I'm normally very bitter about Christmas. I don't like crowds, shopping, and gimmicks. However, being a Scrooge is no fun.
Instead, I have been rethinking the Advent and Christmas season a little bit, as reflected in my two previous posts. This morning I was thinking about Advent again. The Advent wreath contains four candles arranged in a circle and one candle in the center of that circle. Often times when I think of circles, I think of Jacques Derrida who noted how circles are defined by a center, but the center is not part of the line that is the circle. In effect, the center is something transcendent to the circle ("Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences").
The concept of center is, well, central to how we understand Advent, Christmas, and life in general. Around the Advent wreath are candles representing hope, peace, joy, and love, concepts connected like radii to the center of the circle, connected to Christ and Christmas through the stories of Jesus's birth.
And already the circle is starting to re-de-fine and un-define. There are multiple Christmas stories, stories of Christ being born in and to humanity in Jesus. There is the story in Matthew, the story in Luke, the baptism of Jesus in Mark, and the abstract story in John, not to mention a number of stories that never made it into the canon.
I'm particularly interested in the stories that aren't birth narratives, but tell of Jesus' coming to Earth. The book of Mark opens: "The beginning of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God." According to Mark, the Good News of Christianity has nothing to do with Christmas, which is an understanding of Jesus, Christ, and the Gospel quite contrary to the portrayal in Matthew, Luke, the Nicene Creed, and the month of preparation Christians have observed for centuries, not to mention the long celebrations of the US "Christmas season."
If the author(s) of Mark were to celebrate Advent, they wouldn't be waiting to celebrate the birth of Jesus, but rather the coming of Christ's movement in the life of people. For Mark, this coming didn't happen when Jesus was born, but rather when Jesus was baptized, reborn not of man and woman, but of God solely. In this story, Jesus' virgin birth was of God, not Mary.
And thus, Advent and Christmas are de-centered. Hope, peace, joy, and love are no longer connected to Christ through the generally-accepted reconstruction and assimilation of the stories Christmas. They may still be connected to Christ, but Jesus as the Christ--"born of the Virgin Mary"--is no longer that which defines them for this or any season.
Since deconstruction is not destruction, a de-centering of Advent and Christmas is not an end to Advent and Christmas. Advent can still be a season of anticipation--of hope, peace, joy, love, and Christ. A deconstructed Advent sees the themes inevitably and forever interconnected and interdependent, instead of four dependent on the one. Furthermore, a deconstructed Advent will embrace the interplay of anticipating and receiving, the already and the not-yet, of God's absence and presence, and of absence in presence in relation to hope, peace, joy, and love.
Christmas deconstruction will re-remember Christ in the various aspects and stories of Christ's "beginning" on earth, a beginning lacking an originary event. That is, Christ never came, but has always been coming and has always been here (to use some more deconstruction terms: a "hauntology" of Christmas in the "aporia" between presence/absence).
A deconstructing Christmas is one where "God so loved the world," not "God so loved all the people I love." Christmas would then lose and gain significance. It would lose the significance of gift-giving to those we love and being with those you love, it would no longer be a holy day (holiday), a day set apart and other than the rest of the days, because it would give significance to the rest of the days of the year by recognizing the Other and Otherness by asking for generosity, for hope, for peace, for joy, for love, for Christ, for "the Christmas spirit," to be a year-round thing, so these things are born every minute, not once a year.
A deconstructing Christmas would be an active holiday where significance needs to be created, not inherited. For all of these abstract terms--generosity, hope, peace, joy, love, Christ, Advent, Christmas--are merely abstract terms with no center defining. If we are to use them at Christmas or ever, they need to be embodied. Words don't mean, they are given meaning.
And so it was in Mark with Jesus. Jesus wasn't born the Christ. Jesus became the Christ by giving that term meaning--that was the beginning of the good news. Christmas is a time not only to remember, but to actively remember by continuing to create meaning for Christ, by continuing to create Christ, to birth Christ.
Showing posts with label deconstruction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deconstruction. Show all posts
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
On The Unforgivable: Grace & Impossibility in Jesus & Derrida
"Do you think there is such a thing as an unforgivable sin?"
My friends know I love spiritual, biblical, and theological conversations. Sometimes they even appreciate my opinions. A few evenings ago, one of my friends asked me the above question. My answer surprised me a little.
I first admitted my ignorance of Matthew 12:31-32. The Jesus of Matthew's Gospel says "blasphemy against the holy spirit will not be forgiven." I know the passage, but I have never done serious study into what the verse means. I haven't even spent significant time trying to understand the passage without outside study. I've heard other people talk about what the passage means, but I'm too skeptical to take their words for it.
Not surprisingly, I thought of Derrida's nearly incomprehensible words after I thought of Jesus'. In 1997, Derrida wrote On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, an intriguing combination of topics. And perhaps Derrida's thoughts aren't completely applicable. After all, my friend wondered not whether humans cannot forgive a certain sin, but rather if God could or would not forgive a certain sin or sins. Maybe Derrida's thoughts say more about God than I initially realized.
Derrida says, "We are all heir, at least, to persons or events marked, in an essential, interior, ineffaceable fashion, by crimes against humanity." A crime against humanity is "a crime against what is most sacred in the living, and thus already against the divine in man," and perhaps, in a sense, the blasphemy about which Matthew's Jesus speaks.
Derrida believes forgiveness should be "anecomonic," one should not forgive a sin because one wants to be forgiven. No one should give forgiveness in payment for a forgiveness or in expectation of a later forgiveness (cf. Matt. 18:21-35). In fact, for Derrida, anything that can be forgiven is not something needing forgiveness.
Jesus promotes the social justice of the Torah and Tanak, not the dueteronomic retributive justice upon which too many Christians focus. Retributive justice seems to have a place in society. The ancient Hebrew Torah set up retributive justice for their society to work. Today we continue it at the societal level with institutes for correction, however corrupt and non-corrective they are.
On the social level, Jesus and Derrida realize justice in a different sense, where we are all debtors like the man in Jesus' parable, all heirs to the most heinous of sins, all guilty. If we are all guilty, then forgiveness becomes impossible and necessary. But all of our sins are against ourselves and each other. "Forgiveness is ... mad. It must plunge, but lucidly, into the night of the unintelligible." It must happen in order to enter into relationship with others, with ourselves, and with God--the God in us and the God with us.
So we come again to Peter's famous question about how many times to forgive his brother. Jesus' answer is a ridiculous number intended for exaggeration, a hyperbole. Jesus' answer changes the concept of forgiveness completely. Jesus is not concerned with forgiving sins. "What would be a forgiveness that forgave only the forgivable?" Rather, Jesus is concerned with forgiving people.
Forgiving the forgivable forgives the past, which is doable, although sometimes hard. Forgiving a person means you forgive their future, too. Rationally, you cannot forgive something that hasn't happened. The unforgivable sin is the one that has not happened, but it is "the only thing to forgive[.] The only thing that calls for forgiveness." This is the only forgiveness that can be unconditional, the only forgiveness that is actually forgiveness.
"In principle, there is no limit to forgiveness, no measure, no moderation, no 'to what point?'"
And so it is with God, I believe. I still do not understand the whole bit about blasphemy against the spirit. But I imagine God forgives people, not sins. God is concerned with sins and wrongdoings, but God does not forgive those things. Things don't need forgiving, people do.
===
Derrida, Jacques. On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness. Trans. Mark Dooley and Michael Hughes. Thinking in Action. New York: Routledge, 2001. Originally published in 1997, in French.
My friends know I love spiritual, biblical, and theological conversations. Sometimes they even appreciate my opinions. A few evenings ago, one of my friends asked me the above question. My answer surprised me a little.
I first admitted my ignorance of Matthew 12:31-32. The Jesus of Matthew's Gospel says "blasphemy against the holy spirit will not be forgiven." I know the passage, but I have never done serious study into what the verse means. I haven't even spent significant time trying to understand the passage without outside study. I've heard other people talk about what the passage means, but I'm too skeptical to take their words for it.
Not surprisingly, I thought of Derrida's nearly incomprehensible words after I thought of Jesus'. In 1997, Derrida wrote On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, an intriguing combination of topics. And perhaps Derrida's thoughts aren't completely applicable. After all, my friend wondered not whether humans cannot forgive a certain sin, but rather if God could or would not forgive a certain sin or sins. Maybe Derrida's thoughts say more about God than I initially realized.
Derrida says, "We are all heir, at least, to persons or events marked, in an essential, interior, ineffaceable fashion, by crimes against humanity." A crime against humanity is "a crime against what is most sacred in the living, and thus already against the divine in man," and perhaps, in a sense, the blasphemy about which Matthew's Jesus speaks.
Derrida believes forgiveness should be "anecomonic," one should not forgive a sin because one wants to be forgiven. No one should give forgiveness in payment for a forgiveness or in expectation of a later forgiveness (cf. Matt. 18:21-35). In fact, for Derrida, anything that can be forgiven is not something needing forgiveness.
"If one is only prepared to forgive what appears forgivable, what the church calls 'venial sin', then the very idea of forgiveness would disappear. If there is something to forgive, it would be what in religious language is called mortal sin, the worst, the unforgivable crime or harm. From which comes the aporia, which can be described in its dry and implacable formality, without mercy: forgiveness forgives only the unforgivable. One cannot, or should not, forgive; there is only forgiveness, if there is any, where there is the unforgivable. That is to say that forgiveness must announce itself as impossibility itself. It can only be possible in doing the impossible."I can't imagine Jesus would disagree with Derrida. Jesus made forgiveness sound sensational. A man in a parable does not forgive a debt and reaps condemnation. Peter asks how many times he should forgive his brother, who apparently commits a great amount of wrongs. Seven times? How about seventy times seven.
Jesus promotes the social justice of the Torah and Tanak, not the dueteronomic retributive justice upon which too many Christians focus. Retributive justice seems to have a place in society. The ancient Hebrew Torah set up retributive justice for their society to work. Today we continue it at the societal level with institutes for correction, however corrupt and non-corrective they are.
On the social level, Jesus and Derrida realize justice in a different sense, where we are all debtors like the man in Jesus' parable, all heirs to the most heinous of sins, all guilty. If we are all guilty, then forgiveness becomes impossible and necessary. But all of our sins are against ourselves and each other. "Forgiveness is ... mad. It must plunge, but lucidly, into the night of the unintelligible." It must happen in order to enter into relationship with others, with ourselves, and with God--the God in us and the God with us.
So we come again to Peter's famous question about how many times to forgive his brother. Jesus' answer is a ridiculous number intended for exaggeration, a hyperbole. Jesus' answer changes the concept of forgiveness completely. Jesus is not concerned with forgiving sins. "What would be a forgiveness that forgave only the forgivable?" Rather, Jesus is concerned with forgiving people.
Forgiving the forgivable forgives the past, which is doable, although sometimes hard. Forgiving a person means you forgive their future, too. Rationally, you cannot forgive something that hasn't happened. The unforgivable sin is the one that has not happened, but it is "the only thing to forgive[.] The only thing that calls for forgiveness." This is the only forgiveness that can be unconditional, the only forgiveness that is actually forgiveness.
"In principle, there is no limit to forgiveness, no measure, no moderation, no 'to what point?'"
And so it is with God, I believe. I still do not understand the whole bit about blasphemy against the spirit. But I imagine God forgives people, not sins. God is concerned with sins and wrongdoings, but God does not forgive those things. Things don't need forgiving, people do.
===
Derrida, Jacques. On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness. Trans. Mark Dooley and Michael Hughes. Thinking in Action. New York: Routledge, 2001. Originally published in 1997, in French.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Why I'm (Not) Emerging/Emergent, But Support the Movement
I have been really excited about emergent/emerging Christian communities. Some people tell me a difference exists between "emergent" and "emerging," while others use the terms interchangeably. I don't know if a difference exists between the two and, frankly, I don't think I care all that much. I'm not trying to offend anyone's attempt to create an us/them binary, to put massive groups of people into a box, or to understand with good intentions other people by committing the aforementioned crimes; I just don't currently see an importance in the distinction due to my ignorance of it.
In case you missed it, I opened the last paragraph with "I have been." Those three words could imply continuance with the past or a breaking with the past, either, "I have been and still am," or, "I have been but am not longer." I am looking for a little bit of both connotations.
I am still really excited about emergent/emerging Christian communities and the conversations surrounding them. They are doing wonderful things and making some changes I enthusiastically support. Down with hierarchy, up with co-servanthood. Down with marketing and flattery, up with relationships. Down with isolation, up with intentional living communities. Down with monostructure, up with variety.
Did you notice I just said "they." It seems nearly impossible to analyze and communicate without creating us/them binaries, or, worse, I/them or I/it binaries.
I do not associate myself with any emergent/emerging Christian movement or group any more than I associate myself with any Christian denominational movement or entity. I am just as much Presbyterian as I am emergent as I am Protestant as I am Christian heretic as I am Christian apostate as I am Christian liberal or postliberal or postmodern or post-postmodern as I am Christian deconstructionist and process Christian and agnostic.
Alongside all those other words I just listed, "emergent" and "emerging" are labels promoting identity. Identities build walls. Identities build those us/them binaries. Derrida suggests working towards identification, not identity, a slight and genius play on words.
Identity is one thing; identification isn't one thing. Identity settles for conformity; identification is a dynamic, exciting, frightening, never-settling process. It doesn't involve getting rid of all our lovely identifiers like "emergent," "emerging," and "Christian." We keep those words and recognize they have no denotation and contradictory connotations--they are words, intrinsically meaninglessness words that continually take shape in conversation.
We use these words only when appropriate, not all the time. I'm never always emergent/emerging. Instead, I can identify with an idea or practice I associate with others who self-describe them and this idea or practice within an emergent/emerging movement. Alongside my emergent/emerging leanings, I have a tendency to find myself in Presbyterian (PC-USA) and Baptist circles, although I still have a preference for some theology I have always associated with Advent Christian circles.
With all this identification, I am never placed in a box, because no one will expect me to be the (nonexistent) definition of emergent, emerging, Christian, Protestant, evangelical, Presbyterian, or even "Presbymergent."
I include you in this identification, too. Whether you accept it or not, I don't think you have an identity, as much as I might sinfully judge you to have a few (I often try to put you in a box. Sorry.). With the process of identification, us/them shatters to I/Thou, to, more simply, "We." We are a community. We have commonalities and differences. I am different from and the same as you. We are never completely opposite, because on some level I am not me and you are not you, because we are both we.
I just took some notes on a book I read this winter: An Emergent Manifesto of Hope, edited by Doug Pagitt and Tony Jones, with chapters by Brian McLaren and Samir Selmanovic.
I've read books by Brain McLaren. He talks about Christians having "a generous orthodoxy," which attempts to maintain the idea of right belief within what he calls wide margins. Really, he is just promoting one orthodoxy to replace other, previous, "narrower" orthodoxies. He doesn't skirt around the many problems orthodoxy has as an identifier and creator of oppressive us/them binaries. Although saying great things about emergent/emerging, in A Generous Orthodoxy, McLaren simply and unfortunately touts another orthodoxy.
I haven't read any books by Samir Selmanovic, but I met him and listened to a presentation he made called "Learning to Love the Other in God, Self, and Society." Whereas McLaren wants to create a Christian community that accepts more people as "us," Selmanovic seems more concerned about becoming yourself, which you can only do in community with the Other. Selmanovic acknowledges the unavoidability of us/them and instead of creating a larger "us," like McLaren, he decides to engage with as many "Thous" as he can in order to be himself. In that presentation, Selmanovic spent more time on I/Thou than us/them.
Both of these men were present at the "Transform" conference I attended in Washington, DC this past April. So was Peter Rollins of Ireland. I don't think Rollins had a version of emerging/emergent like the other two. I think Rollins could even care less about being called Christian. Instead, he wanted to lose himself in order to find himself, to give up identity for the process of identification that could one day be resurrected with Christ. (You might call Rollins a fan of deconstruction.)
All three of these men were at the same conference, in some way associating with the emergent/emerging identifier. McLaren touts that label frequently. I know little of how often Selmanovic uses it, but I know he engages with an interfaith community. Rollins is often associated with Christianity and emergent/emerging, but he apparently spends a lot of time pointing out the deconstruction in those terms.
And yet, they were all enjoying each other's community. I love that part of the emerging/emergent movement. But I resist large parts of the emergent/emerging movement that are obsessed with being emergent/emerging. I don't like oppressive binaries and I saw those binaries hailed at Transform as many had a general distaste for education, certain ways of reading the Bible, and the institutionalized churches. Yes, many based this distaste on hurt, but hurt transformed into an oppressive us/them binary is not deconstruction, but rather entering into the alterity that hurt you and pushing that hurt back on those who hurt you.
I associate with much of what emergent/emerging people are doing--experimenting with faith and trying to get closer to God based on individual communities, not finding one way for everyone to do it in different situations.
And I associate with the tendency to not associate, which is why I have been and continue to be excited about the emerging/emergent church and why I am not now nor will ever be an emergent/emerging Christian, although I hope to be involved in such a definition-defying community one day, either an existent one or one I start.
Perhaps I am part of one or more right now.
In case you missed it, I opened the last paragraph with "I have been." Those three words could imply continuance with the past or a breaking with the past, either, "I have been and still am," or, "I have been but am not longer." I am looking for a little bit of both connotations.
I am still really excited about emergent/emerging Christian communities and the conversations surrounding them. They are doing wonderful things and making some changes I enthusiastically support. Down with hierarchy, up with co-servanthood. Down with marketing and flattery, up with relationships. Down with isolation, up with intentional living communities. Down with monostructure, up with variety.
Did you notice I just said "they." It seems nearly impossible to analyze and communicate without creating us/them binaries, or, worse, I/them or I/it binaries.
I do not associate myself with any emergent/emerging Christian movement or group any more than I associate myself with any Christian denominational movement or entity. I am just as much Presbyterian as I am emergent as I am Protestant as I am Christian heretic as I am Christian apostate as I am Christian liberal or postliberal or postmodern or post-postmodern as I am Christian deconstructionist and process Christian and agnostic.
Alongside all those other words I just listed, "emergent" and "emerging" are labels promoting identity. Identities build walls. Identities build those us/them binaries. Derrida suggests working towards identification, not identity, a slight and genius play on words.
Identity is one thing; identification isn't one thing. Identity settles for conformity; identification is a dynamic, exciting, frightening, never-settling process. It doesn't involve getting rid of all our lovely identifiers like "emergent," "emerging," and "Christian." We keep those words and recognize they have no denotation and contradictory connotations--they are words, intrinsically meaninglessness words that continually take shape in conversation.
We use these words only when appropriate, not all the time. I'm never always emergent/emerging. Instead, I can identify with an idea or practice I associate with others who self-describe them and this idea or practice within an emergent/emerging movement. Alongside my emergent/emerging leanings, I have a tendency to find myself in Presbyterian (PC-USA) and Baptist circles, although I still have a preference for some theology I have always associated with Advent Christian circles.
With all this identification, I am never placed in a box, because no one will expect me to be the (nonexistent) definition of emergent, emerging, Christian, Protestant, evangelical, Presbyterian, or even "Presbymergent."
I include you in this identification, too. Whether you accept it or not, I don't think you have an identity, as much as I might sinfully judge you to have a few (I often try to put you in a box. Sorry.). With the process of identification, us/them shatters to I/Thou, to, more simply, "We." We are a community. We have commonalities and differences. I am different from and the same as you. We are never completely opposite, because on some level I am not me and you are not you, because we are both we.
I just took some notes on a book I read this winter: An Emergent Manifesto of Hope, edited by Doug Pagitt and Tony Jones, with chapters by Brian McLaren and Samir Selmanovic.
I've read books by Brain McLaren. He talks about Christians having "a generous orthodoxy," which attempts to maintain the idea of right belief within what he calls wide margins. Really, he is just promoting one orthodoxy to replace other, previous, "narrower" orthodoxies. He doesn't skirt around the many problems orthodoxy has as an identifier and creator of oppressive us/them binaries. Although saying great things about emergent/emerging, in A Generous Orthodoxy, McLaren simply and unfortunately touts another orthodoxy.
I haven't read any books by Samir Selmanovic, but I met him and listened to a presentation he made called "Learning to Love the Other in God, Self, and Society." Whereas McLaren wants to create a Christian community that accepts more people as "us," Selmanovic seems more concerned about becoming yourself, which you can only do in community with the Other. Selmanovic acknowledges the unavoidability of us/them and instead of creating a larger "us," like McLaren, he decides to engage with as many "Thous" as he can in order to be himself. In that presentation, Selmanovic spent more time on I/Thou than us/them.
Both of these men were present at the "Transform" conference I attended in Washington, DC this past April. So was Peter Rollins of Ireland. I don't think Rollins had a version of emerging/emergent like the other two. I think Rollins could even care less about being called Christian. Instead, he wanted to lose himself in order to find himself, to give up identity for the process of identification that could one day be resurrected with Christ. (You might call Rollins a fan of deconstruction.)
All three of these men were at the same conference, in some way associating with the emergent/emerging identifier. McLaren touts that label frequently. I know little of how often Selmanovic uses it, but I know he engages with an interfaith community. Rollins is often associated with Christianity and emergent/emerging, but he apparently spends a lot of time pointing out the deconstruction in those terms.
And yet, they were all enjoying each other's community. I love that part of the emerging/emergent movement. But I resist large parts of the emergent/emerging movement that are obsessed with being emergent/emerging. I don't like oppressive binaries and I saw those binaries hailed at Transform as many had a general distaste for education, certain ways of reading the Bible, and the institutionalized churches. Yes, many based this distaste on hurt, but hurt transformed into an oppressive us/them binary is not deconstruction, but rather entering into the alterity that hurt you and pushing that hurt back on those who hurt you.
I associate with much of what emergent/emerging people are doing--experimenting with faith and trying to get closer to God based on individual communities, not finding one way for everyone to do it in different situations.
And I associate with the tendency to not associate, which is why I have been and continue to be excited about the emerging/emergent church and why I am not now nor will ever be an emergent/emerging Christian, although I hope to be involved in such a definition-defying community one day, either an existent one or one I start.
Perhaps I am part of one or more right now.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
I am a Tree, Rooted in the Sea: Tattoo #3
"I am a tree, rooted in the sea."
Some day, I would like that line to be in a larger poem. For now, that line is the poem.
The line came to me and captured my attention a while ago. It started as "a tree rooted in the sea," until I realized I liked the imagery so much because I am such a tree.
Trees are holy. In Genesis 2, the trees represent gifts of God like life and knowledge. They represent memory and covenant when Abraham plants a tree at Beersheba (Gen 21:33). They are altars. In the ancient and modern worlds, they provide so many gifts, essential and luxurious--heat, shelter, food, paper, furniture, beauty, healing.
In Revelation, a river flows from God's throne when heaven and earth become one. On either side of this river grows trees whose leaves provide healing for the nations (22:2). God gives trees at the beginning in the garden and at the end in the city.
Many trees live cyclical lives, going through seasons of virility and seasons of death, but they keep reaching for the impossible, reaching skyward. They never make it and they always make it, for the sky is always just a little bit higher. Even in death, a tree either becomes a tree again by returning to that which made it grow or it reaches skyward once again through fire, turning into air and ash, entering into more trees and eventually becoming the sky. I have a tree tattooed on my arm, reminding me to reach for the impossible, grasp it, and continue reaching.
Roots are not a biblical metaphor to my knowledge, but they are an apt image for faith, family, and life in general. I have family roots, geographical roots, and spiritual roots. My roots keep me connected, but they do not keep me in one place. Jay McDaniel calls this having roots and wings--having a permanent connection to things of the past, but not being stuck in the past. I call it being rooted in the sublime, ubiquitous, interconnected, permeating sea.
That which gives me life, which moves in and out of me also moves in and out of you. Our roots may never touch, but we are one and the same. The ocean is but a liquid ruach, a fluid pneuma.
I can stand firm against the tempestuous torrents and waves, because of my roots, and I can move with currents, because my roots are not set in something solid. Rogue waves, tsunamis, hurricanes, blizzards--none of these are meant to be weathered alone. Trees standing together withstand more, each in a different spot, but all in proximity.
The deeper my roots become, the farther I can travel and I can go nearly anywhere, since waters cover most of the earth. The stronger my faith is, the more I can do with it, the more I can look back and move forward, to new places on a journey, not on a path. Paths are not worn on the sea. You can only blaze your own trail and no one can follow it exactly. The ways are infinite, the destinations endless.
The tree tattooed on my arm is fashioned after the Tree of Gondor logo featured in the movie The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. This tree grows and flowers only when its king is in the land. At the beginning of the movie, it is barren in a state of winter, because the city is ruled by a steward. The tree cannot reach its full potential until it is saved along with its people by its king.
The steward is a man who lost his way. The king has been go so long, he usurps the king's role. He is supposed to act in the stead of the king, not as the king, a fine distinction. Whereas he is supposed to care for what is the king's, he acts as if everything is his own and he cares for it like a lost man. His sons are treated like possessions, not people belonging to the king. His kingdom is nearly lost for selfishness and pride. Hope is lost and he kills himself, assuming his king can save neither him nor the kingdom. He sees no future and would destroy all that is the king's, if not for the king's return, foreshadowed in the movie by the tree reaching skyward and blossoming, tapping into its potential.
I had to get the tree tattoo this summer in West Virginia, because my internship title is "eco-steward." I was also fortunate to work with a great tattoo artist who is the stepson of another eco-steward's supervisor. Certainly I was a steward before and I will be a steward after, but this summer and this place rekindled my passion for being a steward of God's world, rooted, but not contained in the Bible. I have gone through virile and dormant states in my relation to God's world and now I am growing, connecting myself to this world in order to connect myself to God.
I am switching again to a vegetarian diet (except for local, responsibly fed and treated animals and locally hunted/fished meats), I am purchasing fairly traded products, I am supporting more local foods, and buying products that produce less waste (for example, cereal in a bag, not a box and a bag, or oatmeal in a recyclable, cardboard cylinder). I have already grown past the beauty of my previous relationship with God and the earth. And the love triangle is already benefitting me, too, as I am losing fat, gaining muscle, saving money, and having a great time doing it.
One side of the tree on my arm has leaves, although it is not clear whether the leaves are falling or growing. The other side is under the stars, perhaps reaching for those stars, tapping into its potential in early spring, or in a dormant state of winter. The tree resists classification of which side is spring, which is fall, which is taken care of by a good steward, which is blessed by God, a conflation aided by a lack of color. The image is cyclical, a fortuitous deconstructive that I did not plan, but rather discovered.
The tattoo is a black outline with dark waves, ominously sublime and representative of the greater sea. Under the waves are visible roots, reaching down as much as the branches reach up. My new tattoo is but a portrait of myself, for I am a tree, rooted in the sea.
Friday, May 28, 2010
It's Just the Beginning
Before I get too far into my sermon, I thought you might want to know who is talking with you, which is easier said than done. I am giving you a first impression of sorts. Sure, some of you have already met me and, now that I am standing up here, all of you have either seen my face or heard my voice--or both. Now I have the opportunity to say what I want you to think about me.
I could introduce myself like I did during the Eco-Stewards program with a "credo," a few short statements of belief:
Or I suppose I could give you my geographic history: I was born and raised on the coast of Maine in a little town called Friendship. From there I moved to West Palm Beach, Florida for college. After receiving my bachelor's degree, I matriculated at Gardner-Webb University in Boiling Springs, NC, which is about one hour west of Charlotte. Given this geography, I think the mountains are beautiful and the ocean is sublime.
But what do you know about me from these introductions? You don't know I have a heart for the economically oppressed. You don't know if I am Presbyterian or not. You don't know why I am not wearing a tie or why my ears pierced. You don't know that I have spent over a year working on my thesis for my MA in English or that my thesis examines deconstruction in the orthodoxy/heresy binaries in the theological arguments surrounding the council of Nicaea and Willaim Paul Young's The Shack. You don't know if I've read the whole Bible and, if I have, how many times I've read it. In fact, you don't know me at all.
So how do I introduce myself? There is so much about myself I want you to know and, conversely, so much I don't want you to know. No matter what I say, you won't get an adequate picture of what I want you to know and whatever I want you to know is itself an inaccurate picture of me. If I introduce myself, you get only a persona, which is a word that literally refers to a mask or character played by an actor.
Sometimes the best way to get past the masks is to hear stories. Statements about someone cannot really sum up their being. I can tell you I believe love and life are fun, but until you see me enjoying life, that statement carries little to no meaning. And if I tell you a story about when my favorite seminary professor died suddenly at the age of 40 last year, then you might not believe I think love and life are all that fun.
No matter how well thought out a statement might be, it cannot accurately reflect the reality of who I am. The only way you can know me or anyone else is to get to know them through experience and story.
The gospels are a good example of this theory about story and identity. Whereas people like Paul makes statements about Jesus, the gospel writers want to tell about Jesus in carefully crafted and arranged stories. I can barely read Mark's gospel without thinking about the interactions between identity and story.
In Mark and the other Gospels, Jesus is often known by who is father is. But unlike Matthew and Luke, Mark does not start with a genealogy or a birth narrative, which would bring Jesus' identity into question in first-century Israelite culture, where your identity is closely to your ancestry. Instead of a genealogy or birth narrative, the gospel begins: "The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God."
To begin with, Jesus is introduced in a statement, but one that needs more information. What does "the good news of Jesus" mean? Why is Jesus the Christ? What kind of Christ is he? What significance is there in Jesus being the son of God? Other parts of the Bible call lots of people the children of God, why would it be special for Jesus to be the son of God? Mark apparently places a lot of significance on this son-of-God title. Before the first chapter is over, he tells the story of Jesus' baptism where a voice from heaven says in what I can only imagine sounding like Charleton Heston, John Earl Jones, or Morgan Freeman: "You are my beloved son, in you I am well-pleased."
What really confuses me though, is that Jesus constantly refers to himself as something quite contrary; Jesus is always talking about the son of man. What is the big deal in being the son of man? Who isn't the child of a man and the child of a woman? And why does Jesus refer to himself as the son of man while Mark and some unclean spirits call Jesus the son of God?
And so we have stories about Jesus to give us a little more into the persona of Jesus presented in Mark. These stories mix Jesus' dual sonship to God and humanity. Amidst this confusion of sonship and all these stories, the disciples don't completely know what is going on either. Peter understands Jesus is the Christ, but he doesn't understand what Christ means. He misunderstands so much that Jesus calls him Satan. In response to Peter's misunderstanding, Jesus tells a crowd to deny themselves and lose their lives. Jesus asks them to give up their identities and personae.
Jesus embodies this command. It is a command to be like Jesus who "emptied himself" and allowed his identity as Christ to be crucified--not what anyone expected a messiah to be. It was only in offering his identity to God that Jesus created his own identity (cf. Philippians 2:5-11). The reality of Jesus Christ subverted the definition of messiah. And Jesus didn't simply go against the norm when he crucified his identity, he experienced the pain of giving up his selfhood. In the garden of Gethsemane he prayed for things to change. On the cross he cried out, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me? Jesus gave up his identity on the cross and felt alone, forsaken by God and humanity. He felt like the son of no one, let alone God.
By now the pain has seared into his innermost being. He can barely make coherent thoughts. All he wonders is where God is in the midst of his suffering. Although he cried aloud, he couldn't speak well from the pain and the dryness of his mouth. Some of the people near by thought he said "Elijah," not "Eloi." "How gravely humorous," these people must have thought. They thought Jesus was a nutcase, especially when he called out for a prophet who had been dead for centuries. Wanting to prolong this sick humor of theirs, they decided to satisfy Jesus' thirst. If they wet his throat a little, then he could cry out to Elijah and they might understand him better. So they soaked a sponge in sour wine, which is all the better for ridicule. He would want the liquid, but the sourness would just make things worse.
After, Jesus just yelled. "AH!" The cry might have been a knee-jerk reaction to the sour wine. It might have included a tinge of anger or annoyance at the people. A touch of desperation and tiredness was likely mixed in to that last note. I imagine Jesus was ready to just be done and die.
And Jesus' physical suffering ended. After that cry, his identity was completely a thing of the past, for he was dead. He was no longer the son of anyone except the grave. So much for a long awaited messiah. That hope could be put to rest with Jesus' body.
According to Mark's telling of the story, a curtain in the temple was torn from top to bottom about this time. There were a number of curtains in the temple and Mark doesn't exactly specify which one is rent in two--torn like Jesus' flesh, torn even like the distinction between being a son of God and a son of humanity. After Jesus dies, a centurion makes a confession much like Peter's: "Truly this man was the son of God."
In this confession, it turns out to be a child of humanity is to be a child of God. The centurion says Jesus was the son of God, but he was also a man, which means he must be a son of humanity. And Jesus goes on to do something no human does who is not embracing his or her humanity and godliness: he is raised from the dead.
After he is raised, two women go to anoint the body, but instead of Jesus, they find a man who asks them to spread the word of resurrection. But the women are surprised and afraid. Mark says they don't tell anyone, because of their fright and astonishment (16:8).
And the gospel ends with their silence. Sure, your Bible probably has 10 or more verses after, but you will probably also notice a note saying everything after 16:8 is not in the oldest copies of Mark's gospel, which isn't to say the added endings aren't proper for teaching or inclusion in the Bible. But, it can be healthy to look at the book without the added parts.
Listen to the ending: "They went out and fled from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had gripped them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid." It isn't much of an ending at all, and it is nothing like the other gospels' endings. It is quite likely the additions were added to tidy up this gospel a bit and give it a "proper" ending.
But I don't think it is supposed to have a neat ending. It isn't supposed to end at all. According to the first verse, the whole book is only the beginning of the good news about Jesus. Verse 1 isn't an introduction to the book, it is a summary of the book, which is why the book doesn't end. We read the last part of the book and we know eventually the women say something, contrary to the gospel's pseudo-ending. If they never said anything, that part of the story couldn't have been in the book, thus the women's continuing story is invited to be part of Jesus' continuing good news.
And so we are invited to become part of Jesus' continuing good news as we are to be Jesus' body here on earth.
We are to give up our identity, to crucify it with Jesus in all the pain and suffering he incurs. And we are to be resurrected without any identity other than our continual attempts to try and be Godly. We are to be children of God while we are children of men and women. The veil between us and Christ, between us and God is to be torn so that people can remember us and say, "Truly, those people are children of God."
I wish I could give you more specifics of what it looks like to crucify your identity and be a child of God and a child of humanity--to be Jesus on this earth, to continue in word and deed the good news he was spreading. If I tried, I would only be giving abstract statements like Micah 6:8: "do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God." Certainly we should do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God, but we need stories and experiences to know what that statement means. The gospel of Jesus is just beginning to explicate that statement in narrative. Church, what will we do to continue it, to give life to abstract statements like the one from Micah? What will we say and do in place of the silence of Mark's non-ending story?
Whether we like it or not, we are continuing the story Mark started. Sometimes we follow characterizations we learned from Mark's stories about Jesus. Sometimes our stories give a new glimpse of Jesus through the innovative movements of the Spirit and other times we miss the mark a little, basking instead in the forgiveness and mercy of God.
Since I cannot give you specifics, consider a story from my life, which will serve as a continuing the introduction I began:
This winter I worked at a homeless shelter for men in North Carolina. I worked Christmas Eve through much of Christmas day at the shelter. On Christmas morning I gave the normal 6-am wake-up call, because some of the men rely on that wake-up call like an alarm clock. I didn't ask them to get out of like I would on a normal day, though. I just let them know it was 6 am, in case anyone needed to be anywhere.
Around half of the guys got out of bed, two of whom came by the office where I was and asked to have a moment of my time. The men would come talk to me often, but they seldom prefaced it by asking for some of my time. I figured something was awry and I started to tense up, wondering if someone was hurt, if something had been stolen, or if these guys were going to rat someone out for having drugs or alcohol. And all this, on Christmas morning.
One of them asked me: "How did you get conned into working from 7 pm Christmas Eve through 2 pm Christmas day?" As the tension left my body, I couldn't help but smile, even though that question was enough to make me cry. These two men thought someone would have to be conned into spending that much time with them during the holidays. I don't remember exactly what I told them, probably something crass about how I didn't have anywhere else to be, since all of my family was in Maine. Or maybe I told them there was nowhere I would rather be, which was the truth.
The shelter provided Christmas gifts for everyone and I had the honor of passing out the gifts. A few weeks prior, each man filled out a piece of paper requesting two gifts of $15 or less. A few of the men complained, because they didn't get what they wanted, while others were very grateful, thanking me over and over, even though I had nothing to do with the purchasing or wrapping--I just handed things out. One of the guys told me he shed a few tears of joy, being overwhelmed by the gifts. He said he didn't expect to get so much. He got the same thing every other man got--a garbage bag with two or three large-ish gifts and then miscellaneous items like socks, gloves, and whatnot. I doubt the contents of the bag were worth more than $50, if that.
Around 8 o'clock that morning, a church group came by to serve a breakfast feast. They had biscuits and gravy, an egg casserole, coffee, and juice--all of it was hot, too, except the juice, of course. They brought in a radio to play music and they handed out small gift bags with lotion, chapstick, and a few other hygiene items. I told one of the ladies they did a great thing. Not only did they bring the breakfast, but they also visited with the men. Not only did the men get normal hygiene items like soap and deodorant, but also special items like lotion and chapstick, those not-so-necessary items so many of us take for granted.
None of the gifts or fellowship had strings attached. Usually we give gifts on Christmas to those who also give gifts to us, which is especially true with Christmas cards. If we don't receive a card from someone to whom we sent one, they come off of next year's Christmas card list. That church group that came into the shelter Christmas morning expected nothing in return from the men. A gift that expects a gift in return is not a gift, it is more like a payment or an exchange of goods. That church group gave to those who could not give back to them--they truly gave gifts, asking for nothing in return and with no ulterior motive. They just gave.
They didn't announce to the men they were from such-and-such a church. They didn't say they were giving because they felt guilty if they didn't. They didn't say they were serving because Jesus told them to. They forwent their identity in order to give themselves fully to the moment of service, justice, and love. The saddest thing about that Christmas morning was knowing how little attention the men would get when the holidays were over.
That story is just one of the many stories of the gospel today, one I am so glad I got to witness. If you listen hard enough, Xhurch, I'm sure you'll hear the gospel all over the place, perhaps in places you never thought you would. In Matthew and Luke, Jesus tells the story of the good Samaritan, emphasizing how the gospel will be found in unexpected places. Even Jesus was surprised where he found the gospel once when he found it in a centurion who asked for Jesus to heal his slave from afar.
Listen for it. Live it. Let us leave those around us with an impression of who we are and an impression of who God is, and let us give that impression in narratives, not propositions.
As for who I am, I hope this sermon was good introduction. There is still a lot you don't know about who I am and who I am becoming. If you're curious, I guess you'll have to ask questions and observe, looking and listening for stories.
It's just the beginning.
I could introduce myself like I did during the Eco-Stewards program with a "credo," a few short statements of belief:
I believe that humans are a diverse community that can end all forms of oppression by the art, grace, and love of God.
I believe everyone is beautiful and carries the image of God in them.
I believe love and life are fun, which are best expressed in puns.
Or I suppose I could give you my geographic history: I was born and raised on the coast of Maine in a little town called Friendship. From there I moved to West Palm Beach, Florida for college. After receiving my bachelor's degree, I matriculated at Gardner-Webb University in Boiling Springs, NC, which is about one hour west of Charlotte. Given this geography, I think the mountains are beautiful and the ocean is sublime.
But what do you know about me from these introductions? You don't know I have a heart for the economically oppressed. You don't know if I am Presbyterian or not. You don't know why I am not wearing a tie or why my ears pierced. You don't know that I have spent over a year working on my thesis for my MA in English or that my thesis examines deconstruction in the orthodoxy/heresy binaries in the theological arguments surrounding the council of Nicaea and Willaim Paul Young's The Shack. You don't know if I've read the whole Bible and, if I have, how many times I've read it. In fact, you don't know me at all.
So how do I introduce myself? There is so much about myself I want you to know and, conversely, so much I don't want you to know. No matter what I say, you won't get an adequate picture of what I want you to know and whatever I want you to know is itself an inaccurate picture of me. If I introduce myself, you get only a persona, which is a word that literally refers to a mask or character played by an actor.
Sometimes the best way to get past the masks is to hear stories. Statements about someone cannot really sum up their being. I can tell you I believe love and life are fun, but until you see me enjoying life, that statement carries little to no meaning. And if I tell you a story about when my favorite seminary professor died suddenly at the age of 40 last year, then you might not believe I think love and life are all that fun.
No matter how well thought out a statement might be, it cannot accurately reflect the reality of who I am. The only way you can know me or anyone else is to get to know them through experience and story.
The gospels are a good example of this theory about story and identity. Whereas people like Paul makes statements about Jesus, the gospel writers want to tell about Jesus in carefully crafted and arranged stories. I can barely read Mark's gospel without thinking about the interactions between identity and story.
In Mark and the other Gospels, Jesus is often known by who is father is. But unlike Matthew and Luke, Mark does not start with a genealogy or a birth narrative, which would bring Jesus' identity into question in first-century Israelite culture, where your identity is closely to your ancestry. Instead of a genealogy or birth narrative, the gospel begins: "The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God."
To begin with, Jesus is introduced in a statement, but one that needs more information. What does "the good news of Jesus" mean? Why is Jesus the Christ? What kind of Christ is he? What significance is there in Jesus being the son of God? Other parts of the Bible call lots of people the children of God, why would it be special for Jesus to be the son of God? Mark apparently places a lot of significance on this son-of-God title. Before the first chapter is over, he tells the story of Jesus' baptism where a voice from heaven says in what I can only imagine sounding like Charleton Heston, John Earl Jones, or Morgan Freeman: "You are my beloved son, in you I am well-pleased."
What really confuses me though, is that Jesus constantly refers to himself as something quite contrary; Jesus is always talking about the son of man. What is the big deal in being the son of man? Who isn't the child of a man and the child of a woman? And why does Jesus refer to himself as the son of man while Mark and some unclean spirits call Jesus the son of God?
And so we have stories about Jesus to give us a little more into the persona of Jesus presented in Mark. These stories mix Jesus' dual sonship to God and humanity. Amidst this confusion of sonship and all these stories, the disciples don't completely know what is going on either. Peter understands Jesus is the Christ, but he doesn't understand what Christ means. He misunderstands so much that Jesus calls him Satan. In response to Peter's misunderstanding, Jesus tells a crowd to deny themselves and lose their lives. Jesus asks them to give up their identities and personae.
Jesus embodies this command. It is a command to be like Jesus who "emptied himself" and allowed his identity as Christ to be crucified--not what anyone expected a messiah to be. It was only in offering his identity to God that Jesus created his own identity (cf. Philippians 2:5-11). The reality of Jesus Christ subverted the definition of messiah. And Jesus didn't simply go against the norm when he crucified his identity, he experienced the pain of giving up his selfhood. In the garden of Gethsemane he prayed for things to change. On the cross he cried out, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me? Jesus gave up his identity on the cross and felt alone, forsaken by God and humanity. He felt like the son of no one, let alone God.
By now the pain has seared into his innermost being. He can barely make coherent thoughts. All he wonders is where God is in the midst of his suffering. Although he cried aloud, he couldn't speak well from the pain and the dryness of his mouth. Some of the people near by thought he said "Elijah," not "Eloi." "How gravely humorous," these people must have thought. They thought Jesus was a nutcase, especially when he called out for a prophet who had been dead for centuries. Wanting to prolong this sick humor of theirs, they decided to satisfy Jesus' thirst. If they wet his throat a little, then he could cry out to Elijah and they might understand him better. So they soaked a sponge in sour wine, which is all the better for ridicule. He would want the liquid, but the sourness would just make things worse.
After, Jesus just yelled. "AH!" The cry might have been a knee-jerk reaction to the sour wine. It might have included a tinge of anger or annoyance at the people. A touch of desperation and tiredness was likely mixed in to that last note. I imagine Jesus was ready to just be done and die.
And Jesus' physical suffering ended. After that cry, his identity was completely a thing of the past, for he was dead. He was no longer the son of anyone except the grave. So much for a long awaited messiah. That hope could be put to rest with Jesus' body.
According to Mark's telling of the story, a curtain in the temple was torn from top to bottom about this time. There were a number of curtains in the temple and Mark doesn't exactly specify which one is rent in two--torn like Jesus' flesh, torn even like the distinction between being a son of God and a son of humanity. After Jesus dies, a centurion makes a confession much like Peter's: "Truly this man was the son of God."
In this confession, it turns out to be a child of humanity is to be a child of God. The centurion says Jesus was the son of God, but he was also a man, which means he must be a son of humanity. And Jesus goes on to do something no human does who is not embracing his or her humanity and godliness: he is raised from the dead.
After he is raised, two women go to anoint the body, but instead of Jesus, they find a man who asks them to spread the word of resurrection. But the women are surprised and afraid. Mark says they don't tell anyone, because of their fright and astonishment (16:8).
And the gospel ends with their silence. Sure, your Bible probably has 10 or more verses after, but you will probably also notice a note saying everything after 16:8 is not in the oldest copies of Mark's gospel, which isn't to say the added endings aren't proper for teaching or inclusion in the Bible. But, it can be healthy to look at the book without the added parts.
Listen to the ending: "They went out and fled from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had gripped them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid." It isn't much of an ending at all, and it is nothing like the other gospels' endings. It is quite likely the additions were added to tidy up this gospel a bit and give it a "proper" ending.
But I don't think it is supposed to have a neat ending. It isn't supposed to end at all. According to the first verse, the whole book is only the beginning of the good news about Jesus. Verse 1 isn't an introduction to the book, it is a summary of the book, which is why the book doesn't end. We read the last part of the book and we know eventually the women say something, contrary to the gospel's pseudo-ending. If they never said anything, that part of the story couldn't have been in the book, thus the women's continuing story is invited to be part of Jesus' continuing good news.
And so we are invited to become part of Jesus' continuing good news as we are to be Jesus' body here on earth.
We are to give up our identity, to crucify it with Jesus in all the pain and suffering he incurs. And we are to be resurrected without any identity other than our continual attempts to try and be Godly. We are to be children of God while we are children of men and women. The veil between us and Christ, between us and God is to be torn so that people can remember us and say, "Truly, those people are children of God."
I wish I could give you more specifics of what it looks like to crucify your identity and be a child of God and a child of humanity--to be Jesus on this earth, to continue in word and deed the good news he was spreading. If I tried, I would only be giving abstract statements like Micah 6:8: "do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God." Certainly we should do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God, but we need stories and experiences to know what that statement means. The gospel of Jesus is just beginning to explicate that statement in narrative. Church, what will we do to continue it, to give life to abstract statements like the one from Micah? What will we say and do in place of the silence of Mark's non-ending story?
Whether we like it or not, we are continuing the story Mark started. Sometimes we follow characterizations we learned from Mark's stories about Jesus. Sometimes our stories give a new glimpse of Jesus through the innovative movements of the Spirit and other times we miss the mark a little, basking instead in the forgiveness and mercy of God.
Since I cannot give you specifics, consider a story from my life, which will serve as a continuing the introduction I began:
This winter I worked at a homeless shelter for men in North Carolina. I worked Christmas Eve through much of Christmas day at the shelter. On Christmas morning I gave the normal 6-am wake-up call, because some of the men rely on that wake-up call like an alarm clock. I didn't ask them to get out of like I would on a normal day, though. I just let them know it was 6 am, in case anyone needed to be anywhere.
Around half of the guys got out of bed, two of whom came by the office where I was and asked to have a moment of my time. The men would come talk to me often, but they seldom prefaced it by asking for some of my time. I figured something was awry and I started to tense up, wondering if someone was hurt, if something had been stolen, or if these guys were going to rat someone out for having drugs or alcohol. And all this, on Christmas morning.
One of them asked me: "How did you get conned into working from 7 pm Christmas Eve through 2 pm Christmas day?" As the tension left my body, I couldn't help but smile, even though that question was enough to make me cry. These two men thought someone would have to be conned into spending that much time with them during the holidays. I don't remember exactly what I told them, probably something crass about how I didn't have anywhere else to be, since all of my family was in Maine. Or maybe I told them there was nowhere I would rather be, which was the truth.
The shelter provided Christmas gifts for everyone and I had the honor of passing out the gifts. A few weeks prior, each man filled out a piece of paper requesting two gifts of $15 or less. A few of the men complained, because they didn't get what they wanted, while others were very grateful, thanking me over and over, even though I had nothing to do with the purchasing or wrapping--I just handed things out. One of the guys told me he shed a few tears of joy, being overwhelmed by the gifts. He said he didn't expect to get so much. He got the same thing every other man got--a garbage bag with two or three large-ish gifts and then miscellaneous items like socks, gloves, and whatnot. I doubt the contents of the bag were worth more than $50, if that.
Around 8 o'clock that morning, a church group came by to serve a breakfast feast. They had biscuits and gravy, an egg casserole, coffee, and juice--all of it was hot, too, except the juice, of course. They brought in a radio to play music and they handed out small gift bags with lotion, chapstick, and a few other hygiene items. I told one of the ladies they did a great thing. Not only did they bring the breakfast, but they also visited with the men. Not only did the men get normal hygiene items like soap and deodorant, but also special items like lotion and chapstick, those not-so-necessary items so many of us take for granted.
None of the gifts or fellowship had strings attached. Usually we give gifts on Christmas to those who also give gifts to us, which is especially true with Christmas cards. If we don't receive a card from someone to whom we sent one, they come off of next year's Christmas card list. That church group that came into the shelter Christmas morning expected nothing in return from the men. A gift that expects a gift in return is not a gift, it is more like a payment or an exchange of goods. That church group gave to those who could not give back to them--they truly gave gifts, asking for nothing in return and with no ulterior motive. They just gave.
They didn't announce to the men they were from such-and-such a church. They didn't say they were giving because they felt guilty if they didn't. They didn't say they were serving because Jesus told them to. They forwent their identity in order to give themselves fully to the moment of service, justice, and love. The saddest thing about that Christmas morning was knowing how little attention the men would get when the holidays were over.
That story is just one of the many stories of the gospel today, one I am so glad I got to witness. If you listen hard enough, Xhurch, I'm sure you'll hear the gospel all over the place, perhaps in places you never thought you would. In Matthew and Luke, Jesus tells the story of the good Samaritan, emphasizing how the gospel will be found in unexpected places. Even Jesus was surprised where he found the gospel once when he found it in a centurion who asked for Jesus to heal his slave from afar.
Listen for it. Live it. Let us leave those around us with an impression of who we are and an impression of who God is, and let us give that impression in narratives, not propositions.
As for who I am, I hope this sermon was good introduction. There is still a lot you don't know about who I am and who I am becoming. If you're curious, I guess you'll have to ask questions and observe, looking and listening for stories.
It's just the beginning.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
A Hypothetical Thanks to the CSO Scholarships
Tonight I was asked to speak at the next CSO banquet. I wasn't really told the nature of what I was supposed to say, probably something about how thankful I am for the scholarship donors. You know, something to make them want to continue giving money and, even better, to give more money. I declined the invitation, because I will be out of town to attend a conference.
At first, I joyfully declined, because I tend to avoid those banquets like the plague. If someone is doing something good with their money, why do we have to spend even more money on some fancy-schmancy banquet? It seems counterintuitive to me, to be extravagant with money in celebration of those who are giving their money, to encourage luxury instead of frugality for the kingdom's sake, for peoples' sake, and for God's sake. After reflecting on the CSO, I regretted my inability to speak. I day dreamed about what I might say if I could speak about anything in front of the CSO ...
Thanks Pedro, for seeking me out for this opportunity. I am so excited to thank the donors here for their support. Sure, most of you do not know who I am. In fact, I am going to venture none of you know who I am. Maybe you know my name from the program, but until a few seconds ago, you couldn't even match the name with the face. Some of you might not want to match my face with my name in the program, since I have a piece of metal sticking in my eyebrow and a few pieces of wood in my ear. You have really taken a step of faith in donating to the CSO, putting faith that your financial generosity will help people do God's work, even if you do not agree with everything that goes on.
Nobody will ever agree with everything, but you believe in the idea of a "Christian Service Organization." You believe your money is going to something organized, not just a group of people who handle your money willy-nilly. You believe this organization promotes Christian service, or Christians and service, or Christians who serve, or Christians being served. Really, language is a bit ambiguous and I, for one, am not sure what this organization is all about, except that it is one of the financial reasons I am getting a seminary education.
To what does "Christian" apply in CSO? It isn't the service, because I am not really required to serve any one. I suppose the organization expects me to "serve" at a church. And the church will have church services. And church services serve Christians. But I don't think the CSO gives money to Christians who will, in turn, serve the Christians who gave the money in the first place. If so, the CSO wouldn't be terribly Christian and the donors wouldn't require much faith, at least, no more faith than it takes to go to a restaurant and pay your server to serve you food.
I don't think the "Christian" applies to the donors, either. I suppose most of you are Christians. Perhaps all of you are. But, the CSO likely has no application process to judge the Christianity of anyone with open wallet. What organization does?
"Christian" cannot modify the organization, either. The word "Christian" doesn't make a good adjective for non-humans. Only humans can make the choice to follow Christ.
So, I suppose the word "Christian" must refer to the recipients, the recipients who have some hazy connection to a service organization. The Christians are served by the organization and the donors, thankfully receiving funds to help them achieve an education, something for which everyone should have access. How sad it is to know that education is only available to those who can find ways to afford it. I am especially saddened to know how much biblical and theological education costs. We as Christians have cut off access to so many parts of the Bible by asking for so much money for classes and books. It is disgusting, really. Instead of turning God's house into a den of robbers, we have taken a book of God's words and turned them into a source for profits.
The "S" of CSO must refer to serving the cleansing of God's words like Jesus cleansed the temple. I truly think the CSO is a great start to making education, especially biblical and theological education available to so many. But the CSO has a ways to go. Sure, it is doing a great thing, but the organization also seems to support luxury. Think about the food you ate, the table cloths, the dress code. Just because a students receives CSO money does not mean they can afford nice clothes. Just because a student receives CSO money does not mean they won't think about the people around the world who could benefit from just one half of what I ate here tonight.
Look at me. I'm about as privileged as it gets as a white male. I wouldn't be at Gardner-Webb without the CSO and other generous donors. But as the CSO reminds us, this organization is about Christians and service. I am very thankful to all of you donors, but I hope we can all give a little more thought to the CSO, what it means, what it could mean, and, most importantly, what it can become in our lives as we not only are affiliated with the CSO, but also with a CS-movement.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
A Brief Reflection on Justice & Deconstruction
To summarize what I've read about Derrida, deconstruction, and justice, just because I'm thinking about it right now (and this began for you, but is turning out to be more for me): Justice does not deconstruct. Jusitce is not law. Law should reach for justice, but being a thing written or spoken, it deconstructs. Justice is not giving someone what they deserve--those who have it coming--but rather giving to those who do not have (it coming, or do not have justice, or simply lack). And since it is a giving, justice becomes practicing or offering a/the gift. Some gifts--not true gifts--presume an economy. I give you a gift and I know you will eventually want to give me a gift in return, making the gift not so much a gift, but an exchange (even though we call them gifts in our culture). The true gift is one in which you cannot presume this economy. You give to those who do not have (it coming, or do not have justice, or simply lack). When you give a gift to them, you cannot receive in return because they do not have anything to exchange.
And that is justice--giving true gifts.
Because once someone is given a gift, they no longer lack what was given, justice changes. New gifts are given. And this is why laws deconstruct and lack justice, because they assume a singulairty, one "gift" given over and over again to the same person, like buying 25 of the same turtlenecks and giving one each year to the same person, beginning when the person is 17. The person moves to a warmer climate, styles change, and so does the person's body. Even if these things did not change, the turtleneck is not warn after a year and a re-gifting of the same gift is superfluous.
Justice, in another sense, is deconstruction, an opening up to future possibilities. It is, at least, tantamount to or in the same family as deconstruction.
I like this understanding, because it gives a different understanding to blind lady justice and her scales. If lady justice is blind, it is because she does not judge the person to whom she gives, but gives to all who need. And her scales weigh what one does not have, so she can give.
And that is justice--giving true gifts.
Because once someone is given a gift, they no longer lack what was given, justice changes. New gifts are given. And this is why laws deconstruct and lack justice, because they assume a singulairty, one "gift" given over and over again to the same person, like buying 25 of the same turtlenecks and giving one each year to the same person, beginning when the person is 17. The person moves to a warmer climate, styles change, and so does the person's body. Even if these things did not change, the turtleneck is not warn after a year and a re-gifting of the same gift is superfluous.
Justice, in another sense, is deconstruction, an opening up to future possibilities. It is, at least, tantamount to or in the same family as deconstruction.
I like this understanding, because it gives a different understanding to blind lady justice and her scales. If lady justice is blind, it is because she does not judge the person to whom she gives, but gives to all who need. And her scales weigh what one does not have, so she can give.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
It's a Mystery to Me
I've heard people condemn some theologies as vanity, because the theologies claim to know too much about God. Further pressed, these accusers might simply say they disagree with those theologies, but if unquestioned, they sometimes say God is meant to be mysterious. They don't want to study too much, because their God is a god of mystery--it is what allures them to worship.
I cannot fall into that camp. If God is infinitely complex, then mystery will always be part of the game. The more I think I understand God, the more I do not understand God. "Finiteness does not limit infinity; on the contrary, finiteness should give it its expansion and its truth" [1]. As we find out more about what is finite, we understand more and more how large infinity is--although it still lingers hazily beyond us.
The more of God we uncover, the more we find covered up.
If you want mystery, friends, then study God.
===
[1] Jean-Luc Nancy. Dis-Enclosure: The Deconstruction of Christianity. Trans. Bettina Bergo, Gabriel Malenfant, and Michael B. Smith. New York: Fordham UP, 2008.
I cannot fall into that camp. If God is infinitely complex, then mystery will always be part of the game. The more I think I understand God, the more I do not understand God. "Finiteness does not limit infinity; on the contrary, finiteness should give it its expansion and its truth" [1]. As we find out more about what is finite, we understand more and more how large infinity is--although it still lingers hazily beyond us.
The more of God we uncover, the more we find covered up.
If you want mystery, friends, then study God.
===
[1] Jean-Luc Nancy. Dis-Enclosure: The Deconstruction of Christianity. Trans. Bettina Bergo, Gabriel Malenfant, and Michael B. Smith. New York: Fordham UP, 2008.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Floundering on the Firm Foundation: Exploring the Relations of Faith, Certainty, and Doubt
On the radio the other day, I heard a commercial for a church. It was talking about bringing Christianity into the 21st century. It asked the listener to take a "leap of doubt" and come to their church, a church that prizes questions over answers.
In church the other day, someone said something to the following effect: "Doubt isn't the opposite of faith, certainty is." I don't remember them saying it, but a friend did and he asked me what I thought about it. I told him I couldn't agree right away, but neither I could disagree immediately. I told him a few of us should all write about the idea, since it is intriguing enough. Here are my thoughts on that writing prompt.
===
I think neither certainty nor doubt are the opposite of faith, but still recognize the faith/certainty and faith/doubt binaries. Binaries do not mean opposite, but rather difference and privilege.
Faith, certainty, and doubt are all similar, otherwise the binary would be foolish, along the lines of faith/cat. And as I often maintain, most binaries deconstruct. As of now, I believe deconstruction says the members of a binary have hazy distinctions at best. To better explain this relationship, think of the mountains, the foothills, and a flatland (I'm borrowing this example from someone else). Where do the mountains end and the piedmont begin? Mountainous areas are different than the piedmont, and the flat areas, but you can't draw a boundary because the distinctions are amorphous and overlapping. There are areas that could be the mountains and/or the piedmont, the piedmont and/or the flatlands.
The same occurs with faith/certainty and faith/doubt. Faith is not certainty and not doubt, most of the time. Sometimes the boundaries are amorphous and overlapping. Consider the biblical texts.
Peter walked on water, but "when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened and beg[an] to sink" (Matt. 14:30). After Jesus saves him from sinking, he asks Peter: "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" (Matt. 14:31). In this instance we can see some nuance between faith and doubt in regards to confidence, certainty, and belief. Peter lacked certainty concerning his ability to walk on the water or God's ability to keep him on the water. Or, perhaps he was more confident in the power of the wind than the power of his faith or the faith of Jesus. He doubted. Peter did not lack faith, though. I think it takes a large amount of faith and certainty to try to walk on water, let alone during a wind storm on the Sea of Galilee. Amidst his faith and certainty, a sinking doubt existed.
Another time Jesus scoffs at a man in Mark who asked Jesus to do something if he was able to. "If you are able?" responded Jesus, "All things can be done for the one who believes" (Mk. 9:22-23). The man, "immediately ... called out, 'I believe; help my unbelief!'" (Mk. 9:24). This passage is probably the poster child for doubt as a virtue. However, Jesus leaves the man's statement without judgment. We might assume Jesus approved, since he completed the requested exorcism. But how do we know the belief or unbelief of that man had anything to do with the exorcism? Was Jesus talking about his belief or the belief of the man? Sometimes Jesus' miracles seemed to be based on the faith of the receiver, whereas other times it was solely Jesus' faith. The end of this story helps little. The disciples wonder why they couldn't exorcise the demon and Jesus tells them some can only come out by prayer, which we didn't see Jesus do for the exorcism. Jesus starts out preferring the certainty side of faith, but in the end, this story again speaks to faith as different from certainty and doubt.
A number of stories in the gospels speak of faith without doubt, a faith that can wither a fig tree or move a mountain. These verses--not to mention the infamous opening lines of James--seem to evoke an affinity between faith and certainty as much as they explicitly condemn doubt and the doubter, "who is like a wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind" (Jas. 1:6). But why should we assume faith should always be without doubt? Many traditions have latched onto these passages as the dominant understanding of faith, painting pictures of faith as certainty, or, at least, nothing like doubt, which misses the beauty of the nuances between these ideas.
Then why did Jesus struggle in prayer in the garden? Why did Jesus ask for the cup to pass? It certainly seems like Jesus had a great faith that his death and resurrection were God's plan before he prayed in the garden. If faith is certainty, then Jesus was foolish to pray the prayers of Matthew 26:39 and 42. If Jesus had a faith of certainty that the best thing was crucifixion, then his prayer was not heartfelt or meaningful, and "words without thoughts, never to heaven go" (Hamlet). Perhaps in his humanity Jesus doubted his understanding of the divine plan, but I doubt you can separate Jesus' humanity and divinity in such a way. Did Jesus doubt God had planned on the best possible situation? Our text does not say, "Jesus' doubted," but it reflects the doubt of our savior.
Outside of Jesus, Abraham is the quintessential knight of faith. If you're going to bind your son and sacrifice him on an altar, you better be certain. Yet like Jesus, Abraham had some doubts about some of God's plan. "Will you indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked" asked Abraham, "suppose there are fifty righteous within the city; will you indeeed sweep it away and not spare the place for the sake of the fifty righteous who are in it? Far be it from you to do such a thing, to slay the righteous with the wicked ... far be it from you! Shall not the judge of all the earth deal justly?" (Gen. 18:23-25). Here, Abraham either doubted God or Abraham's understanding of God. Both kinds of doubts are the ones we think of in regards to the faith/doubt binary, either we doubt something about God or we doubt a personal revelation from God. We doubt whether we can discern it right. We doubt if it was really what God said. Like Abraham. Like Moses.
The other day in class, one of my colleagues expressed his fear of being one of the goats of Matthew 25. Dr. Berry started to talk about the anxiety of this sort of doubt and he said, "I'd rather be nervous than have no nerves at all." The reality of sin in our lives should always conjure up a healthy dose of doubt in our faith. As long as I am a saint that sins--as long as "I am not practicing what I would like to do, but I am doing the very thing I hate" (Rom. 7:15)--then I will realize I am flawed and leave room for doubting my ability to interpret the Spirit's influence in my life.
Faith is neither certainty, nor doubt. Rather, it is better characterized as sometimes having the likeness of either certainty or doubt, as well as assurance, hope, and conviction. ["Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (Heb. 11:1).]
I'm not about to tell people to take a leap of doubt. Doubt is no more a virtue than certainty. Some situations call for a faith including more certainty and others for a faith sort of resembles doubt. A faith-like-certainty can be hard to acquire, whereas a faith-like-doubt is hard to be comfortable with.
A trouble lies in getting the right faith in the right spot. There are areas of my life where I want to be more certain than I am. Some of these areas should have more certainty, while some of them need the doubt that makes many of us--including me--uncomfortable. Lately, I've focused on the doubting side of faith, the faith that feels like floundering. It is never fun to feel like a fish out of water. I want confirmation of the things I do in faith, but I need to let faith be its own assurance, especially since circumstances do not determine the will of God. I'm not certain and perhaps a lot of my faith should look a lot more like certainty, but it doesn't change the fact that I am a man of faith. And of that, I am certain.
In church the other day, someone said something to the following effect: "Doubt isn't the opposite of faith, certainty is." I don't remember them saying it, but a friend did and he asked me what I thought about it. I told him I couldn't agree right away, but neither I could disagree immediately. I told him a few of us should all write about the idea, since it is intriguing enough. Here are my thoughts on that writing prompt.
===
I think neither certainty nor doubt are the opposite of faith, but still recognize the faith/certainty and faith/doubt binaries. Binaries do not mean opposite, but rather difference and privilege.
Faith, certainty, and doubt are all similar, otherwise the binary would be foolish, along the lines of faith/cat. And as I often maintain, most binaries deconstruct. As of now, I believe deconstruction says the members of a binary have hazy distinctions at best. To better explain this relationship, think of the mountains, the foothills, and a flatland (I'm borrowing this example from someone else). Where do the mountains end and the piedmont begin? Mountainous areas are different than the piedmont, and the flat areas, but you can't draw a boundary because the distinctions are amorphous and overlapping. There are areas that could be the mountains and/or the piedmont, the piedmont and/or the flatlands.
The same occurs with faith/certainty and faith/doubt. Faith is not certainty and not doubt, most of the time. Sometimes the boundaries are amorphous and overlapping. Consider the biblical texts.
Peter walked on water, but "when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened and beg[an] to sink" (Matt. 14:30). After Jesus saves him from sinking, he asks Peter: "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" (Matt. 14:31). In this instance we can see some nuance between faith and doubt in regards to confidence, certainty, and belief. Peter lacked certainty concerning his ability to walk on the water or God's ability to keep him on the water. Or, perhaps he was more confident in the power of the wind than the power of his faith or the faith of Jesus. He doubted. Peter did not lack faith, though. I think it takes a large amount of faith and certainty to try to walk on water, let alone during a wind storm on the Sea of Galilee. Amidst his faith and certainty, a sinking doubt existed.
Another time Jesus scoffs at a man in Mark who asked Jesus to do something if he was able to. "If you are able?" responded Jesus, "All things can be done for the one who believes" (Mk. 9:22-23). The man, "immediately ... called out, 'I believe; help my unbelief!'" (Mk. 9:24). This passage is probably the poster child for doubt as a virtue. However, Jesus leaves the man's statement without judgment. We might assume Jesus approved, since he completed the requested exorcism. But how do we know the belief or unbelief of that man had anything to do with the exorcism? Was Jesus talking about his belief or the belief of the man? Sometimes Jesus' miracles seemed to be based on the faith of the receiver, whereas other times it was solely Jesus' faith. The end of this story helps little. The disciples wonder why they couldn't exorcise the demon and Jesus tells them some can only come out by prayer, which we didn't see Jesus do for the exorcism. Jesus starts out preferring the certainty side of faith, but in the end, this story again speaks to faith as different from certainty and doubt.
A number of stories in the gospels speak of faith without doubt, a faith that can wither a fig tree or move a mountain. These verses--not to mention the infamous opening lines of James--seem to evoke an affinity between faith and certainty as much as they explicitly condemn doubt and the doubter, "who is like a wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind" (Jas. 1:6). But why should we assume faith should always be without doubt? Many traditions have latched onto these passages as the dominant understanding of faith, painting pictures of faith as certainty, or, at least, nothing like doubt, which misses the beauty of the nuances between these ideas.
Then why did Jesus struggle in prayer in the garden? Why did Jesus ask for the cup to pass? It certainly seems like Jesus had a great faith that his death and resurrection were God's plan before he prayed in the garden. If faith is certainty, then Jesus was foolish to pray the prayers of Matthew 26:39 and 42. If Jesus had a faith of certainty that the best thing was crucifixion, then his prayer was not heartfelt or meaningful, and "words without thoughts, never to heaven go" (Hamlet). Perhaps in his humanity Jesus doubted his understanding of the divine plan, but I doubt you can separate Jesus' humanity and divinity in such a way. Did Jesus doubt God had planned on the best possible situation? Our text does not say, "Jesus' doubted," but it reflects the doubt of our savior.
Outside of Jesus, Abraham is the quintessential knight of faith. If you're going to bind your son and sacrifice him on an altar, you better be certain. Yet like Jesus, Abraham had some doubts about some of God's plan. "Will you indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked" asked Abraham, "suppose there are fifty righteous within the city; will you indeeed sweep it away and not spare the place for the sake of the fifty righteous who are in it? Far be it from you to do such a thing, to slay the righteous with the wicked ... far be it from you! Shall not the judge of all the earth deal justly?" (Gen. 18:23-25). Here, Abraham either doubted God or Abraham's understanding of God. Both kinds of doubts are the ones we think of in regards to the faith/doubt binary, either we doubt something about God or we doubt a personal revelation from God. We doubt whether we can discern it right. We doubt if it was really what God said. Like Abraham. Like Moses.
The other day in class, one of my colleagues expressed his fear of being one of the goats of Matthew 25. Dr. Berry started to talk about the anxiety of this sort of doubt and he said, "I'd rather be nervous than have no nerves at all." The reality of sin in our lives should always conjure up a healthy dose of doubt in our faith. As long as I am a saint that sins--as long as "I am not practicing what I would like to do, but I am doing the very thing I hate" (Rom. 7:15)--then I will realize I am flawed and leave room for doubting my ability to interpret the Spirit's influence in my life.
Faith is neither certainty, nor doubt. Rather, it is better characterized as sometimes having the likeness of either certainty or doubt, as well as assurance, hope, and conviction. ["Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (Heb. 11:1).]
I'm not about to tell people to take a leap of doubt. Doubt is no more a virtue than certainty. Some situations call for a faith including more certainty and others for a faith sort of resembles doubt. A faith-like-certainty can be hard to acquire, whereas a faith-like-doubt is hard to be comfortable with.
A trouble lies in getting the right faith in the right spot. There are areas of my life where I want to be more certain than I am. Some of these areas should have more certainty, while some of them need the doubt that makes many of us--including me--uncomfortable. Lately, I've focused on the doubting side of faith, the faith that feels like floundering. It is never fun to feel like a fish out of water. I want confirmation of the things I do in faith, but I need to let faith be its own assurance, especially since circumstances do not determine the will of God. I'm not certain and perhaps a lot of my faith should look a lot more like certainty, but it doesn't change the fact that I am a man of faith. And of that, I am certain.
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