Sonnet: John 10:22-30

I like it when the phrases can't always be contained within 10 syllables and need to be wrapped into the following line, but it is often difficult to get that to happen.

A plain confession’s what the skeptics seek;
At Temple portico they press their point.
For now, the teacher says, his works will speak
His claim to be the One God did anoint.
But their suspense is more than they can bear.
They want a gesture, words they can perceive.
The blind are healed, the crowds are fed with care;
But signs are lost on those who won’t believe.
Yet those who see with inner eye are not
So blind and, lamb-like, answer to his call.
Though life be hard and with grave danger fraught,
They know their shepherd bears them through it all.
           So call, Good Shepherd, call with voice so clear
           And give this skeptic sheep the grace to hear.

Sonnet: Luke 4:1-13

I'm not particularly proud of this one, but at some point I just need to be finished and move on.

'Twas almost at the start the Tempter gained
That guile to be the voice that man preferred.
And even ancient Israel was stained,
Persuaded they could live without God’s word.
Enamored with the wealth of other lands,
They traded humble deeds for spear and sword.
Through time we’ve fallen captive to his hands:
He’s taught us all to test our gracious Lord.
But one day in Judean desert space
The Tempter comes to glimpse his final hour.
A new Man, Spirit-led and full of grace
Rejects his deals for bread and wealth and pow’r.
           And thus the Tempter’s guile began to wane,
           His power broken. Now Christ, our Lord, will reign.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 




image: "Temptation on the Mount," Duccio di Buonisegna, 1308-1311

Christ as fish

I picked up my copy of Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek the other day and happened upon this passage right after I finished the sonnet for Luke 5:1-11.  Tinker Creek is a book that takes a couple readings to appreciate its use of allusion.  Although I've heard these verses dozens of times over the course of my life, I've never heard some of the kerygmatic connections she makes.  I like them.  Normally I think of fishing as a grueling, backbreaking profession, but she sees it in a slightly different light:

I am coming around to fish as spirit.  The Greek acronym for some of the names of Christ yields ichthys.  Christ as fish, and fish as Christ.  The more I glimpse the fish in Tinker Creek, the more satisfying the coincidence becomes, the richer the symbol, not only for Christ but for the spirit as well.  The people must live.  Imagine for a Mediterranean people how much easier it is to haul up free, fed fish in nets than to pasture hungry herds on those bony hills and feed them through the winter.  To say that holiness is a fish is a statement of the abundance of grace; it is the equivalent of affirming in a purely materialistic culture that money does indeed grow on trees.  "Not as the world gives do I give to you"; these fish are spirit food.  And revelation is a study in stalking.  "Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye shall find."

There's a thought as we begin the journey of Lent: "The people must live."

Sonnet: Luke 5:1-11

These are stretching the limits of my grasp of the English language!  This one for Epiphany 5C is still a work in progress...

Their night out on the lake, no doubt, was long,
Pursuing fish wherever fish may lurk.
Though instinct of a fisher's seldom wrong,
Gennes'ret yielded nothing to their work.
And now at sunrise, work must shift to shore
With nets and boats to clean and dry and mend.
As callings go, to fish can seem a chore:
The toil of catching, cleaning has no end.
A rabbi steps into their boats to teach
To cast their netting once more overboard.
The draught of fish they haul onto the beach
Transforms their lives.  They come to call him "Lord."
          Despite our doubt and dread, Lord, call us, too.
          With gracious instinct, give us tasks for you.

"The Miraculous Draught of Fishes," Peter Paul Rubens (1618-1619)

Sonnet: Luke 4:21-30

I don't know how long I'll be able to keep at this strange goal to compose a sonnet for each lectionary Sunday.  They are surprisingly difficult to put together.  The last couplet on this one took a good hour and a half.  But, for whatever it's worth, here's another.

(Originally I had hoped to complete this one before last Sunday, in order to keep it current.  A weekend youth retreat, however, distracted my energy.  But because a snowstorm cancelled church last Sunday, we will be using these readings this coming week.)

The hometown crowd should not be hard to win:
With clear authority he speaks God's word,
They recognize his face, his next of kin,
And zeal like his they've never before heard.
Yet words are not enough for Nazareth.
Their jealous hearts desire his deeds of pow'r.
But like the grace displayed at Zarephath
When famine reigned in Judah's darkest hour;
Or like the mercy Naaman received
When Jordan's waters cured his dread disease,
God's kingdom prospers when it is believed,
And Christ will heal and rule where Christ may please.
        Though sinful rage demands this Prophet's fall,
        His cross-borne deed will prove he loves us all.

photo: modern-day Nazareth

Sonnet: John 2:1-11

I have a goal to compose a sonnet for each of the Sundays in the Revised Common Lectionary. If this goal ever gets accomplished, it will likely take my entire life to do it.


This is my first attempt, and it is written for the occasion of the baptism of Luke James Norton on January 17, 2010:

We are not told who bid him there inside
The wedding festival in Cana town.
Did he support the groom? Perhaps, the bride?
Did he show up as things were winding down?
As empty mugs declare the party dead,
This Guest has plans to save the best for last,
And vessels used for washing swell with red.
The party lives! New wine flows free and fast.
Himself, He is the unexpected sign,
The unforseen abundance of God's grace.
The changing of the water into wine
Points us to Him: the image of God's face.
So, come, dear Guest, true mercy from above:
When we run dry change us to flow with love.

The Epiphany of Our Lord

When I lived in Pittsburgh I sang in a compline choir that offered this piece each Epiphany. The tune is beautiful, but I can't remember who arranged it.

"Saw you never, in the twilight, when the sun had left the skies,
up in heav'n the clear stars shining through the gloom, like silver eyes?
So of old the wise men, watching, saw a little stranger star,
and they knew the King was given, and the followed it from far.

Know ye not that lowly baby was the bright and morning star;
He who came to light the Gentiles and the darkened isles afar?
And we, too, may seek his cradle; there our hearts' best treasures bring:
love, and faith, and true devotion for our Savior, God, and King."

The festival of our Lord's Epiphany, as told in Matthew 2, was the church's original Christmas. In the west, Luke's narrative about Jesus in the manger and the visit from the shepherds has eclipsed the star and the Magi for several centuries now, which is too bad. There is nothing wrong with Luke's story about the infant Jesus, but Matthew's account offers a very interesting perspective on the effects that Jesus' birht has on the earth. As my colleague says, "There is no 'Peace on earth' in this story!" Herod is frightened. The magi must return to their homelands in secrecy by another way. Eventually there is a slaughter of innocent children. All in all, it is a sharp contrast to the serene setting offered by Luke. Sometimes I wonder if Matthew's account, now relegated to January 6 (which rarely falls on a Sunday) might not relate a bit more to the violent and pluralistic world we inhabit. Are the nations still drawn to the Light? Can science still pay homage to faith? How are politics and society upended by the advent of Jesus? What gifts do we lay before our God and King?

Don't Stop Believin'

I attended a very well-run and uplifting youth event for high school students run by the Virginia Synod two weeks ago. The theme of the week was "Stars," based on the Philippians passage that commends believers to "shine like stars" in the midst of a cruel and perverse world. Building on that, each small group of participants was given another verse to study in depth and then present in creative form to the whole assembly as a "proclamation" piece on Thursday afternoon.

Our group was given what I thought to be, at first, a very dense and unexciting passage from Hebrews. Several other groups were given parables and teachings of Jesus which, from my experience, tend to lend themselves more easily to visual and dramatic presentation. I was very impressed, however, with the diligence and creativity of our group as they took the essense of our passage and decided to re-write the words to the infamous Journey power ballad, "Don't Stop Believin'." Working with a lectio divina method, they read and re-read their passage until they came up with their own version of the text. Using their own key phrases and paraphrases, they fashioned the Journey song (whose original lyrics, they realized, already communicated a message somewhat similar to their Hebrews text) to say it a new way. Then they performed it for the whole audience to a rousing applause. Here is their finished product:

"Don't Stop Believin'"
Hebrews 6:9-12, as written by small group 9
Kairos, 2009

Just a faithful girl, living in a lazy world
She took a mission trip, going in His steps.
Just a patient boy, encouraged by a greater joy
He took a mission trip, going in His steps.

The Savior with a banquet spread,
The taste of wine and broken bread
With this meal we can see His love,
It goes on and on and on and on…

Dear friends, moving closer to the Promised Land
His Spirit working in the night.
Eager people, living just to find salvation
Praying somewhere in the night.

Working hard to do God’s will
Promises He will fulfill
All your deeds will not go unseen;
God’s not unfair.

All will win, none will lose,
We were born to preach Good News.
Oh, the journey never ends
It goes on and on and on and on…

Dear friends, moving closer to the Promised Land
His Spirit working in the night.
Eager people, living just to find salvation
Praying somewhere in the night.

Don’t stop believin’
Hold on to the feeling
Eager people…

Don’t stop believin’
Hold on to the feeling
Eager people…

Don’t stop believin’
Hold on to the feeling
Eager people…

Pentecost metaphors?

I've never blogged on here about a topic that leads up to a Sunday or liturgical festival, especially before I preach about it. Typically I wait until the given day of my subject to post anything. Currently, however, I have several images and metaphors for Pentecost swirling around in my head, and it is highly possible that I will deal with one of them in my sermon this coming Sunday. In my former congregation, I found that the tight schedule of preaching every Sunday did not always allow me to weed through a surfeit of sermon illustrations. Now I tend to go overboard.

In any case, I recently finished Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer-Prize-winning novel, The Road, which relates the story of a father and son making their way in a very bleak, post-apocalyptic world. There is not much to the plot, and almost nothing "happens," per se. The burned-over planet they inhabit is so unfriendly, so harsh and devoid of meaning, that the relationship between the father and son provides the only source of hope. One increasingly gets the sense that the world around them will provide no comfort, no rest, no nourishment; they are each others' reason for existence.

I do not know if the author intended to weave trinitarian language into this story, but I found it a compelling coincidence that the father and son are so bound together by love in the midst of a world that could tear them apart. Their love is what keeps them going, even when it becomes more and more apparent that they are truly alone. They are the only self-described "good guys" in a dying world where sin has not only taken root but allowed to grow to full fruition. Even more interesting is the father's description for what delineates them as the "good guys": they are, he reiterates to his frightened boy, the "keepers of the flame." Father, Son, bound by love described as a flame...biblical allusion for the Trinity? It is especially intriguing when one thinks of the ways in which the Trinity brings life--the only real life--to the world through its intense inner bonds of love and fidelity. Can one read The Road in this way, as a metaphor for the mission of the church, that the only true source of joy and hope for any of us is the love the father and son have for each other? Are we, as those caught in the throes of this love, keepers of the flame, on a mission to bring life to the world? Is Cormac McCarthy unwittingly "saying things another way"?

I don't know how these thoughts will bounce around further, or if I'll ever be bold enough to mention this anywhere else. The book's depictions of the world gave me nightmares when I began reading it, and I'm not sure I would recommend this book to everyone. If I mention it in a sermon it might provoke that. Then again, maybe we should have nightmares, on occasion, about the harshness of our own sin...nightmares that then stir us to love and pursue the good that God has laid before us.

Footwashing

Today begins another Triduum, another plunge for the faithful into the strange events of Jesus' last days. One of the strangest of those somber events is Jesus' decision to take the towel during the Passover supper and wash his disciples' feet. Even his closest disciples are caught totally off-guard by this act of slavish servitude. We can almost see Peter as he defiantly jerks his foot away from the basin: "Jesus, you will never wash my feet!" But this is, in fact, a sign. Even more, it Jesus suggest that wearing the towel and lathering the dusty bunions is a way of disciple life. If the master stoops to do it, so should even more the student. "A new commandment," He says--a new commandment of love that, come to think of it, shouldn't really sound all that new to us. BUt now we have a real clear example of what that love looks like and how we are to bear it out amongst us as disciples.

But the footwashing is just a sign of the love to come. Stooping even lower, Jesus will wash the ugly feet of an entire universe with his own blood. These are strange events, indeed. Carrying the commandment further...should we be willing to die for one another? For the master?

This Maundy Thursday also happens to be the commemoration of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, one of the twentieth-centuries most noted theologians. He was hanged by the Nazis on this date in 1945 for his suspected role in an assassination attempt on Adolf Hitler. He spent the last two years of his life in a concentration camp. Whether or not Bonhoeffer may claim the title of martyr for the faith, his death brought the end of life to one of the most compassionate and courageous voices of Christianity in one of the most difficult times to be a follower of Christ. Concerning the footwashing hallmark that illustrations Jesus' new commandment on Maundy Thursday, it occurs to be that Bonhoeffer's life and writings contain numerous references and examples of simple servitude to the neighbor.

From his Life Together, a small volume that is actually addressed to Christians living in community:

“The second service that one should perform for another in a Christian community is that of active helpfulness. This means, initially, simply assistance in trifling, external matters…Nobody is too good for the meanest service. One who worries about the loss of time that such petty, outward acts of helpfulness entail is usually taking the importance of his own career too solemnly…Only where hands are not too good for deeds of love and mercy in everyday helpfulness can the mouth joyfully and convincingly proclaim the message of God’s mercy.”

If Jesus' footwashing is an example of humble love and service; if the cross is our ideal of God's love for us; if Christ, the master, intends that his disciples are known primarily for their love, what types of footwashing are we engaged in today? Is the Church known for "simple assistance in trifling external matters," or do we tend to think they're below us? What types of activities are our hands busied with? What defines our "life together," not only for us, but for the world?

Maundy Thursday is a teaching moment, a rallying point for Jesus' disciples before Jesus takes his final steps. How might our Triduum worship rally our modern-day followers of Jesus into service and love? It is a shame if we focus on our own, personal relationship with Christ in such a way that we ignore the feet and simple needs of our neighbors.

Hearing it another way

As some of you may know, I am a longtime fan of the Irish rock group U2. I have appreciated their music ever since I was in the later years of elementary school, and became a devoted fan in college. One of the reasons why their music has always appealed to me is because of the many religious themes present in their lyrics. Three of the four band members are professing Christians, and many people may not know that the band almost broke up in its very early years when a couple of them felt they could not reconcile rock music with the fundamentalist Christian beliefs that they were espousing at the time. In any case, Ireland has been mired in religious/political conflict for quite some time and the members have felt surprisingly at ease working Christian overtones into their music.

What I like particularly about this aspect of their music is that the themes and overtones are not always very blatant. In fact, they are often so subtle that I'm not always sure that they're really there and that I'm reading too much into the songs. In that sense, they are a true "say it another way" subject: they find very covert and creative ways of expressing biblical and theological concepts. "Until the End of the World" on the "Achtung, Baby" (1991) album, for example, is clearly composed of the thoughts of Judas Iscariot as he reflects on the Last Supper, but many listeners are not always aware of this. "Yahweh" on "How to Dismantle and Atomic Bomb" (2004) could very well appear in a hymnbook, containing selections of Paul's letter to the Romans.

Their latest album release, "No Line on the Horizon," is no exception. Although I have not had the chance to give every track a thorough listen, the second song struck me at the outset as a possible redaction of Mary's song in Luke 1, or at least Bono's version of the back-story to the Magnificat. I can imagine the words playing in the background during a video-montage of Mary's life, almost like she's singing to Jesus, her Son.

The refrain seems particularly theological to me, drawing to my mind the redemptive love of the scars on Jesus' hands:
"Only love, only love can leave such a mark/
But only love, only love can heal such a scar"

The nails of the cross "leave the mark" of Jesus' love for God's creation, but the Father's love for his Son can heal the scar that shows the sign of that Passion.

The song continues, as if Mary reflects on her role, remembering her response in faith when she sang her response to Gabriel's announcement:

"I was born to sing for you/
I didn't have a choice but to lift you up/
and sing whatever song you wanted me to."

The song ends with an acclamation grounded in faith--dare I say even in Lutheran language, echoing themes from an earlier U2 release, "Pride (in the name of love)":

"Justified till we die/you and I will magnify the Magnificent."

There is nothing other than the title that made me relate this song to the Magnificat. Upon closer listening, there is nothing that suggests it cannot also be our song, our response to a love that can heal and sustain, a love that we have known in Christ who is magnificent. The concept of our lowly souls magnifying God certainly reaches its height in Mary's song, yet it is a quality of faith that may be brought to bear in any sinner's heart. We are justified, and in that justification our lives may magnify that about God which makes God truly great: that he loves us and chooses us and loves to hear the praise we give.

Candlemas thoughts

On February 2 I find myself thinking about the elderly in our communities, and particularly those in our congregations. Simeon and Anna are the root of these contemplations: on our Lord's presentation in the temple, forty days after his birth, they are overcome with joy at the sight of their long-awaited Savior. Frail voice is loosed and prophecy is sung! The aged Simeon bounces the newborn baby in his arms. How blessed the meeting between those near the end of their earthly journey and Him who will now open life beyond the grave.

The grave may be near to anyone at anytime, but I imagine the topic is more immediate to the elderly. Any visit to the doctor's office could bring worrisome news. Any family gathering may be their last. Any simple fall could break a hip and rob them of mobility. The rigors of old age surely cause the aged to think on death, almost as if they wait for it. Do younger people wait for death the same way? I know I certainly don't. For what do I wait? For what are any of us waiting?

Yet Simeon and Anna do not appear to be waiting for death as much as they await hope. To be sure, Simeon sings, "Now, Lord, let your servant depart in peace," but it is clear that his life has been more focused on the arrival of the Messiah, the light to the Gentiles, the salvation of Israel. He spends day and night in the temple with the promise he can wait on Christ and have that awaiting consummated. Many others would have probably labelled Simeon dimented or delusional (as we often do with our elderly). But, as it turns out, he is waiting on the one thing that will not disappoint. That for which he waits causes his whole life to point toward hope, and that hope eventually finds itself cradled in his arms.

February 2nd is not a day we usually think of the elderly anymore, though Candlemas, thanks to Anna and Simeon, was traditionally the time for awareness of our aged. Now we think of groundhogs. We fantasize about the groundhog and his shadow, waiting all winter in darkness to see that sign which would indicate the presence of constant sun. Maybe, however, there is a connection: how might we live in a way that shows, in the midst of all the things we typically await, our salvation has been accomplished, that an eternal Son does indeed shine? How can we live in a way that shows we have crawled out of our self-dug holes of despair and beheld the promise of the ages? Maybe our modern-day Simeons and Annas can help us out. So often the New Testament uses children as an example of faith, and for good reason. We need to remember the importance of childlike trust in the life of discipleship. Yet maybe we can also see wonderful examples of faith in those who are nearing the end of their earthly journey, in those who have learned that waiting for God's salvation is a worthwhile endeavor---yea! the one, true endeavor that allows a servant not just to depart, but to depart in peace.

Earth Day musings

Today is the 39th Earth Day. Earth Day is an observance that was thought up back in the late '60s by movers and shakers in the modern environmental movement to draw the public's attention to issues affecting the planet's health as an organism...issues like air and water quality, preservation of biodiversity, recycling, and global warming. I didn't see too much evidence of people making a big deal of it this year, but perhaps that's because I live in Pennsylvania and the huge presidential primary here today kind of overshadowed everything. Otherwise, I have noticed that Earth Day is steadily growing in popularity. Each year I hear more and more about Earth Day rallies and other events. Last year all rostered leaders in my church, the ELCA, received a fancy, formal letter (through email) from our presiding bishop calling attention to Earth Day nd encouraging us to recognize it in some way.

To be completely honest, I was (and still am) a little perturbed that I received an email about Earth Day from my presiding bishop. I have nothing against Earth Day, per se, but Earth Day is not a church observance. I can't figure out why my highest church authority would urge me to celebrate or observe this occasion since it does not purport to venerate a Being higher than the earth, not to mention that it doesn't proclaim Christ at all. I would assume that some Christians celebrate Earth Day wholeheartedly, "baptizing" its message in some way by saying that God urges us to be good stewards of creation. The concept of Earth Day certainly seems to create space enough to do that, although the tone of most Earth Day observances come close to the line of creation spirituality, making an idol of the planet and equating being a good person with being appropriately environmentally-minded.

My problem, though, is that Christians already have/had a type of Earth Day observance that is much more theologically grounded and spiritually robust. Have we completely forgotten them? They are the Rogation Days, which also fall at this time of the year. The Rogation Days fall each year on the four days preceding Ascension. Ascension always falls in spring, and traditionally the Church chose this time of the year to pray for the year's crops. Rogation Days get their name from the Latin word "Rogare," which means "to ask," a phrase which appears in the gospel text on the preceding Sunday (which happens to be this coming Sunday). During the Rogation days, the Church asks God to bless and renew the face of the earth, specifically in the ways in which humans typically use the earth--farming, logging, herding, harvesting. I have heard of some rural Lutheran congregations in this country that bring seeds to church on Rogation Sunday and pray over them just before they are planted. In Anglican tradition, the priest and members of the parish would actually form a procession outside and "beat the bounds," walking around the perimeter of the parish and praying for its protection in the upcoming year.

We may look on these medieval traditions as arcane and outdated, but, really, how different are they from attending an Earth Day parade or highlighting the benefits of recycling on the nightly news? In fact, I think these church traditions actually put us more directly in contact with the earth that God has given for us to use and care for. Imagine an urban congregation going outside on Sunday and playing in the dirt! I think that might make us more aware of the environment right around our building and how we're impacting it.

It's such a good idea! Why, I might have actually thought of it last year had my bishop sent me a letter reminding me to mine our own Great Tradition for ways to remember the needs of creation.

assorted thoughts during the octave of Easter

Traditionally, as far as the church calendar goes, this week is actually a day. To denote the profound change that Christ's resurrection has wrought in our lives, the first week after Easter Sunday comprises one metaphorical day. Time itself is altered by this news. In the early Church, those baptized on Easter wore their baptismal robes in public this whole week to signify this. They didn't take off this sign of their new life until the second Sunday of Easter--Quasimodo Sunday, or White Sunday--when the "day" had come to an end. The setting for the gospel text for the second Sunday of Easter (John 20) underscores this passage of time. All of this, of course, is not law. One must not follow it to celebrate the resurrection (and I know of blessed few congregations who still do); it shows that over the years, however, church tradition has thought of creative ways of showing how significant this change from death to life is. It shows how the Church has invented thoughtful methods for indicating that the life of faith is altogether different from the life without it.

And I can't help but think of these rich traditions that have gone by the wayside in light of our own congregation's struggles, for example, to keep lightbulbs changed in the sanctuary and a full roster of committed Sunday school teachers. For a long time I've thought that, in order to function fairly well, a congregation needed a substantial number of its members to make it a priority in their life, ranked above sports and making money, to name a couple of competitors. Church needed to be the Primary Community. Rather than being another organization to "belong to," the congregation needed to be the main gathering place, the chief social group.

Now I'm amending that approach just a little. In order for a congregation take up God's mission and embody his incarnate love robustly and most faithfully, I believe its members really need to think of the Church as their way of life. If that sounds drastic, it's because it is. In a sense, it is cultic (in that it is something that must be cultivated). I'm not suggesting that we re-institute, for example, celebrating the octave of Easter with baptizands' wearing of their white robes in public, but perhaps we should challenge our people to think of church as a way of life, rather than a hobby or a membership. The church constantly needs to remind itself that it is a Way, it is a way of living that permeates all other aspects of one's life. Church is not merely a way we should spend our every Sunday morning (although, at the very least, it should be this), but it is where an individual's life is rooted. The Church is new clothing, in a sense: we receive Christ's robe of grace and love and thanksgiving and we are bid to wear it all the time.

I know I'm not saying anything new here, but as a pastor, I constantly feel guilty for asking members to contribute their time and resources to church, whether or not I do it directly (by asking them outright) or just by providing them myriad opportunities to "get involved." This sense of guilt comes from my own deep-seated belief that Church is still an "extra" for so many people. I fear they will be turned off by this strange modern-day affliction known as "burnout." How can church leaders effectively convey to the congregations they serve that church shouldn't just be a priority, but a complete way of life---and do it in a loving, graceful manner? To be sure, holding onto the traditions is one way, because I think they evoke emotions and communicate the nature of faith in ways that mere words often can't. But in what ways can we reclaim this sense of church as way of life?

(image: Russian icon of the resurrection of Christ, 16th cent.)

all creation groans for its redemption...and I mean all of it

Yesterday during worship as people were taking communion and returning to their seats, some of them encountered the acolyte coming back into church through the side door, in his robe and everything. The acolyte is supposed to stand "at attention" at the head of the aisle in the nave in order to make sure that everyone gets a communion glass for communion. Why was he coming in from the outside in the middle of worship?

Once we had concluded the service and he could be questioned about this peculiar activity, it was discovered that he was outside because he had found a large spider in the rack of communion glasses and wanted to get rid of it by releasing it in the yard. So as not to disturb anyone by his discovery, he stuck it in his pocket--without squishing it, I assume--and snuck outside. Upon arriving there, he determined that it was too cold and snowy to release a spider into a natural environment, so he placed the spider back in his pocket and brought it back inside. Unwilling to deposit the friendly intruder where other people might see it, he then released the spider up at the altar after communion was over. It was there, I suppose he figured, that the spider could live in reconciliation with its surroundings.

I'm fairly certain that the acolyte did not choose the altar on purpose (rather, it just happened to be a convenient, less-traveled area), but the symbolism of his gesture of freedom and release is still potent. We speak of the resurrected Jesus as the consummations of God's new creation. We speak of the foretaste of his feast as the time toward which we look when all of creation will be gathered, reconciled, and released in the freedom of the Spirit so that we may be that which we were fashioned to be. Sometimes, I fear, Holy Communion becomes "just another part of worship," so it's nice to have concrete reminders of what we are proclaiming at the meal every Sunday at this meal, even if they comes from an unlikely arachnid.

Names and Images

I have to admit that I'm partially blogging today just so I can blog on Leap Day. We get this opportunity only every four years.

In any case, last night as I was going to bed I was reading through a name book, considering names for our soon-to-be-born second child. Melinda and I are rather undecided on names at this point, but we still have three more months (we hope). As I was looking through the list of names, I realized something I'd never noticed before. Mohammed is the most common given name in the world. I knew that. At least half of the Muslim Egyptians I met when I lived in Cairo were named Mohammed, which is the name of their prophet. Apparently, a way to honor the prophet is to name a son after him. Yet, images of Mohammed are nowhere to be found. In fact, forming any kind of image of Mohammed at all is strictly verboten. No stained glass, no icons, no paintings, even. We can remember the flap that a few cartoons of Mohammed created a few years ago. The issue wasn't so much that the prophet was depicted in a negative way; it was that he was depicted visually at all.

Yet, I realized last night that Christianity is almost the complete reverse. We have no problem at all with images of Christ. We draw and depict him any way we want to, the more, the merrier. I've even seen images of Christ in China that make Jesus look Asian. My mother gave me a Peruvian nativity scene that feature Jesus as a Qera papoose. He abounds in things from church art to children's books. Yet, we would almost never consider naming a child Jesus. I know that in certain cultures it happens, but, by and large, it is a no-no. When you look at the grand scope of Christian history, there are relatively few people named Jesus. Its popularity is nowhere near that of Mohammed for the Muslims.

Is this contrast on purpose? I know that Muslims forbade images of Mohammed in part as a way to distinguish their faith from the icon-venerating Christians (which also explains why the icon-loving Christians more firmly held their ground in the East during the icon controversies in the early centuries of Christianity). I'd like to know more, like when did the name Mohammed rise in popularity? Immediately after his lifetime? What is the incidence of the name "Jesus" among Christians in the East (meaning the middle east)?

Safe to say, we will not be choosing either name if we have a boy, but these are the thoughts that ran through my head as I fell asleep on the night before Leap Day.

"...and immediately, something like scales fell from his eyes." (Acts 9:18)

Today is the church's commemoration of the conversion of St. Paul, one of the more peculiar commemorations, if you ask me. This is not the day we set aside to remember the life of St. Paul (that occasion falls on June 29, along with St. Peter); today we mark specifically his conversion experience. It makes sense, I suppose, since one could argue, given the amount of the New Testament that comes from his pen or one imitating it, that Paul's was the most famous conversion of all time. It has become more than a turning event in world history. It is held up as the model conversion. When people talk about a "Damascus Road" experience, they are borrowing a metaphor from this event. When people say they've "seen the light," they are making reference to Paul's blinding vision of Christ, when, ironically, everything began to become clear to him. I've even heard people use the image of "scales falling from their eyes" to explain suddenly understanding something for the first time. Again, thanks to Paul.

Conversions are usually thought of in terms of changing directions, changing beliefs. Old Saul was a fierce persecutor of the church; after his conversion, he is Paul, its biggest champion. Churches and missionary outposts have typically measured their growth by number of converts: people who have left off with an old belief system and grabbed hold of the gospel. This can often make conversion sound like something we do, as if converting is a point we reach when we have considered all the facts or have beaten our heads against the wall too many times. Conversion sounds like a moment of strength, of purpose, of power: "I figured it out. I changed. I finally made the jump."

Wasn't Paul's conversion, however, a moment of intense weakness, powerlessness? Didn't he fall to the ground in a heap of fear, not wrestle his way to a new point of view? Afterwards he spent many days convalescing at the home of Ananias. It wasn't until this encounter with a relative nobody that Paul came back to his senses and started regaining his strength. Think on this: we're commemorating not simply Paul's glorious turnaround. We're mainly commemorating his crouching in fear! We're commemorating his moment of humiliation, the point at when God's grace makes his power look ridiculously small and stupid.

So, here on this commemoration of Paul's conversion, I'd like to suggest we think about our own weaknesses, our own moments of despair and frustration that, like Paul's stop on the Damascus Road, seem like dead ends. I'd like to suggest that we give thanks not only our own renewed purpose upon these encounters with God, but primarily for God's ability to do something with our weaknesses in the first place. Because that is what will help the scales fall from our prideful eyes time and time again. We really can do nothing to thwart God's love for creation in Jesus. At the same time, even when we feel most impotent, God sees infinite ways to work through us.

(image: "The Conversion on the Way to Damascus" by Carravagio)

So shrill the cry

Advent always presents a paradox for me. Even though I participate in the annual Advent humbug, criticizing the consumerist and materialistic impulses of our culture at this time of year, I also admit I get tired of those voices who want to claim they know that the real meaning of the season contradicts with our usual Christmas preparations. It almost seems that each year these voices grow a little louder. It has gone past the whole giving vs. receiving debate. They call for a simpler holiday altogether; they want less focus on spending and greater emphasis on building relationships with loved ones--or at least a renewed commitment to justice issues, like buying toys for needy children or donating a pig to a slum in Haiti.

To some degree those of us in that anti-consumer Christmas crowd are like the Pharisees and Saduccees who come to the Jordan riverbank seeking John's baptism. We are drawn there not so much because we whole-heartedly want to change our society's self-centered ways, but because we sense, deep down inside, that there might be something to his message. Something about the shrill sounds of John's frustration with the status quo reverberates within us and we think, for a second, there might just be a way to change it. Amidst all the shopping and decorating and grimacing about it all, we wonder if John might be onto something when he tells us that repenting is worthwhile. Something about the possibility of real change--within ourselves, within the world--causes us to stop and listen, if only for a few minutes.

A lot of people say "Jesus is the reason for the season," but I ask: What would Christmas be without John the Baptist? What would the celebration of God's grace in Jesus be without an iconoclast to shake us up a little beforehand, to shake us out of our yearly rituals and annual efforts to "do good"? We brood of vipers! We need this fiery, unpleasant dimension to the holiday in order to remind us that, left to our own devices, we will seek out and create our meanings for life, just as we always find our own "truer" meanings for the yuletide hoopla.

John's message was one of repentance. Repentance, very simply put, means to change direction, to turn around. Perhaps, on our part, the greater act of Christmas has nothing to do with giving or receiving, of looking past all the tinsel and toys to uncover some kernel of altruistic love. The more significant action is to repent. To be sure, God does give to us graciously, and we are urged to be givers, as well. However, repentance is where that must begin, and turning around, hearing the still shrill voice of change, is the ultimate life-giving Christmas activity. We can only figure out the "reason for the season" once we have first learned to open our inward-looking eyes and see what John the Baptist sees. He sees a world in desperate need of humility. He sees a world crying for a better system of peace and justice. He sees a creation that is broken more than it realizes and far more than it wants to admit. Yet he also sees its healing. John sees and foretells creation's promised healing, and he bids us to lay down our pretensiousness and turn around and receive it with him.

Savior of the nations, come; show the glory of the Son!
Every people stand in awe; praise the perfect Son of God.

God the Father is his source, back to God he runs his course;
Down to earth and hell descends, God's high throne he re-ascends.

Shining stable in the night, breathing vict'ry with your light;
Darkness cannot hide your flame, shining bright as Jesus' name.

(Ambrose of Milan)

(image above: "John the Baptist," African Mafa)

the last days of this autumn

The rain of these last two days is surely bringing down the remaining seasoned leaves of the fall, and I'll be sad. It is my wife's favorite season, but autumn always arouses bittersweet feelings in me. I associate it with the end of summer (fun, vacation, no school) and the beginning of another year of work. However, I find the colors of the leaves as they change and die to be so brilliant--even to my colorblind eyes--that it makes me marvel at creation and contemplate my own place in it in a way that few other aspects of nature do. I think Annie Dillard was onto something when she wrote about the complete unnecessary extravagance of it. I've almost driven off the road several times just trying to take in the views because I know they're so fleeting. One day of gusty wind and we'll be left with nothing but gray twigs against the sky. Just a few weeks ago, however, they were ordinary green trees. I wonder if other drivers are equally as taken aback with it as I am. But then I think: they're just leaves! What's my problem? They'll probably be more dazzling next year, as long as there's not another drought. Changing color like this is what deciduous leaves are supposed to do. Why get caught up in it? It's the extravagance, I think. There is no reason for this beauty. And the temporary nature of it is a large part of what makes it beautiful. Thank you, God. But why is part of me disappointed?

I ran across this poem by Luci Shaw and, although it's subject matter is nature of another season, it struck a chord:


"Windy"

The maple seeds have spent themselves;
their wings lie mute and brown and tattered
along the grass. The peonies
have let their bloodied white be scattered,
and all this windy afternoon
I've grieved as if it really mattered.

Dives must be rolling in his grave

It always catches me off guard when, in the course of the children's sermon delivery, the gospel is sniffed out by some young theologian before I've planned to reveal it.

Let me explain my children's sermon from Sunday: I found on-line and printed out photos of Bill Gates and Oprah Winfrey, two people I thought most people would instantly recognize as wealthy and influential. Even though I figured the kids at the children's sermon wouldn't know Bill Gates to look at him, I figured they may have at least heard of his name. Oprah, given that she's on T.V., might get a few more nods. I also printed out a photo of a random beggar that I located simply by googling "beggar." My plan was to contrast these pictures by explaining that everyone knows Bill Gates and Oprah Winfrey but no one knows who the beggar is. Whereas we know the names of famous rich people, we couldn't dare to guess the name of the poor. This is because, I suggested, a lot of people think people like Mr. Gates and Ms. Winfrey are important and worthy of emulation because of all their money and, in the cases of those two, how much good they choose to do with a lot of it. The beggar, on the other hand, has nothing and so no would think of him as important or noteworthy. He is, essentially, forgettable. Then I went on to explain how money and fame do not really matter to God; it is human need that makes someone "important" in God's eyes and therefore compels us to care for all, especially the needy.

I began by showing them the pictures. They always respond to pictures. As I had expected, no one recognized Bill Gates, but some had heard of his name. Then I showed the picture of Oprah Winfrey. Again, silence. So then I had to explain who she was, too. Some acknowledgement in a few faces. Then I showed the picture of the beggar, expecting (and wanting) more silence. A little second-grade boy shouted out, "That's Lazarus!!!" A little stunned, I said, "How do you know his name is Lazarus?" He said, "Because he's begging beside a gate." Alrighty, then. Children's sermon ruined? Of course not, but I did have to make some accomodations.

This child had not been in Sunday School that morning, nor does he attend church very often. His father was clueless as to how he knew. All I can figure is that when he came into church that morning he read and remembered the bulletin cover, which featured a similar photo of someone begging for money. Go figure. Apparently not quite everyone ignores Lazarus.