you imagine --
I crashed.
I had seen, had witnessed, the constancy.
The patient widows.
The prayers of feet and hands.
And I did not know if I could do that.
And I turned the anger inward onto myself.
And my mind collapsed.
"I don't know how."
--
2003. Millions of us in the streets, shouting, saying:
"Bombs lead to more bombs. Bombs lead to more bombs. Bombs lead to more bombs. We've got to find another way. "
Do you believe us, now? Do you believe us?
And polite, nice, lovely people saying:
"We don't know how."
"We don't know how."
We know how.
Enough. Disarm your hearts. Unclench your fists from around the weapons that became invisible to us long ago -- we only see theirs, we only see theirs.
We know how.
--
I have seen them:
the widows
the sorrowful mothers
going back to the unjust judge time and time and time again:
"Grant us justice. Grant us justice. Grant us justice."
I know how.
We've seen how.
I've heard the steady whisper,
felt the light touch of the steadying hand,
met that voice down under everything.
I know how.
Silence. Enough. Peace. Be still. Know that God is God.
We know how.
It's just that it's hard.
And guns always seem easier
than the type of prayer we need
revealed to us by the presence
of persistently patient widows.
Searching. Searching for words. I've been searching for words for weeks.
(What a privilege, to spend time searching for words, when people are falling, when words are being wrenched out of their mouths, when breath is being wrenched out of their lungs)
Searching for words, and the words that keep echoing in my head all start the same:
"I don't know how..."
But that is a lie. I know how. We know how.
--
I left Jerusalem in the night. Loaded into the taxi with one last sip of Taybeh still on my tongue. And sat, clenched fists, sweating, the whole way to the airport.
Clawed my way out of Tel Aviv, escaping. Some can't. Most don't want to. Not forever.
A tightly wound ball of anger and hurt, lurching left and right through life until --
-- five years ago now, can you imagine --
I crashed.
I had seen, had witnessed, the constancy.
The patient widows.
The prayers of feet and hands.
And I did not know if I could do that.
And I turned the anger inward onto myself.
And my mind collapsed.
"I don't know how."
--
2003. Millions of us in the streets, shouting, saying:
"Bombs lead to more bombs. Bombs lead to more bombs. Bombs lead to more bombs. We've got to find another way. "
Do you believe us, now? Do you believe us?
And polite, nice, lovely people saying:
"We don't know how."
"We don't know how."
We know how.
Enough. Disarm your hearts. Unclench your fists from around the weapons that became invisible to us long ago -- we only see theirs, we only see theirs.
We know how.
--
I have seen them:
the widows
the sorrowful mothers
going back to the unjust judge time and time and time again:
"Grant us justice. Grant us justice. Grant us justice."
I know how.
We've seen how.
I've heard the steady whisper,
felt the light touch of the steadying hand,
met that voice down under everything.
I know how.
Silence. Enough. Peace. Be still. Know that God is God.
We know how.
It's just that it's hard.
And guns always seem easier
than the type of prayer we need
revealed to us by the presence
of persistently patient widows.
Monday, July 11, 2016
After These Things
"After these things, God tested Abraham." -- Genesis 22:1
"But race is the child of racism, not the father." -- Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me
---
"After these things"
-- that's what the book says --
that it was "after these things"
that Abraham
thinking he heard a voice from God
determined to kill his son.
And they went on,
the two of them,
together.
Together,
inextricably bound,
violently bound,
Bound together.
After these things.
And each time
after these things happen
I think the same tired thoughts
of grief
and power
and powerlessness
and the end of useful words.
But words matter
(or I do not)
Names matter:
Philando Castile
Alton Sterling
Naming matters:
Black lives matter.
After these things
after Orlando
after Dallas
when it is too late to matter
for the bodies sacrificed
to gods of hate and shame and fear
after these things
I wonder
if --
without some sort of miraculous intervention
Abraham can ever learn
to put down the knife.
To put down the gun.
To put down the gun.
And I imagine Abraham
on his death bed
lonely
no conversation with his son for years
(bound, bound, inextricably and violently bound)
lonely
Praying one last time
For one last miracle
That future generations --
inextricably bound
rival offspring
would not wait for
after these things.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Istanbul
I flew to Istanbul to renew my visa -- the simple reason.
The more complex --
to try to escape from the image
playing over and over in my head.
The Palestinian boy, 12 years old
(I would later learn)
concealed, mainly, by the clouds of tear gas
where, I remember thinking --
absurdly ---
the taxis were supposed to be
in Al-Khalil, Hebron, where Abram rests.
Yes, yes, the boy --
arm uplifted, for a second --
then, so strange the way he fell.
The Israeli soldiers,
forcing open doors,
setting up on rooftops.
And firing down into the crowd, the gunshots --
not like in a movie, not dramatic,
a sound I can't quite capture in words.
"The taxis are up the street," an onlooker said.
Just giving directions.
Just another day in the city where Sarai,
finally
laid her head down.
It's not his face I remember --
I couldn't see him well, not so far up the street, not clouded as he was.
But the scene
the feel of it
my face stinging with
the tightness of it
as if reality was barely held together
about to shatter.
And so I went to Istanbul.
And marveled at the Hagia Sophia
and the Blue Mosque
and took a bus to swim in hot springs
and to see the ruins of Ephesus
and danced and drank and kissed.
And tried to forget.
And tried to escape.
But maybe there is no escaping the contagion
that stalks through the streets of Al-Khalil
that howls for blood inside the Istanbul airport
or terrorizes inside of a night club in Orlando
or a school in Connecticut
or a street corner in Baltimore.
Different places, yes, I know.
Different things.
Different complicating factors.
But maybe the contagion isn't in a place.
Maybe it's in our hearts.
Our beating hearts.
Our human hearts.
I went to Istanbul to escape,
and maybe there isn't an escape,
not like that,
not like that.
"Thoughts and prayers aren't enough."
"We have to do something."
But you see, I was doing something --
or thought I was --
and found myself staring,
frozen,
how-dare-I-say-helpless,
"Where are the taxis?" I asked, woodenly.
"Thoughts and prayers aren't enough."
"We have to do something."
And if you think those two statements are so far from each other
That prayer and doing are so far removed
Then you haven't taken a good, hard look at these hearts
These human hearts
These broken hearts
These hurting hearts
These hearts that pump the blood
That flowed out from a 12-year old boy
Into the streets of Hebron
The streets of "God's Friend"
The day before I flew
To Istanbul.
The more complex --
to try to escape from the image
playing over and over in my head.
The Palestinian boy, 12 years old
(I would later learn)
concealed, mainly, by the clouds of tear gas
where, I remember thinking --
absurdly ---
the taxis were supposed to be
in Al-Khalil, Hebron, where Abram rests.
Yes, yes, the boy --
arm uplifted, for a second --
then, so strange the way he fell.
The Israeli soldiers,
forcing open doors,
setting up on rooftops.
And firing down into the crowd, the gunshots --
not like in a movie, not dramatic,
a sound I can't quite capture in words.
"The taxis are up the street," an onlooker said.
Just giving directions.
Just another day in the city where Sarai,
finally
laid her head down.
It's not his face I remember --
I couldn't see him well, not so far up the street, not clouded as he was.
But the scene
the feel of it
my face stinging with
the tightness of it
as if reality was barely held together
about to shatter.
And so I went to Istanbul.
And marveled at the Hagia Sophia
and the Blue Mosque
and took a bus to swim in hot springs
and to see the ruins of Ephesus
and danced and drank and kissed.
And tried to forget.
And tried to escape.
But maybe there is no escaping the contagion
that stalks through the streets of Al-Khalil
that howls for blood inside the Istanbul airport
or terrorizes inside of a night club in Orlando
or a school in Connecticut
or a street corner in Baltimore.
Different places, yes, I know.
Different things.
Different complicating factors.
But maybe the contagion isn't in a place.
Maybe it's in our hearts.
Our beating hearts.
Our human hearts.
I went to Istanbul to escape,
and maybe there isn't an escape,
not like that,
not like that.
"Thoughts and prayers aren't enough."
"We have to do something."
But you see, I was doing something --
or thought I was --
and found myself staring,
frozen,
how-dare-I-say-helpless,
"Where are the taxis?" I asked, woodenly.
"Thoughts and prayers aren't enough."
"We have to do something."
And if you think those two statements are so far from each other
That prayer and doing are so far removed
Then you haven't taken a good, hard look at these hearts
These human hearts
These broken hearts
These hurting hearts
These hearts that pump the blood
That flowed out from a 12-year old boy
Into the streets of Hebron
The streets of "God's Friend"
The day before I flew
To Istanbul.
Friday, June 3, 2016
I've seen it done, or, some not-so-final thoughts on unity
Over the past few weeks, I've been doing some reflection on the concept of Christian unity, following the General Conference of the United Methodist Church (and now a troubling Balt-Wash Annual Conference as well). You can read the first of those reflections here, as well as a second and third.
Just to summarize, I looked at three different ways of understanding unity, based on three (well, four, but two of them together) different texts:
The Pentecost story, in contrast to the story of Babel, reminds us that true Christian unity is not monolithic or institutional, but rather charismatic and multilingual. It is based not on structure or top-down enforcement but rather on the Spirit-gifted ability to hear each other in all of our differences.
The Christ hymn from Paul's letter to the church in Philippi shows us that unity is based in the self-emptying love of Jesus, which reveals rather than conceals what true divinity looks like. This passage cautions against trying to achieve unity with power politics and instead challenges us to step out of centers of power and into places of suffering and hurt.
And Jesus' prayer for unity in John 17 reminds us that Christian unity is a mystical unity with God through Jesus and the Spirit, rather than a worldly program of organizational merging or institutional togetherness.
Which all sounds very nice. But the thing is that I'm not just making stuff up here. I've seen it done.
Or rather, I've seen it happen, a gift of the Spirit, the presence of the self-emptying Christ, the mystic union that God bring about.
I've seen communities, churches, small groups, big groups, gathered together in ways that transcend differences while affirming the amazing diversity needful for the health of the body.
I've seen it, I've witnessed it, in a converted apartment in the mountains of Morocco, in a converted house in the city of Jerusalem, in living rooms and small university chapels and big auditoriums.
And yes, I've seen it happen in many United Methodist congregations, where my gifts and my calling have been nurtured, encouraged, strengthened, and affirmed.
It is a beautiful, beautiful thing. A true gift.
There are a few common characteristics that I've noticed about these sorts of communities. I think I'll save that for another reflection, though, because I don't want this to be too utilitarian -- I just want to say, yes, this is possible; yes, there is beauty and wonder to be found in this weird tradition we are a part of; yes, God does call us to unity.
Just to summarize, I looked at three different ways of understanding unity, based on three (well, four, but two of them together) different texts:
The Pentecost story, in contrast to the story of Babel, reminds us that true Christian unity is not monolithic or institutional, but rather charismatic and multilingual. It is based not on structure or top-down enforcement but rather on the Spirit-gifted ability to hear each other in all of our differences.
The Christ hymn from Paul's letter to the church in Philippi shows us that unity is based in the self-emptying love of Jesus, which reveals rather than conceals what true divinity looks like. This passage cautions against trying to achieve unity with power politics and instead challenges us to step out of centers of power and into places of suffering and hurt.
And Jesus' prayer for unity in John 17 reminds us that Christian unity is a mystical unity with God through Jesus and the Spirit, rather than a worldly program of organizational merging or institutional togetherness.
Which all sounds very nice. But the thing is that I'm not just making stuff up here. I've seen it done.
Or rather, I've seen it happen, a gift of the Spirit, the presence of the self-emptying Christ, the mystic union that God bring about.
I've seen communities, churches, small groups, big groups, gathered together in ways that transcend differences while affirming the amazing diversity needful for the health of the body.
I've seen it, I've witnessed it, in a converted apartment in the mountains of Morocco, in a converted house in the city of Jerusalem, in living rooms and small university chapels and big auditoriums.
And yes, I've seen it happen in many United Methodist congregations, where my gifts and my calling have been nurtured, encouraged, strengthened, and affirmed.
It is a beautiful, beautiful thing. A true gift.
There are a few common characteristics that I've noticed about these sorts of communities. I think I'll save that for another reflection, though, because I don't want this to be too utilitarian -- I just want to say, yes, this is possible; yes, there is beauty and wonder to be found in this weird tradition we are a part of; yes, God does call us to unity.
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Leigh's church let me preach again
I preached at Leigh's church a month ago.
They invited me back.
That was nice of them.
You can watch/listen to it on their website; the sermon itself starts around 26:00.
It was Memorial Day weekend, and so I talked about memory. Thanks to my dad for giving me permission to share some of his thoughts about Memorial Day and Veteran's Day at the beginning of it.
They invited me back.
That was nice of them.
You can watch/listen to it on their website; the sermon itself starts around 26:00.
It was Memorial Day weekend, and so I talked about memory. Thanks to my dad for giving me permission to share some of his thoughts about Memorial Day and Veteran's Day at the beginning of it.
Thoughts on Unity, pt. 3 -- "I pray they will be one"
This is the third in a series on unity in the church. What do we mean when we use language of "unity," "being united," versus "being divided"? If you missed them, you can go back and read the first part here and the second part here.
If you've spent any time with the four gospels, you know that John's gospel is...different. I won't go into all the many differences here, but I'll mention one briefly. Unlike the first three gospels, John's gospel has a long "farewell discourse" in which Jesus offers final thoughts and reflections to his disciples before he is arrested and executed. At the end of this farewell speech, just before his arrest, Jesus prays a long prayer for his disciples, which includes these lines [I've added a few notes since it's out of context]:
Now, this prayer only appears in John's gospel. Maybe Jesus prayed it, maybe not. Maybe this is a prayer that emerged from the experience of a particular community, perhaps an early Jewish Christian community in the diaspora, feeling isolated, it's identity threatened from all sides.
But you know what it's definitely not?
It is definitely not a prayer about denominations staying together.
Or about denominations joining together into bigger denominations.
You know how I know?
Because denominations weren't a thing yet.
This is "yeah, duh, we know," stuff, but it bears saying, because it's so easy for language of "that they will be one" to be co-opted into our denominational conflicts or dialogues.
But that's not what this prayer is about at all. Here, Jesus prays, not for institutional unity, but for a mystical one-ness, the same kind of mystical one-ness that Jesus enjoys with the Father.* What's more, this one-ness has a purpose, an end: "Then the world will know that you sent me and that you have loved them just as you loved me."
The purpose of the unity Jesus prays for is for the world to know and understand God's love, as manifested in Jesus, the Word who becomes flesh and dwells among us. So on the one hand it's a mystical one-ness, rather than an organizational or institutional unity. And on the other hand, it's made real, fleshy, physical, by virtue of its indwelling-ness in the world.
Now, as I've suggested in the past two posts, institutional and organizational work can be good and important. It's very possible to argue that bringing two previously separate organizations together into one united organization is a faithful way to live out the one-ness that Jesus prays for in John 17. But that kind of work isn't the be-all and end-all of Christian unity. Christian unity is only Christian unity if it is (a) a participation in the mystical unity of Christ with God by the power of the Spirit** and (b) directed/sent to the world to spread the knowledge of God's love.
"The Church" at the time John's gospel was written was not a single, united institution. It would have been nearly impossible for the community out of which this writing emerged to have imagined such a thing. What they could imagine, and what they were willing to stake their faith and their lives on, was a deeper unity, which would serve as an expression of God's love in the world.
It seems to me that before we even have any sort of conversation about how to "stay united" or "split up" a denomination or a church, we ought to take a good hard look at what we're doing and ask:
Are we sharing together in spiritual union with God?
Are we helping the world to know God's love?
Ask those questions first.
Ask them. Pray about them. Reflect on them.
And then maybe -- but only maybe -- we can start talking about the structures or institutions that such questions might imply.
----
*I've kept the masculine language as it is in John's gospel, but the language is metaphorical, not literal. The language is meant to emphasize relationship, not gender. One could substitute "Mother," or "Caregiver," or use alternative language, but keep the same essential emphasis. For a wonderful take on all of that, check out Sharon Ringe's book Wisdom's Friends.
** Traditionally, this has been expressed in the doctrine of the Trinity. We can argue until we're blue in the face about the doctrine (and we certainly have), but at base it's about mystical unity, about the indwelling community and hospitality modeled for us by God.
If you've spent any time with the four gospels, you know that John's gospel is...different. I won't go into all the many differences here, but I'll mention one briefly. Unlike the first three gospels, John's gospel has a long "farewell discourse" in which Jesus offers final thoughts and reflections to his disciples before he is arrested and executed. At the end of this farewell speech, just before his arrest, Jesus prays a long prayer for his disciples, which includes these lines [I've added a few notes since it's out of context]:
"I’m not praying only for them [that is, the disciples who are standing right there] but also for those who believe in me because of their word. I pray they [that is, all those others who will believe because of the witness of the disciples] will be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. I pray that they also will be in us, so that the world will believe that you sent me. I’ve given them the glory that you gave me so that they can be one just as we are one. I’m in them and you are in me so that they will be made perfectly one. Then the world will know that you sent me and that you have loved them just as you loved me."This is, in a sense, a prayer for Christian unity par excellence. Here Jesus prays, not only for the disciples who he has known during his time on earth, who -- in John's gospel -- he has called friends, but for all those who will come to believe because of their witness. And what does he pray? That they will be united. That they will be one, inextricably part of each other just as John's gospel portrays Jesus/Word and Father*/Source and Spirit/Breath as inextricably part of each other.
Now, this prayer only appears in John's gospel. Maybe Jesus prayed it, maybe not. Maybe this is a prayer that emerged from the experience of a particular community, perhaps an early Jewish Christian community in the diaspora, feeling isolated, it's identity threatened from all sides.
But you know what it's definitely not?
It is definitely not a prayer about denominations staying together.
Or about denominations joining together into bigger denominations.
You know how I know?
Because denominations weren't a thing yet.
This is "yeah, duh, we know," stuff, but it bears saying, because it's so easy for language of "that they will be one" to be co-opted into our denominational conflicts or dialogues.
But that's not what this prayer is about at all. Here, Jesus prays, not for institutional unity, but for a mystical one-ness, the same kind of mystical one-ness that Jesus enjoys with the Father.* What's more, this one-ness has a purpose, an end: "Then the world will know that you sent me and that you have loved them just as you loved me."
The purpose of the unity Jesus prays for is for the world to know and understand God's love, as manifested in Jesus, the Word who becomes flesh and dwells among us. So on the one hand it's a mystical one-ness, rather than an organizational or institutional unity. And on the other hand, it's made real, fleshy, physical, by virtue of its indwelling-ness in the world.
Now, as I've suggested in the past two posts, institutional and organizational work can be good and important. It's very possible to argue that bringing two previously separate organizations together into one united organization is a faithful way to live out the one-ness that Jesus prays for in John 17. But that kind of work isn't the be-all and end-all of Christian unity. Christian unity is only Christian unity if it is (a) a participation in the mystical unity of Christ with God by the power of the Spirit** and (b) directed/sent to the world to spread the knowledge of God's love.
"The Church" at the time John's gospel was written was not a single, united institution. It would have been nearly impossible for the community out of which this writing emerged to have imagined such a thing. What they could imagine, and what they were willing to stake their faith and their lives on, was a deeper unity, which would serve as an expression of God's love in the world.
It seems to me that before we even have any sort of conversation about how to "stay united" or "split up" a denomination or a church, we ought to take a good hard look at what we're doing and ask:
Are we sharing together in spiritual union with God?
Are we helping the world to know God's love?
Ask those questions first.
Ask them. Pray about them. Reflect on them.
And then maybe -- but only maybe -- we can start talking about the structures or institutions that such questions might imply.
----
*I've kept the masculine language as it is in John's gospel, but the language is metaphorical, not literal. The language is meant to emphasize relationship, not gender. One could substitute "Mother," or "Caregiver," or use alternative language, but keep the same essential emphasis. For a wonderful take on all of that, check out Sharon Ringe's book Wisdom's Friends.
** Traditionally, this has been expressed in the doctrine of the Trinity. We can argue until we're blue in the face about the doctrine (and we certainly have), but at base it's about mystical unity, about the indwelling community and hospitality modeled for us by God.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Thoughts on Unity, pt. 2 -- "Be of the same mind"
This is the second in a series on unity in the church. What do we mean when we use language of "unity," "being united," versus "being divided"? If you want to know where this is coming from, you can read the first part here.
Paul quotes the hymn, but first he introduces it. He's quoting it for a purpose, and you could sum up his purpose by saying that he wants to urge the church in Philippi towards unity:
Unity, here, is unity in Christ. Specifically, it's unity in the self-emptying Christ.
Now, for some people who have been abused, or deprived of power or a sense of self, an ethical imperative to empty one's self can be problematic. But Paul's "you" is always a plural, written to a community -- in this case, to a community in Philippi, a city deeply entrenched in the power and imperial might of the Roman Empire. And with Paul's interpretive gloss about having one mind and one love, this passage speaks to me of the need for our unity to be based, not in politics or power over one another, but rather in mutuality and solidarity, particularly with those experiencing suffering and marginalization. Those suffering death, even death on a cross.
One last note on the text. Many English translations say something like this:
"Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself..."
I added the emphasis there.
Because "though" isn't in the original Greek at all.
"Though" was added by English translators to make some sense out of a rather complex Greek sentence. But "though" sets up a contrast -- even though he was in the form of God, Jesus Christ emptied himself. Which apparently is a very un-God-like thing to do.
But the text says something more like, "Christ Jesus who in the form of God was emptying himself."
Which makes it sound like self-emptying is, in fact, a very God-like thing to do.
I owe this insight to a talk given by Brian McLaren, and I'm inclined to agree with him. The self-emptying of Jesus isn't in contrast to an otherwise mighty, distant, apathetic god; the self-emptying of Jesus is what God looks like in action. And it's the sort of action we're called to -- one in which we empty ourselves of power, not because it removes our divinity, but because it reveals it.
That's the important point that I want to make here. A truly self-emptying unity ought to reveal the divinity in all of us, not obscure it or harm it. "To be of one mind" is to be of this mind -- this self-emptying mind, this mind of divine love.
And I'm just not sure there's a way you can institutionalize this kind of thing. As I said in my last post, this doesn't mean institutions are necessarily bad. And there are certainly actions they can take and structures they can form that tend to inhibit or obstruct such kenotic unity. There also might very well be actions that institutions can take to facilitate -- the root of the word means 'easy,' as in, 'to make something easier' -- this sort of shared identity-in-love.
But "Be of the same mind" and "have the same love" is not the same as "be of one logo" or "have a single mission statement" or "share a global structure." That's not to say those things are bad. They're just not really the point.
This passage can't -- no ancient passage can -- reveal to us all the answers of how to make such a thing possible, how to shape it or structure it. But it can, I think, give us some good questions to ask. Questions like, "Are we creating a space in which people are safe to express a self-emptying love? Or are we too anxious, too conflictual, for people to do anything but keep their guards up? Are we divesting ourselves of power-over in order to unite with those who are being harmed by the powers of the world? Are we (and here I'm speaking to myself and everyone else in the ordination process, or already ordained) more concerned with questions of status than with questions of love?"
These are challenging questions, which defy easy answer. They aren't the only questions raised by this passage. But they're the kind of questions -- rather than questions about votes, or who's-in-charge-here, or institutional authority -- that we ought to be asking if we want to talk about Christ-like unity.
Stay tuned for the third part of this little series, where I'll share some thoughts about Jesus' prayer for the unity of the Church.
---
* Edit: I realize I should provide some sources for this claim. Check out the chapter on Philippians by my professor, Carla Swafford Works, in the 3rd edition of the Women's Bible Commentary (Westminster John Knox, 2012); as well as Sze-Kar Wan's entry on "Mind" in The New Interpreter's Dictionary of the Bible, Volume 4 (Abingdon, 2009).
"I am praying that the Church -- as a whole, as a body, not those individuals who already feel they have been emptied, broken, beaten -- but the Church as a whole will remember an ancient, ancient hymn."That's how I ended my post two weeks ago, with a prayer for the General Conference of the United Methodist Church. The ancient hymn I'm talking about is quoted by the apostle Paul in his letter to one of the very earliest churches in the city of Philippi. You can read it here.
Paul quotes the hymn, but first he introduces it. He's quoting it for a purpose, and you could sum up his purpose by saying that he wants to urge the church in Philippi towards unity:
If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,Notice that he uses the phrase "same mind" or "one mind" three times in this short passage, as well as"same love." The phrase in the original Greek is phronein to auto -- be of one mind, have the same mind. But the phrase used here by Paul, like similar phrases elsewhere in his letters, doesn't mean "agree on everything." That becomes clear when we read on to hear Paul speak of having the same mind as Christ -- not the same intellectual beliefs, but the same willingness to divest ourselves of power and privilege in order to be united in love.*
Unity, here, is unity in Christ. Specifically, it's unity in the self-emptying Christ.
Now, for some people who have been abused, or deprived of power or a sense of self, an ethical imperative to empty one's self can be problematic. But Paul's "you" is always a plural, written to a community -- in this case, to a community in Philippi, a city deeply entrenched in the power and imperial might of the Roman Empire. And with Paul's interpretive gloss about having one mind and one love, this passage speaks to me of the need for our unity to be based, not in politics or power over one another, but rather in mutuality and solidarity, particularly with those experiencing suffering and marginalization. Those suffering death, even death on a cross.
One last note on the text. Many English translations say something like this:
"Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself..."
I added the emphasis there.
Because "though" isn't in the original Greek at all.
"Though" was added by English translators to make some sense out of a rather complex Greek sentence. But "though" sets up a contrast -- even though he was in the form of God, Jesus Christ emptied himself. Which apparently is a very un-God-like thing to do.
But the text says something more like, "Christ Jesus who in the form of God was emptying himself."
Which makes it sound like self-emptying is, in fact, a very God-like thing to do.
I owe this insight to a talk given by Brian McLaren, and I'm inclined to agree with him. The self-emptying of Jesus isn't in contrast to an otherwise mighty, distant, apathetic god; the self-emptying of Jesus is what God looks like in action. And it's the sort of action we're called to -- one in which we empty ourselves of power, not because it removes our divinity, but because it reveals it.
That's the important point that I want to make here. A truly self-emptying unity ought to reveal the divinity in all of us, not obscure it or harm it. "To be of one mind" is to be of this mind -- this self-emptying mind, this mind of divine love.
And I'm just not sure there's a way you can institutionalize this kind of thing. As I said in my last post, this doesn't mean institutions are necessarily bad. And there are certainly actions they can take and structures they can form that tend to inhibit or obstruct such kenotic unity. There also might very well be actions that institutions can take to facilitate -- the root of the word means 'easy,' as in, 'to make something easier' -- this sort of shared identity-in-love.
But "Be of the same mind" and "have the same love" is not the same as "be of one logo" or "have a single mission statement" or "share a global structure." That's not to say those things are bad. They're just not really the point.
This passage can't -- no ancient passage can -- reveal to us all the answers of how to make such a thing possible, how to shape it or structure it. But it can, I think, give us some good questions to ask. Questions like, "Are we creating a space in which people are safe to express a self-emptying love? Or are we too anxious, too conflictual, for people to do anything but keep their guards up? Are we divesting ourselves of power-over in order to unite with those who are being harmed by the powers of the world? Are we (and here I'm speaking to myself and everyone else in the ordination process, or already ordained) more concerned with questions of status than with questions of love?"
These are challenging questions, which defy easy answer. They aren't the only questions raised by this passage. But they're the kind of questions -- rather than questions about votes, or who's-in-charge-here, or institutional authority -- that we ought to be asking if we want to talk about Christ-like unity.
Stay tuned for the third part of this little series, where I'll share some thoughts about Jesus' prayer for the unity of the Church.
---
* Edit: I realize I should provide some sources for this claim. Check out the chapter on Philippians by my professor, Carla Swafford Works, in the 3rd edition of the Women's Bible Commentary (Westminster John Knox, 2012); as well as Sze-Kar Wan's entry on "Mind" in The New Interpreter's Dictionary of the Bible, Volume 4 (Abingdon, 2009).
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Thoughts on Unity, pt. 1: Pentecost or Babel?
I said two weeks ago that you wouldn't be hearing from me about the General Conference of the United Methodist Church until it was over, and I stuck to that promise.
Now the Conference is over, with unfortunately predictable results. Some people are saying that unity is worth it all; others are agitating for splitting up. Which is pretty much what I remember happening 4 years ago.
And I'm still not going to say much about it. I wasn't there, and there are other places you can go if you want analysis of General Conference itself. Better places. More informed places. Let me suggest Jeremy Smith's blog, which includes guest voices; or this helpful article from Dr. Darryl Stephens; or this one from Rev. Mary Sellon Huycke.
What I have been thinking quite a bit about, and what I would like to spend some time writing about, is the idea of unity and being united. What does it mean to work for, pray for, seek unity in the Church? What would it mean to be "united"? Or to be "divided"?
I've been thinking about that a lot over the past week, and I started sketching out a blog, and before I knew it had gotten way too long. So I'm actually going to write a few posts on this topic, and post them here.
First, I'm going to talk a little bit about two stories that, in many churches, are read together 50 days after Easter.
Then, I'm going to talk a little bit about a very old song.
Then, I'm going to talk about a prayer that Jesus prayed, at least according to one storyteller.
And finally, I might get around to saying a thing or two about the United Methodist Church.
So with all of that said, here's part 1:
Now the Conference is over, with unfortunately predictable results. Some people are saying that unity is worth it all; others are agitating for splitting up. Which is pretty much what I remember happening 4 years ago.
And I'm still not going to say much about it. I wasn't there, and there are other places you can go if you want analysis of General Conference itself. Better places. More informed places. Let me suggest Jeremy Smith's blog, which includes guest voices; or this helpful article from Dr. Darryl Stephens; or this one from Rev. Mary Sellon Huycke.
What I have been thinking quite a bit about, and what I would like to spend some time writing about, is the idea of unity and being united. What does it mean to work for, pray for, seek unity in the Church? What would it mean to be "united"? Or to be "divided"?
I've been thinking about that a lot over the past week, and I started sketching out a blog, and before I knew it had gotten way too long. So I'm actually going to write a few posts on this topic, and post them here.
First, I'm going to talk a little bit about two stories that, in many churches, are read together 50 days after Easter.
Then, I'm going to talk a little bit about a very old song.
Then, I'm going to talk about a prayer that Jesus prayed, at least according to one storyteller.
And finally, I might get around to saying a thing or two about the United Methodist Church.
So with all of that said, here's part 1:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)