"Silent Morn, Holy Morn"

I have written a hymn for use on the Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year C. That's this Sunday, December 23rd. It is sung to the tune for "Silent Night, Holy Night," (or "Stille Nacht" in the original German). It is written in memory of the Reverend Chip Gunsten, the Assistant to the Bishop of the Virginia Synod (ELCA) who died rather suddenly last week. I give my permission to anyone who wants to use it, with acknowledgement.

Life of Pi and Christ the King

About eight years ago I attended my first-ever book club meeting, and at that meeting one of the members gave a review of the book Life of Pi by Yann Martel. The reviewer did an outstanding job elucidating the themes of the novel, but in doing so divulged so much of the storyline that I decided I needed to have ample time to forget what he’d said about the book before I ever read it myself. Alas, that never really happened, but seeing the trailers for the Life of Pi movie became impetus enough for me to find a copy of the book and read it anyway. I figured I wanted to have the book’s version of the story in my mind before I corrupted it with Director Ang Lee’s adaptation. And so I got my hands on a copy of the book and finished it quickly so I could see the film on its opening weekend, which happened to coincide with the weekend of the liturgical festival of Christ the King.

Overall, I was fairly pleased with the director’s outcome. I was worried when the opening credits claimed it would be “based on” the novel by Yann Martel—such a wording suggested, at least to me, that it might stray too far from the book plot and what the book’s author was trying to say. However, the basic thrust of the book was pretty much left intact. Admittedly, the book presents some significant filming and storytelling challenges. There are constantly switching of points-of-view, complex philosophical subject matter communicated through a wordy narrator, and the almost unrealistic scenario of a teenage boy and a Bengal Tiger spending over 200 days as castaways together on a lifeboat in the Pacific. That said, the movie does a pretty good job, especially on the first and third points. The flashback scenes do not get too confusing, and the visuals are stunning. It is on that second point, however, where the movie gets a little too thin, and that’s what I found most interesting about the book.

“Thank you. So it is with God.” That line, taken directly from the novel, comes right at the end of the story and is basically the sole theological statement from Martel’s novel that makes it into the film. That is a shame. I find that one brief remark is not enough in spurring moviegoers to ponder what the novel gets its readers to do. When Pi asks the young struggling writer (in the movie) and the Japanese insurance investigators (in the novel) which version of the lifeboat story they prefer, Martel is essentially asking the reader to examine and weigh the competing stories of truth and authority in his or her own life. In other words, if the novel asks a question, it would be “Which story will you live by?” The character of Pi, whose life and witness intends to offer an apology of sorts for religious truth, is pleased when they choose the more fantastic and uplifting—yet equally improvable—version. What the novel manages to include (and the film does not) is the back story regarding Pi’s thoughts on religion and story in general. People who only see the film are likely to hear Pi’s summary line and surmise that the movie is a statement on the fairy tale falsity of all religions. Nothing could be further from the truth, according to the book.

Life of Pi is a thoroughly post-modern tale. That is, it begins head-on with the realization that that in our day and age no overarching narrative or story can be fully proved, which presents a huge problem in this post-Enlightenment era when verifiable facts are “king.” Gone, too, are the days of absolute trust in the historical claims of religion (if they ever really existed at all—but that is a question for another time). No one can “prove” the existence of God, but neither can anyone prove that a purely scientific worldview helps someone lead a better life. Likewise, some may find God and religion a cop-out when it comes to explaining the origin and purpose of life. Science, however, has been shown to fall short of that agenda, too.

This is represented best by the bumbling Japanese insurance investigators in the film and the novel. The dry and clumsy investigators may be able to use science to verify certain immediate factual claims about life—like, for example, whether bananas float (an important scene left out of the film)—but they will never be able to discover why the freighter Tsimtsum sank in the first place. Even if they were to locate the wreckage at the bottom of the Pacific, the shattered hull and rusty ship components would likely offer few clues as to how it all went down. And there are other related questions that may shed light on the matter, but all their answers just as elusive: who was in charge of the ship when it sank, or just before? Why were the animals out of their cages running around on the deck? These are all the chief concerns for science and its accompanying authority of verifiable fact, but ultimately they are unresolvable, unable to be proven. This applies to the same questions about the beginning of the universe and the meaning of all life. Science can only answer such questions in a proximate manner—getting us ever closer to the source, but never really there, and never really being able to prove anything “once and for all,” anyway.

Pi—and one would assume Martel (but not Ang Lee?)—is more concerned then with the life that occurs after that universe comes into existence. That is, Pi’s fascination with religion and God end up helping him live more fully in the time after the ship sinks. Through this experience, and his recollection of it, he is able to see that everyone lives by a story. Everyone lives by an authority, whether they admit to it or not. His brother Ravi is therefore just as religious as he is, even though Ravi does not believe in God and thinks Pi’s love for it is silly . Ravi’s religion—his story and authority--are sport and fitness. The story his mother “prefers” is family history and heritage. His father, like the Japanese insurance investigators, has chosen science. Only Pi has really awakened to the fact that his religion(s) and belief in God have opened his quest for authority and truth to the ultimate questions: Why am I here? Who is behind all of this? To whom do I belong? How do I live a good life? And so on. When Pi says, “Thank you. So it is with God,” he is not rejecting the usefulness of scientific discovery or the types of fulfillment found, for example, in sports. Rather, he is revealing that the authority provided by faith is a better way to understand and grapple with the joys and tragedies of the real human existence, the historical truth-claims of various religions notwithstanding. Therefore, in a thoroughly post-modern sense, it is true.

And so taking in the messages of Life of Pi on Christ the King weekend provided for a nice coincidental lens by which to view both. I’d be surprised if Ang Lee did that on purpose. You see, the western Christian commemoration of Christ the King is a liturgical festival essentially about authority and which—or, better yet, whose—story we will all ultimately live by. It was placed on the calendar in the early twentieth century (ironically, coming to rest in 1965 at its current place at the end of the church year at the same time the plot in Life of Pi takes place) as a way to counter the rise of secularism and its ugly step-siblings fascism and Marxism. It was a statement, in the face of science’s rapidly rising confidence, that facts were not “king.” Christ is. The emphasis of the festival is on Christ’s humble authority as displayed on the cross, but also on the fact that the truth offered in Christ’s life—sacrificial love, the power of meekness, the steadfast obedience to God’s will rather than one’s own—is the truth that all the universe will ultimately live by, the truth to which Christians believe all must one day testify. Just as Pontius Pilate was left wondering what kind of king Jesus might be and what the nature of his truth was, if we are honest with ourselves, we all struggle at some point with the ultimate questions of life and life-defining authority…not the technicalities of how the big ship went underwater, but how to live a beautiful life once we’re trapped on the boat with the tiger and, at long last, safely make our way to land. Pi has figured out that God is the only one who can truly help us do that, as irrational as that sounds to the unbeliever's ear. As he tells his inspiring story and makes his apology for religion, Pi's patience with the  doubt of young writer and the insurance investigators is great. May Christ, our long-suffering King, display similar patience with ours.

 

 

Sonnet: Mark 10:46-52

To call this man from Naz'reth "David's Son"
Did more than state his claim to Zion's throne.
It meant that Judah's waiting days were done,
The grace of God would now be fully known.
Yet not by crowds in trembling expectation
Nor by disciples--friends who knew him best--
And not by priests in hymns of adulation
Was Jesus with such boldness first addressed.
Instead outside the gate of Jericho
Unruly Bartimaeus blurts it out.
This blind and begging man springs up to show
What faith in Jesus' mercy is about:
                To call on Christ, whose kingdom comes today,
                And, sight regained, to follow on His way.

© Phillip Martin, 2012

 

Sonnet: Mark 8:27-38

Among the empire's gleaming monuments
To human strength and military power--
Attempts to leave eternal testaments,
Withstanding time's attack like fortress tower--
The man's disciples reach a turning point
And questions of identity arise.
Is he Messiah, one God did anoint?
The Son of Man, but somehow in disguise?
Thus gathered there, his kingdom they are taught:
True living comes through dying, gain from loss;
Denial of self, divine things to be sought...
And his most lasting monument--a cross!
            Turn us to know and follow Christ who shows
            The blessed, risen life his death bestows.

© Phillip Martin

ruins at Caesarea Philippi



And so it begins...

This is not the classroom, but it looked a bit like this

Today we met a very important person for the first time. In order to complete her screening for kindergarten, Melinda and I took our 5-year-old Clare to the school where she will begin school in about four weeks. In the process, of course, we got to introduce Clare to the woman who will be her kindergarten teacher. This will be the person who turns Clare on (or off, or to lukewarm) to learning in the school environment, the person who will shape her day and mold her thinking over the next nine months almost more than we, her parents will. She will teach her how to read and show her how to use technology (there are four new iPads in the classroom). Like I said, important person.

Needless to say, it is easy to make too big a deal about these kinds of things, and there are plenty of blogs out there written by what I would consider to be anxious, over-protective parents who obsess over the tiniest detail of their child’s education. While I don’t think I’d put myself in that category, I must be honest and say that ever since I read this article two years ago I’ve been especially curious and apprehensive about what my daughters’ kindergarten environments might be like. We’ve heard great things about this school and the teachers from just about everyone. When we walked into the building for the first time today, it felt smaller and more intimate than what I remember about the three bland-looking elementary schools I attended. We learned that Clare will be in a “pod” (that was new to me) with three other kindergarten classes, but there will be only one teacher in her class. We saw the playground (which seemed a little small, in my opinion) and walked past the media center (or was it the library? Back in my day of cassette-tape read-along books, those were one-and-the-same). All in all, it seems like a great place, but I knew that the relationship between Clare and her teacher would be the key component. Clare is not the most outgoing kid, but she can open up around adults if they are patient and calm. All the whiz-bang technology in the world and the fanciest, most intellect-stimulating wall decorations will not make up for a lack of communication and trust between Clare and her teacher. Put 40 iPads in that room and it won’t mean a thing if the teacher doesn’t stop to listen to Clare and give her time to think.

And, I am thankful to say that part seemed to go well. As I had predicted, Clare opened up very slowly and acted a bit overwhelmed. The teacher, however, was patient and composed. She tried very carefully—and finally succeeded—in making a connection with Clare. I tried to be as silent as I could through the whole visit (which is hard for me) so that Clare and her teacher could get as comfortable as they could in an hour without my becoming a crutch for either of them.  Meanwhile, I observed the room. Colors everywhere. It looked like everything had a label. It has probably been about, oh, 32 years since I was last in a kindergarten class, but have they walls always been this busy? I noticed that there will be nineteen students in Clare’s class. Six of their names start with “C.” Overall, thirteen of the students are girls. There were a few pictures of presidents on the wall. Number tables. Numbers over the letters over the whiteboard. Boxes and bins for all kinds of assignments. Most of the books on the bookshelf were of the Dr. Seuss variety. It was an assault on the senses, as Melinda said. The teacher is young—about my age, maybe a little younger—but she seems to have clear opinions of what works and doesn’t work in the elementary school environment. I guess an informed, headstrong kindergarten teacher is a good thing. She must have mentioned the word “literacy” about a dozen times. There will also be something called a Promethian Board in Clare’s room, whatever that is.

Am I still nervous and apprehensive? I don’t think so, but it does make me reflect a little more on the decisions Melinda and I have made about our daughters’ education. Neither of us has taken an overly-active role in teaching her reading or writing before this point. I have no way of knowing how we compare to other parents in this regard. I am not an educator or pedagogue, and the reason why I have taken very few steps to teach our girls formal lessons is because I kind of think I’ll screw it up. They also haven’t seemed ready to latch on to that stuff. But when I watched Clare complete her screening “test,” I naturally wondered if the teacher thought she was “advanced” or “average.” She did just fine, but naturally there were some small questions she missed. Why haven’t we taught her our home phone number yet? I didn’t realize they would ask that! When we started talking about the assessments for giftedness that would come in the future, I pondered where Clare would fall on those scales and—more importantly—how I might react to the results. As a student, I was far too caught up in various labels and intellectual categories. Had I left those prejudices behind? Had we done enough in this first five-and-a-half years to get her ahead of the curve? Will this public school environment stunt her true abilities? We have friends who home-school their kids. Was their frustration with/disdain for/mistrust of the school system something we should be considering ourselves? What about parochial school, where classes would be smaller and some type of religious component might be included? Private school? Maybe there she'd get P.E. more than once a week. Don't they realize she might be the next Misty May-Treanor? There are so many decisions, so many influences. It’s easy to see why many parents start to obsess about all those little details.

Before the meeting even began, we were sitting out in the foyer area waiting for her teacher to finish an earlier meeting. Right as we made ourselves comfortable in the chairs, Clare pulled a random book off of a bookshelf there and asked Melinda to read it to her. It was an illustrated book that told that old fable about the poor farmer and his daughter who take their little donkey to town to sell some things in the market. You know how the story goes. They begin walking alongside the donkey together, happily. Before too long, they happen upon a person who is perplexed as to why the young girl would be walking rather than riding the donkey. So the father puts her on the donkey, and they continue on their way. The next person they see is aghast that the young, able girl is riding the beast of burden while the older, tired father is walking. They switch places. By the time they get to the market, they’ve switched places and tried so many kinds of combinations with that poor donkey that all three of them are exhausted. They also ended up the same way they started.

I guess I’ll view Clare’s chance book selection as prophetic in this instance. That is, Melinda and I have decided that this kindergarten and this teacher and this public school system are going to be just fine for us. This is the combination that seems to work for now, and I can’t imagine that would change. I’m sure from time to time I’ll allow myself to be persuaded by those who might question us—directly and indirectly—about the choices we’ll make for their futures. More likely, Melinda and I will begin to doubt ourselves and wonder if we’re reading things the right way or challenging them enough at home or stepping in to intervene when we really should just sit in the corner and play with the iPads some more. To a degree, all of this—like so much of life—is out of our hands, anyway, and we’ll just need to learn to be happy with the donkey we’ve ended up with (and by that I don’t mean the teacher, but the system) and ride it the way it feels best for us. We'll get to town just fine...even if we have to stop occasionally to read the busy bulletin boards.

Sonnet: John 6:24-35

Across the lake, by thousands soon they came,
Their sights set on this wonder bread creator.
They ate their fill, yet sought more of the same
For hunger is a constant motivator.
In fact, this sign of loaves beside the sea
Reminded them of their ancestors' craving
When manna was the answer to their plea,
A desert sign that God was leading, saving.
Yet all the gifts our Father's ever given
Are but mere foretastes of the Son, whose role--
Whose mission--is to be true bread from heaven
That satisfies the hunger of the soul.
             Lord, give today this Bread of Life anew
             That in our faith we learn to feast on you.

© Phillip Martin

Sonnet: Luke 24:36-48

For the gospel lesson in two weeks...

In retrospect they might have known his face
Or recognized his gait, that tone of voice,
And at his word of peace their friend embrace,
This rendezvous a reason to rejoice.
Instead they freeze in fear and disbelief,
And he's reduced to showing hands and feet,
And what should be a scene of deep relief
Becomes a test to prove that ghosts can't eat.
And still they find his passion undeterred,
His risen presence just as Scripture planned!
Amidst their wonderment he gives his word:
They go as witnesses to ev'ry land.
         Your grace compels us: spread this news about.
         You conquered first the grave.  Now conquer doubt.

© Phillip Martin, 2012

"Christ Risen from the Tomb" Bergognone (ca. 1490)

Athanasius on wrestling

Every once in a while I crack open my copy of Athanasius' On the Incarnation and re-read a few sections.  Sometimes I just flip open to a random page and see what I find.  It's always good.  But what I like best is the fact that this little book was written about 1700 years ago and that it still has the ability, like Scripture, to clarify things that should seem so obvious by now. I dare say I find more inspiration and solace in these "golden oldies" than just about anything published nowadays. 

So, in memory of Shenouda III, the Pope of the Coptic Orthodox Church who died this week after serving as Patriarch for 41 years, I post this portion of Part XXIV where Athanasius discusses the signifance of the particular the manner of Jesus' death.  Athanasius, too, was a Copt, and from what I can tell, had some similar personality traits and career paths with Shenouda, despite living at such different times in world history.  Both endured exile at one point or another, for example. Both prevailed in expanding the reach of their communion.  May the witness of all the saints--ancient, recent, and contemporary--bless us and lead the Church, the body of Christ, toward greater unity.

3. And just as a noble wrestler, great in skill and courage, does not pick out his antagonists for himself, lest he should raise a suspicion of his being afraid of some of them, but puts it in the choice of the onlookers, and especially so if they happen to be his enemies, so that against whomsoever they match him, him he may throw, and be believed to be superior to them all; so also the Life of all, our Lord and Savior, even Christ, did not devise a death for His own body, so as not to appear to be fearing some other death; but he accepted on the Cross, and endured, a death inflicted by others, and above all by His enemies, which they thought dreadful and ignominious and not to be faced; so that this also being destroyed, bot He Himself might be believed to be the Life, and the power of death be brought utterly to nought.

4. So something surprising has happened; for the death, which they thought to inflict as a disgrace, was actually a monument of victory against death itself. Whence neither did He suffer the death of John, his head being severed, nor, as Esaias, was He sawn in sunder; in order that even in death He might still keep His body undivided and in perfect soundness, and no pretext be afforded to those that would divide the Church.

Sonnet: The Epiphany of our Lord

The stars had always been a traveler’s friend,
Unerring maps in nighttime firmament,
But theirs was different. They learned to depend
On novel light: it led wheree’er they went,
Obeying laws unknown to sage or science.
And thus this star transfixed and guided them
To Herod’s, where he gave his feigned compliance
And sent them on to search in Bethlehem.
Rejoicing when the star came to a rest—
The end of their long journey now in view—
They found the child, and opening their chest
They offered gifts and paid him homage due.
               O, Morning Star, this world is dark as night.
               Pray draw all people to your wondrous light.

New Year's Day

For several years, I kept a tradition of watching my favorite movie on New Year's Eve or on New Year's Day.  For various reasons I won't have time to fulfill this tradition this year, and besides, I watched the movie with our youth group back in July as a part of a service trip.  But, whether I manage to watch it or not, I always think about this movie and its themes when the new year rolls around.

The name of the film is "The Man Who Planted Trees," a Canadian short animated film directed by Frederic Back that is based on the French short story "The Story of Elzeard Bouffier, The Most Extraordinary Character I Ever Met" by Jean Giono.  The film, with its simple yet evocative illustrations, claimed the Academy Award for best animated short film in 1987 and competed for the Canne Palm d'Or that same year.  The English version of the film (there is a French one, too), is narrated by Christopher Plummer.  There is very little dialogue in the movie. The action and intensity of the plot is conveyed solely by the voice of the inimitable Mr. Plummer, in his subtly dignified British accent, who simply reads what I assume to be the text of Giono's original story.

It is only 30 minutes long, but it seems much longer...and in a good way.  It is not boring or pedantic.  If a true epic ever were crammed into a half-hour, this is it.  The plot sweeps through several decades, encompassing both World Wars.  Without giving away too much of what happens, the story relates the utter transformation of an entire landscape and its citizens through the efforts of one, lone shepherd.  It is one of those movies where you think, after watching, that it was a true story...or that it was at least based on a true story.  For the first several years after viewing it for the first time, I refused to believe that it was pure fiction.  Only here lately have I been able to make peace with that fact and realize that the beauty of the story lies not in any historical factuality.  What the film illustrates may happen anywhere, at any time, in any number of ways.

And that is why I find it to be such a fitting movie for each new year.  Its themes of new life amidst decay, new beginnings in the most inauspicious of surroundings, and large-scale metamorphosis through the painstaking repetition of small tasks are uplifting, to say the least.  There are many books and stories and films that concentrate on these themes, but "The Man Who Planted Trees" seems to do it better (and more succinctly) than any other I have seen or heard of.  The dedication and single-mindedness the shepherd Elzeard Bouffier applies to his task of tree-planting--an undertaking that only promises the most delayed gratification--is encouraging and inspiring for anyone who has ever been committed to some sort of long-term, ongoing activity. 

More specifically, I find the story to be a wonderful allegory for ministry in the church. Conceived and written in a milieu much more agrarian than ours nowadays, the Scriptures often talk about planting and sowing, reaping and harvesting...albeit less about tree groves and more about wheatfields and vineyards.  But the symbolism of the movie is easily to translate to the Bible.  And, furthermore, "pastor" is Latin for "shepherd," Elzeard Bouffier's main vocation.  So much of ministry in the life of the church is monotonous, and we have to wait a long, long time to see the fruits of our labors.  We preach and teach, serve and visit, console and instruct, oftentimes never really telling if anything we do takes root.  And this goes for the lay volunteers of the ministry of word and deed, not just the ordained ministers of word and sacrament.  I suppose this allegory works for just about any job where you hope to "make a difference" in people's lives.  But I find it really resonates for church work.  Tending the gospel often feels like planting trees: it takes patience, sacrifice and vision for the long-term.  The film's ending is so sweet and fulfilling that it gives me hope that our own tasks in Christian ministry may be so rewarded some day.

Lately, as I've watched the film, I have started to view things in a new way; namely, that Elzeard Bouffier is a Christ-figure.  Some people disagree with me here...or at least they don't "see" it.  But in some ways, I really like this interpretation of the story better.  In this view, Elzeard is not so much a parallel for those of us working in the gospel fields, slogging steadily away at sowing the seeds of goodwill and peace with the hope of an eventual world (or congregation, at least!) transformation.  Rather, we are desolate and war-torn hills where no water flows and no healthy life is found.  We are the barren, dry landscape that everyone else would scratch off as hopeless.  But then along comes one Planter who sacrifices every bit of time and energy he has to make us alive again.  The presence (and absence) of water throughout the movie is a strong baptismal metaphor.  Elzeard, the shepherd, is an example for us, yes, in how to work and accomplish something truly beautiful; but Elzeard is also, to my mind, a vision of the Good Shepherd.  The world does not understand him and often mocks what he does.  But he keeps at it, nevertheless, for the hope that these valleys can be verdant again.

No matter how it's viewed, the films offers an excellent reflection on the passage of time and the possibility of remarkable change.  It is a great way to begin a year.

Sonnet: Markan prologue

If I had to describe Mark's gospel with a punctuation mark, it would be the exclamation point.


A bleak and austere scene for a beginning--
A desert splash outside Jerusalem.
Yet gospel comes to those whose hopes are thinning,
Who think that God's chief aim is to condemn.
We can't deny the voice is somewhat shrill:
"Prepare the way!" it cries from Jordan's banks.
"Repent and turn away from Satan's will!
Make straight the path for One of royal ranks!"
And yet within this message lies a vow:
The advent of this Holy One is near!
The prophets' long-awaited day has now
Arrived.  The world be cleansed of sin and fear!
              So let this gospel in bleak hearts find room
              That faith, like desert flowers, soon may bloom.

Phillip Martin 

Sonnet: Matthew 25:31-46

In ancient times the shepherding tradition

Allowed the intermingling of flocks
Until day’s end, when shepherds had the mission
To herd the sheep and goats as separate stocks.
The world is like those hills of Palestine,
With righteous and accursed from ev’ry nation.
We dwell as one, our lives to intertwine
Until the end time’s final separation.
And there before our Shepherd’s throne and feast
The nations learn the most surprising thing:
That service to the sick, the lost, the least,
In fact was service to this Shepherd King.
              Who's sheep?  Who's goat? Give me a heart that sees
               Your presence, Lord, among the least of these!

image: "The Last Judgment" 1917, Eric Gill

Sonnet: Matthew 15:10-28

"To eat with unwashed hands does not defile":
Such shocking teachings vexed the Pharisees
Whose laws, delineating pure from vile,
Had boiled faith down to following decrees.
For purity meant life in ancient days,
Pronounced one clean or foul, who's in or out.
Upending their religion, Jesus says
That sin corrupts within, not from without.
But soon his teaching moment gains a face
When Jesus, now in Gentile territory,
Receives request from someone deemed as base
Yet sees her faith as vessel for God's glory.
         Like her, I beg for crumbs of grace, dear Lord:
         To be proclaimed your child, to life restored.

Deuteronomy door jambs

One of the service projects on our recent youth group servant trip involved painting the entire interior of a church in a small community in South Carolina.  The congregation had hit hard times and was unable to pay to have their new worship and office space completed, and so they were depending on different volunteers working intermittently to get the job done. What our group found was the shell of a building that still has a long way to go.  The structure didn't even have any interior doors.  As we were putting paint on the walls, I noticed that one of the groups before us had left some "graffiti" in the door jambs by scrawling Scripture verses on bare wood.  Of course, eventually their graffiti will disappear once the doors are installed and the jambs are painted, too.  But, in the meantime, their message sustains the laborers.  I can only imagine that the graffiti artists used verses that they had already committed to memory and were not standing there with a Bible in their hand as they did it.

"I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." Phillippians 4:13

Apparently the King James is the preferred version.

"There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it."  1 Corinthians 10:13

This would be the verse I'd memorize:

 "Jesus wept." John 11:35

A little less uplifting, perhaps, but still good to be reminded...

"For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God." Romans 3:23

A little Old Testament here...

"But they who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles [sic], they shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk and not be faint.  Isaiah 40:31

This one had actually been left on the leg of a sawhorse.  Perhaps appropriately, for "on this hangs all the law and the prophets" (at least partly, according to Jesus):

"Love the Lord thy God with all thine heart and all thine soul, and all thine strength."  Deuteronomy 6:5

This little encounter occured to me to be one way of heeding the command in Deuteronomy 11: "You shall put these words of hime in your heart and soul, and you shall bind them as a sign on your hand...Write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates, so that your days and the days of your children may be multiplied in the land that the LORD swore to your ancestors to give them, as long as the heavens are above the earth" (vv18-21).  I pray the congregation who inhabits this buildling also has better days ahead of it.

Sonnet: Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

Few parables come with an explanation
As patent as the lesson of the sower
Whose planting style becomes a demonstration
Of how our God's a gracious kingdom-grower:
Upon a well-worn path some seed is tossed
While other kernels fall in rocky soil,
And though some seed among the thorns is lost,
Some finds its way to earth where farmers toil.
So, like that seed, God's word brings forth a yield
When it into our yearning hearts is cast.
However, Lord, I fear my heart's a field
More path and rocks and thorns where life can't last.
           Yet in some hidden acre love takes root.
           When you're the sower, e'en I can bring forth fruit!

Sonnet: Mandatum Novum

The table’s set with symbols of salvation,
Which tasted, eaten, shared, would bring to mind
Those darker days they lived as oppressed nation,
A people with no hope, as slaves confined.
With grateful hearts, they share that recollection
And sing the hymn that echoes Miriam’s praise,
And in this meal, a chance for deep reflection:
Thus freed and loved, they serve God all their days.
But now they hear themselves called slaves once more
As gracious Teacher loves without reserve
And takes a towel, kneeling to the floor,
Cleans dirty feet, and shows them how to serve.
           Thus claimed by new commandment we are freed
           To lives that humbly stoop at neighbor’s need.

Advent and Thanksgiving

“Thank you, O Lord, for this good life, and forgive us if we do not love it enough.”

                                                                                                    -Garrison Keillor

The juxtaposition of Thanksgiving weekend with the first Sunday of Advent has always struck me as a little odd, if not uncomfortable. On one day, we pause to think about the riches of life, the blessings of the past, the hope of enjoying of them in the future. On Thanksgiving, that is, I recall the events of the last year and dwell on the bounty of the present. In my better moments of giving thanks, I consider how those blessings and that bounty are not simply to be enjoyed in-and-of-themselves, but are opportunities to grow and serve into the future.

But then the first Sunday of Advent comes, with its apocalyptic themes and its promises of the return of Jesus. Advent, of course, is not only about preparation for Jesus’ birth. It is about any advent of our Lord…in the future as judge and King, in the present as the ones we serve, and in the past as the baby in the manger. The first Sunday of Advent stresses that first theme, and the Scriptures we hear shake us out of any preconceived notion of security and contentment. They remind us of “the threatening dangers of our sins,” and the need for the world to be set to rights. Advent reminds us that the way things are right now—even in this thankful moment—are not so great and not so perfect, and that God plans to reform and redeem them into something so much better. That is why hope is such a central theme to the season of Advent.

The problem is that, when I’m honest with myself, I realize that I’m often having such a good time with this life and its many gifts that I’d actually be quite disturbed and—dare I say, disappointed?—by a sudden return of Christ. The apocalyptic portions of Jesus’ teachings, to be sure, no doubt resonated with a certain constituent of his listeners, listeners who were underprivileged and feeling the weight of oppressive political and spiritual regimes, listeners who would have been emboldened and encouraged by this audacious advent hope and vision of a better future. And I guess I realize I do not necessarily fall into that category. I should, but I don’t always. I am comfortable. I am quite pleased with my life and how God’s blessings have fallen to me. I like this life, and one great fear I have is, like Garrison Keillor suggests, that I don’t love it enough.


How do I reconcile these two? I’m not sure I know. But I do know that in moments of blissful thanksgiving, we can be lured into thinking that this current life is as good as it gets. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t love this good life, and we certainly shouldn’t take it for granted, but it also means that the Christian must remember that God’s new creation isn’t finished yet. There is more, and it will surprise us.

honest opinions

I came across this commentary as I was reading Anthony Trollope's Barchester Towers.  Although it was written in the 1850's, I suppose its point of view is just as valid today.  It's hard to stomach, but one that a preacher surely needs never to forget.  I wonder for how many the tedium from the preaching clergyman is the reason they feel "forced to stay away" from church.  Probably many.  I know I often grow weary of hearing myself in the pulpit.  What I also find interesting, on another level, is the professions to which the preaching clergyman are compared in this paragraph:

"There is, perhaps, no greater hardship at present inflicted on mankind in civilised and free countries, than the necessity of listening to sermons.  No one but a preaching clergyman has, in these realms, the power of compelling an audience to sit silent and be tormented.  No one but a preaching clergyman can revel in platitudes, truisms, and untruisms, and yet receive, as his undisputed privilege, the same respectful demeanor as though words of impassioned eloquence, or persuasive logic, fell from his lips.  Let a professor of law or physic find his place in a lecture-room, and their pour forth jejune words and useless empty phrases, and he will pour them forth to empty benches.  Let a barrister attempt to talk without talking well, and he will talk but seldom.  A judge's charge need be listened to per force by none but the jury, prisoner, and gaoler.  A member of Parliament can be coughed down or counted out.  Town-councillors can be tabooed.  But no one can rid himself of the preaching clergyman.  He is the bore of the age, the old man whom we Sinbads cannot shake off, the nightmare that disturbs our Sunday's rest, the incubus that overloads our religion and makes God's service distasteful.  We are not forced into church!  No: but we desire more than that.  We desire not to be forced to stay away.  We desire, nay we are resolute, to enjoy the comfort of public worship; but we desire also that we may do so without an amount of tedium which ordinary human nature cannot endure with patience; that we may be able to leave the house of God without that anxious longing for escape, which is the common consequence of common sermons."

Yikes.  And yet too true, I fear.

theology of summer gardening

We have more cucumbers than we know what to do with.  In a week, I suspect tomatoes will start giving us the same problem.  Really, I'm not complaining.  It's a good problem to have, and we only have it because I've spent so much time watering our garden in the midst of this drought.  Those who rely on their own agriculture to survive know how devastating a dry summer can be.  I will gladly eat cucumbers every day of the week.

Our first-ever vegetable garden has added an educational edge to this spring and summer.  I have not only watered and weeded fastidiously, but I have also wondered at the strenuous task of planting and cultivating crops.  I have nurtured a deeper admiration and appreciation for the farmers who live and die by this kind of toil, and I savor the produce I purchase in the supermarket--or in the roadside stand--all the more.  It is not only hard work (and I only have an 8 x 8 plot!), but it is an anxiety-producing one.  There is both so much for the cultivator to do...and also so much over which he has no control.  It is easy to curse nature.  But it also provides more opportunity to bless and thank God.  There are fewer things that set us apart more from the rest of God's creatures.  Humans cultivate.  They don't just chase food; they entice the soil to produce it.

As I was reading in an old text from seminary days, I came across this paragraph discussing part of what it means to say that humans are created in the "image of God":

In a variety of ways--through the cultivation of the earth, through craftsmanship, through the writing of books and the painting of ikons--man gives materal things a voice and renders the creation articulate in praise of God.  It is significant that the first task of the newly-created Adam was to give names to the animals (Gen. 2:19-20).  The giving of names is in itself a creative act: until we have found a name for some object or experience, an "inevitable word" to indicate its true character, we cannot begin to understand it and to make use of it.  It is likewise significant that, when at the Eucharist we offer back to God the firstfruits of the earth, we offer them not in their original form but reshaped by the hand of man: we bring to the altar not sheaves of wheat but loaves of bread, not grapes but wine.

So man is priest of the creation through his power to give thanks and to offer the creation back to God; and he is king of the creation through his power to mould and fashion, to connect and diversify...  (The Orthodox Way, Bishop Callistos Ware, St. Vladimir's Seminary Press, 1995. p 54)

Too many cucumbers is a good problem to have.  And apparently the very task of gardening is a privilege, too.  As I placed the seeds into the soil and added the fertilizer, as I staked the vines and clipped the ripe fruit, as I took the vegetables inside and transformed them into something unique and tasty, I borrowed from the experience of millions before me who sought to make creation sing in this remarkable way.  The Italians' word for worship is "il culto," from the Latin root for "to cultivate." It makes sense: in the liturgy we are cultivated to give God proper praise. But apparently the mere act of cultivating the soil and its fruits--fashioning and moulding what God has given--is a role of our worship, too.  It is our blessed human way of helping the earth praise its Creator. 

I must admit, though, that when I've been picking the cabbage loopers off my broccoli plants and throwing them over my shoulder to feed the bluebirds in my yard, I've not really thought of myself as a "priest of creation."  I tend to think of my priestly duties as confined to the altar where I pass out bread and wine and to the pulpit where I toss out words from Scripture.  Then again, five months ago my 8 x 8 plot was but a mere section of sod.  Now it gives birth to all kinds of good things which can be fashioned and moulded to eat and enjoy.  It has been a more holy task than I've given it credit for.

A Letter to our Graduating Seniors

'Tis the season of the high school graduation, when we celebrate our seniors' scholastic achievements, reflect tearily on how quickly they've grown up, and then "send them off" into the wide world of adulthood.  For the church, marking this momentous event in the life of the American teenager has always been a challenge.  Some school districts hold a baccalaureate service to do so.  Other congregations simply list their graduates' names in the newsletter.  For many communities of faith, it is a difficult rite to address, because school and church seem to be separate domains.  But perhaps congregations need to re-think this.  In many cases, graduation marks the end of their participation in youth group and Sunday School.  Many of them will leave (if only temporarily) and, unless they settle down in the same town in which they grew up, graduation may also be the "end of the road" of their life in a particular congregation.  Should a congregation do more to draw attention to this reality as they send them on their way?  Should a congregation try harder to maintain the ties with its graduates?  It's a hard one...

Below is a copy of a letter I wrote to our graduating seniors, with the hope that it will at least start them thinking about their larger relationship to (with? in?) the church.  Yes, it's long.  And I also fear it's a little preachy.  But, for what it's worth, this is what they got:

Congratulations, seniors!

Both the congregation and I are extremely proud of you at your upcoming graduation. I have been fortunate to observe your growth in faith only over the past year and a half, but many of the members of our congregation have watched you grow up for a lot longer—from the moment you were baptized or joined this church, all through Sunday School, first communion, church youth group, and confirmation. I'll be honest with you: the congregation sees you as their children. Now you are about to take the “big step” into college or other walks of life, and we all pray the faith and character you have developed here will accompany you in the world beyond our doors. Many of you are no doubt more ready for this next step than we are; nevertheless, we are very happy and excited for you and look forward to seeing how God continues to work in your lives.

But we are also nervous. We are nervous not just because you will be venturing out from your parents’ protection into a world that is often dangerous, but also because statistics tell us that you will most likely stop going to church on a regular basis during the next four to eight years of your life. It seems like our society even hopes that you will wander around awhile, reorganizing your priorities, testing various things out, or like that beloved Robert Frost poem so often read at graduation ceremonies, “taking the path less traveled by.” Some of this must happen: life will always present us with decisions and opportunities which need good exploring, and the freedom you are about to experience will be exhilarating at times. But over the next few years you will most likely discover what I discovered at your age: that, for whatever reason, life after high school graduation will make it more difficult to wake up on Sunday mornings or carve out time during the week to attend worship somewhere. What we are really most nervous about, however, is that in all of the testing, wandering, and sleeping in, you will reorganize your priorities in such a way that you will determine that Church is not important in life.

And that, we know, is wrong. Church is important in life. In fact, if you look closely at all the ways this congregation has nurtured your character up to this point—partly through those things I named earlier—you will find that Church is vital and crucial and necessary. Church concerns not just your identity as a child of God, but your very salvation. By that I don’t mean that you must attend church to “get into heaven,” (we know from the Bible and our good Lutheran theology that there is nothing we have to do to get into heaven), but I mean that through the church and in the church is the only way that your relationship with God and God’s people may rightly be nourished—and that, in itself, is salvation. And despite some hurt feelings and the occasional hypocrisy you may have noticed in your fellow Christians along the way, it has primarily been through your family and the church that your gifts and your faith have been nurtured thus far in life.

Indeed, during these first eighteen years you have already been experiencing a foretaste of what the final form of our salvation will be like because you’ve been participating in Christ’s work. For example, you have been molded to serve others and learned how humbling it is to be served. You have made mistakes and been embraced with forgiveness. Likewise, you have begun to learn what it is like to embrace others in forgiveness. In some of the more exciting times you have discovered God has given you gifts through his Spirit, and that God has given you places to use them and people with which to share them. Already, through the church, you have started to taste, hear, feel, and see what God’s grace in Christ looks like. In the church you have been loved and encouraged in a way that the world will never be able to care and encourage you. And as you continue, you will find that the people gathered in the church—we call them saints—are necessary for helping you understand and articulate how God is at work in your life. These are the elements of salvation, and it one reason why the church is and will continue to be important in your life.

There is another big reason why we become anxious that you may wander away too long from this imperfect but nevertheless gracious community: we don’t want you to forget the stories.  I'm speaking mainly of the stories in our Scriptures—like how God gave Israel manna to eat in the desert on their way to the Promised Land, or how God saved Noah and the animals with the ark. Or the one about Jesus’ feeing the five thousand, and the one about the silly shepherd who throws a party after he finds his one lost sheep. Those stories are powerful and fun, and being with us on a regular basis will help you remember them.  But even more importantly, the church helps all of us remember that, through Jesus, God narrates true meaning for the entire world and redeems it from sin. The world, by contrast, will offer its share of competing stories for the meaning of life, some of which may be worth listening to for awhile, but no story the world thinks up will contain the words that begin, “In the night in which he was betrayed…” There is unfathomable love in that story, love that puts an end to sin and death, love that grants eternal life, and it absolutely captivates us. Beginning with your baptism, you have been irrevocably woven into that world-redeeming story, and this congregation has done a fairly good job of telling it to you, over and over, so that you may begin to see yourselves in it. It may sound strange, but the church is of utmost importance to you and the world because of this particular story and the way God’s people tell it by living it out.

Speaking of that, the church also sorely needs you and your gifts. You will be the next generation of people through whom the Spirit will help form us all into the person of Christ. Oops. Strike that. You already are the next generation who will mold others in the faith. I hope you will discover how much you will depend on the church for this mighty task.

So, as you enter this phase of your life—be it wilderness or paradise—know that God has promised to be with you. As you leave to “grow up” or “become independent,” don’t forget the value of growth in God’s Spirit or lose sight of the ways in which you have learned that we are all inter-dependent. Remember that God has been stating your true identity since your baptism, and that the community called the church has and will be intimately involved in that process. Think of it like this: at your birth, you were set in motion toward God. Sin tries to prevent us from moving toward that goal, but Christ, through the church, places us back on track every time. This grace saves us, and the church tells this story, lest we forget it. Here you will get manna for that great journey. Here in this ark, God guides us to salvation.

This is why the church is important.


May God bless you in your life. We love you.

Phillip Martin


P.S. Don’t be a stranger!