Sodom has quite the reputation these days. Gomorrah does, too, although Sodom seems to be more well-known in English parlance and in the stories of Genesis, too.
According to the story, Abraham is showing some men "on their way," when they "looked toward Sodom," which means they were going in the direction of Sodom (18:16, NRSV). As Abraham is still being hospitable, the men share some divine news with Abraham. They share this news because Abraham has been chosen by God to be great, to "[do] righteousness and justice." Abraham's 'chosenness' and future stand in stark contrast to what the men hear of Sodom and Gomorrah. Apparently the sin is so bad that Yahweh has heard it and has to see it with God's own eyes, so to speak.
Before the men say anything about anyone being destroyed, Abraham asks if everyone will be destroyed for the sins, "the righteous with the wicked." Despite a lack of knowledge of this Yahweh character, Abraham assumes some sort of retributive justice where sin is repaid with destruction, even the destruction of life.
Abraham intuited correctly, it seems, and Abraham and Yahweh "discuss," if that is the proper word, what will happen if at least ten righteous people are found in Sodom. Of course, the discussion could imply specifically ten righteous men as opposed to people, since Hebrew, like popular English, uses masculine terms to imply both male and female.
Since Sodom and Gomorrah both likely included young children, I find it safe to assume Abraham and Yahweh are "arguing" over righteous men and therefore completely ignoring the possibility and probability of righteous women and children living in the area. Or, to be more precise: Yahweh mentions nothing specifically to Abraham about innocent women and/or children.
Of course, after I make my argument about innocent children, the story says the young and old men of Sodom come to Lot, presumably to rape the two messengers ("angels," NRSV, et. al.). Still, "young and old" must have a cut off. Infants, toddlers, and other youngsters must not have been involved.
Females, however, may have been involved. Like in English "man" and "men" could include men and women. In fact, the word translated as "men" in 19:4 most often signifies humans, not men. The original Sodomites might not have been as homosexual as we might think. The incident could have conceivably been in favor of a heterosexual or bisexual orgy to "welcome" the visitors. The KJV might give us a better translation here: "all the people from every quarter" as opposed to the NRSV's "all the people to the last man." Here, the word KJV translates "people" and the NRSV translates "man" is a word even more likely to incorporate a people group as opposed to a gender.
Homosexual or heterosexual, rape is not a great way to welcome newcomers.
But what if the culture of Sodom was one in which sex was hospitable? Certainly, my (post)modern mind always conceives of rape as wrong. However, I can understand a group of people wanting to offer an orgy as a welcome, as a doxological celebration of visitors before a god or gods, even. Such a celebration could cause a lot of people to relocate to Sodom. "Move here and get laid--guaranteed!" Could a bureau of tourism hope for a better motto?
But Genesis tries hard to distinguish the seed of Abraham as culturally different from everyone else in the world. For them, hospitality and worship are not sex. And only men can have multiple sex-partners, not women. Even though Yahweh/Elohim/El spends some time talking with Sarah and Sarah is not always your typically suppressed woman in a patriarchal society, Abraham and his progeny lean heavily towards patriarchy, even into current-day Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Sodom, however, paints a picture in which a large group of people, young and old, men and women come to have a public orgy.
If you take Genesis as a single book (or as a part of a Pentateuch or Hexatuech), the sins of Sodom are not necessarily homosexuality. The "sins" of Sodom are not even necessarily worse than anything later developments of Abrahamic religions call sins. Whereas polygamy was OK and sometimes encouraged by the God-character, it has become wrong to many Christians and Jews today. Either God changed or peoples' understanding of God and history changed. Or both.
Regardless, it is hard for me to see as Sodom as necessarily bad. As far as we know, they may have attempted to be hospitable according to their definition of hospitality. When Lot refused them, they were upset because an outsider wouldn't respect their customs, an outsider wouldn't even give them the chance to offer newcomers the culture of Sodom.
From a pluralistic perspective, maybe the people of Sodom aren't the "bad guys" in this story.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
It's Easter and I am looking back to Good Friday
Every year during Holy Week, I hear and read Tony Campolo's powerful, pertinent "It's Friday, but Sunday's Coming." Apparently I've got it wrong, though. It's Easter Sunday and I am looking back to Good Friday.
Specifically, I'm thinking of one sentence associated with the Passion story, a disputed sentence: Luke 23:34: "Then Jesus said, 'Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing'" (NRSV).[1] Regardless of who put this sentence in the story and why, it portrays the Jesus of Luke asking for forgiveness of people ignorant of what they are doing. Likely, they lack full knowledge of the significance of what they are doing, since they obviously know they are crucifying a man. But what else are they doing? Perhaps squashing a revolt against Rome that could free, at the least, the Israelites in that area. Perhaps stopping a spiritual and moral awakening that could change society for the better. Perhaps killing a Messiah. Perhaps killing God or a god.
What did this Jesus think they were doing? Apparently something needing forgiveness, something I assume was not the will of God (unless Jesus' God punishes people for things they are meant/forced/divinely coerced to do). They did something wrong, something they may never understand to be wrong. In that moment, Jesus saw their deeds, judged them to be wrong, knew nothing of whether or not they would ever change or repent, and then he wanted their forgiveness.
I hear a lot of Christians talk about people needing to believe in God, "accept" the sacrifice of "his" son, repent, and then and only then will forgiveness and salvation be rewarded. Forgiveness, though, isn't part of a transaction. If a person does their part and God grants something deserved, something due and expected, not forgiveness. Paying a debt or fulfilling criteria equal righting a wrong, not being forgiven. Forgiveness is something done only by the forgiver and not merited by the forgiven. Forgiveness is a gracious act, not part of a deal. It is an act of compassion, to give someone what they don't deserve.
This Easter, I want that forgiveness to be resurrected. I want to look back to Holy Friday and see the goodness that came from Luke's Jesus (or some redactor's Jesus). I want for that forgiveness to be resurrected and be alive in my heart, my mind, and in my very body that forgiveness will be evident in my actions.
But it isn't. And to get preachy, I know few in whom it is alive. As for myself, I'm bitter and unforgiving. I'm enraged by politics, by waste, by economics, by greed, by religion, even by Christians and the Christ of most Christianities I encounter.
Easter will never be enough if we can't first look back and see what needs to be resurrected. It isn't the man, it is the life he lived.
===
[1] The sentence doesn't appear in a number of ancient manuscripts and may not have been in the original text. Since I don't look on any of the Gospel stories as factual accounts, I'm not too worried about whether or not the historical Jesus said that sentence or if the author of Luke included the sentence in the first place. These questions are important, but they don't hold the key to unlocking truths from this passage. For more on where the sentence appears and doesn't, including how ancient commentators deal with the subject, I recommend Nathan Eubank, "A Disconcerting Prayer: On the Originality of Luke 23:34a," Journal of Biblical Literature 129.3 (2010): 521-36.
Specifically, I'm thinking of one sentence associated with the Passion story, a disputed sentence: Luke 23:34: "Then Jesus said, 'Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing'" (NRSV).[1] Regardless of who put this sentence in the story and why, it portrays the Jesus of Luke asking for forgiveness of people ignorant of what they are doing. Likely, they lack full knowledge of the significance of what they are doing, since they obviously know they are crucifying a man. But what else are they doing? Perhaps squashing a revolt against Rome that could free, at the least, the Israelites in that area. Perhaps stopping a spiritual and moral awakening that could change society for the better. Perhaps killing a Messiah. Perhaps killing God or a god.
What did this Jesus think they were doing? Apparently something needing forgiveness, something I assume was not the will of God (unless Jesus' God punishes people for things they are meant/forced/divinely coerced to do). They did something wrong, something they may never understand to be wrong. In that moment, Jesus saw their deeds, judged them to be wrong, knew nothing of whether or not they would ever change or repent, and then he wanted their forgiveness.
I hear a lot of Christians talk about people needing to believe in God, "accept" the sacrifice of "his" son, repent, and then and only then will forgiveness and salvation be rewarded. Forgiveness, though, isn't part of a transaction. If a person does their part and God grants something deserved, something due and expected, not forgiveness. Paying a debt or fulfilling criteria equal righting a wrong, not being forgiven. Forgiveness is something done only by the forgiver and not merited by the forgiven. Forgiveness is a gracious act, not part of a deal. It is an act of compassion, to give someone what they don't deserve.
This Easter, I want that forgiveness to be resurrected. I want to look back to Holy Friday and see the goodness that came from Luke's Jesus (or some redactor's Jesus). I want for that forgiveness to be resurrected and be alive in my heart, my mind, and in my very body that forgiveness will be evident in my actions.
But it isn't. And to get preachy, I know few in whom it is alive. As for myself, I'm bitter and unforgiving. I'm enraged by politics, by waste, by economics, by greed, by religion, even by Christians and the Christ of most Christianities I encounter.
Easter will never be enough if we can't first look back and see what needs to be resurrected. It isn't the man, it is the life he lived.
===
[1] The sentence doesn't appear in a number of ancient manuscripts and may not have been in the original text. Since I don't look on any of the Gospel stories as factual accounts, I'm not too worried about whether or not the historical Jesus said that sentence or if the author of Luke included the sentence in the first place. These questions are important, but they don't hold the key to unlocking truths from this passage. For more on where the sentence appears and doesn't, including how ancient commentators deal with the subject, I recommend Nathan Eubank, "A Disconcerting Prayer: On the Originality of Luke 23:34a," Journal of Biblical Literature 129.3 (2010): 521-36.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Different "Feels" of Christianity & the Delicate Balance of Theology
John Piper recently "conclude[d] that God has given Christianity a masculine feel," citing such biblical images as God the king, God the father, God the son, giving people a masculine name (like in common English where "man" can mean "humanity," the Hebrew and Greek languages use a masculine word to refer to people), the penis-requirement for priests, the twelve apostles were male, and that men are the head in marriage (as Christ is the head of the church [see this post for more on Piper's recent conclusion]).
I, too, want to join this concluision-drawing game.
1. God has given Christianity an anti-contraceptive feel due to the overwhelming times where sex is portrayed as only for children, not for pleasure (think about Onan in Genesis 38).
2. God has given Christianity a gay feel. In the Bible, male homosexual acts are talked about significantly more than female homosexual acts. Plus men are asked to be the bride of Christ and read Song of Songs as if they are the woman and God the man. David, the man after God's own heart, had an interesting relationship with his "friend" Jonathan. Christ is the head of the church just as men are the head in marriage. Christ's relationship is with men and men are to understand it through sexual imagery. Christianity has a gay feel. (John of the Cross got it right in his homoerotic poem about the Dark Night of the Soul.)
3. God has given Christianity a pro-choice feel based on the value God puts on human and animal life. People apparently didn't eat animals in "the beginning" (Genesis 9). After that, God requires all kinds of animals in sacrifices and offerings. Then in Jonah, the King of Nineveh has animals repenting and wearing sackcloth, which pleases God enough to not destroy the place. And yet this whole time, God's eye is on the sparrow (Matthew 10:26). God knows when sparrows fall, but God also wants them offered up for sacrifices. God wants life saved eternally, but doesn't care about life on this earth, which is why we'll always have the poor for us (Matthew 26:11) and why God asked Abraham to offer his son for a sacrifice (Genesis 22), wanted the Hebrew people to commit ethnocide (Joshua), and would kill a man and a woman for lying about money (Acts 5). No wonder so many Christians don't care about the environment. We, like God, should care about souls, not life.
Theology is a delicate balance of searching for God and reality while navel gazing. When men control the reading and writing of the Bible, then of course Christianity is going to have a masculine feel. No wonder Christianity had a very anti-Jewish feel when read and controlled by the Nazis. No wonder Christianity had a very white feel when interpreted by US Americans through the 1960s.
Christianity and God will tend to "feel" less like one thing or another when we read the Bible and reality truly in community, community that includes everyone and does not prefer one over the other. Then in community--as the body of God--we will begin to truly experience God and know God face-to-face in each other, not as if in a mirror (1 Corinthians 13:12).
I, too, want to join this concluision-drawing game.
1. God has given Christianity an anti-contraceptive feel due to the overwhelming times where sex is portrayed as only for children, not for pleasure (think about Onan in Genesis 38).
2. God has given Christianity a gay feel. In the Bible, male homosexual acts are talked about significantly more than female homosexual acts. Plus men are asked to be the bride of Christ and read Song of Songs as if they are the woman and God the man. David, the man after God's own heart, had an interesting relationship with his "friend" Jonathan. Christ is the head of the church just as men are the head in marriage. Christ's relationship is with men and men are to understand it through sexual imagery. Christianity has a gay feel. (John of the Cross got it right in his homoerotic poem about the Dark Night of the Soul.)
3. God has given Christianity a pro-choice feel based on the value God puts on human and animal life. People apparently didn't eat animals in "the beginning" (Genesis 9). After that, God requires all kinds of animals in sacrifices and offerings. Then in Jonah, the King of Nineveh has animals repenting and wearing sackcloth, which pleases God enough to not destroy the place. And yet this whole time, God's eye is on the sparrow (Matthew 10:26). God knows when sparrows fall, but God also wants them offered up for sacrifices. God wants life saved eternally, but doesn't care about life on this earth, which is why we'll always have the poor for us (Matthew 26:11) and why God asked Abraham to offer his son for a sacrifice (Genesis 22), wanted the Hebrew people to commit ethnocide (Joshua), and would kill a man and a woman for lying about money (Acts 5). No wonder so many Christians don't care about the environment. We, like God, should care about souls, not life.
Theology is a delicate balance of searching for God and reality while navel gazing. When men control the reading and writing of the Bible, then of course Christianity is going to have a masculine feel. No wonder Christianity had a very anti-Jewish feel when read and controlled by the Nazis. No wonder Christianity had a very white feel when interpreted by US Americans through the 1960s.
Christianity and God will tend to "feel" less like one thing or another when we read the Bible and reality truly in community, community that includes everyone and does not prefer one over the other. Then in community--as the body of God--we will begin to truly experience God and know God face-to-face in each other, not as if in a mirror (1 Corinthians 13:12).
Monday, January 2, 2012
The Myth of Americana in Regina Spektor's "Sailor Song"
The poem/lyrics below contain language not always deemed for use in polite company.
At first glance, this song sounds like it has something to do with sailors and some women named Mary Ann(e)/Marianne. I think that idea is meant to be portrayed, but more as an establishing metaphor than a "meaning" of the song.
The song plays with the negative, almost cliché idea of a boat of sailors--hypersexual, US Navy men--on the ocean for long periods of time, longing for heterosexual coitus. The first stanza play on this image, since the main reason Mary Ann is considered a bitch is because "she will not take her dress off." In the second stanza, the sailors are on the boat "huddl[ing] with our missiles and we miss the girls back home," a double entendre implying not only the weapons on the boat, but also masturbation.
Although the hypersexual sailor is an image with which we are familiar today, it wasn't always that way. At least, not in all circles. In many stories of the US, sexuality was downplayed. The Navy and all of the US Armed Forces was a place for brave, virtuous men to go protect their country. While away, they thought of a special girl back home. Both boy and girl were chaste while awaiting the other.
An American folk song captures this thread of tradition. Bob Dylan did a version of the song on his 1973 album Dylan: "Mary Ann." In this piece of Americana, the speaker sings to his beloved Mary Ann before going to sea. He says the crow will "surely turn to white" if chastity be broken by the sailor.
Although a large fan of Dylan, Regina Spektor is not a folk musician. Rather, she is part of what folks are calling "anti-folk." In her "Sailor Song," she is doing just what you would think an anti-folk song would do: it takes Americana and stands it on its head, poking through the holes in the story so that reality can peak through.
In the folk song, Mary Ann is a static image, since the man does all the talking. The sailor claims he will be chaste, but Mary Ann makes no such claims. In this song, Mary Ann is still a silent character, but now she is sexualized by Spektor. She doesn't have sex with any of the other guys, but she's kissing men so much that their lips are bleeding--a skewed idea of chastity. Mary Ann has changed from the folk song's static idea to the image of the tease.
Spektor changes the sailor, too, from the chaste man who fights for his girl back home. Instead, he's jacking off and gambling while "miss[ing] the girls back home"--not just one girl, but multiple girls, girls in general.
These two changes are anti-folk because they change a myth of Americana. We no longer have a gender split between those serving in the military and those "waiting" at home. People aren't always waiting at home, either. Life goes on while the soldiers are away. The soldiers aren't perfect, either. Most Americana pieces don't pay attention to the negatives of US history and culture, like the photos we all saw in the news from the Abu Ghraib prison in 2004. It is not only the fictional Mary Ann who is a bitch, it is the whole concept of Americana, the myths about America, the stories we construct and hold on to in order to hide reality.
This anti-folk message is apropos of the album's title: Soviet Kitsch. Indeed, much Americana can be understood as kitsch--a derogatory term used for art aimed at mimicking something popular in order to be popular. The overuse of the American flag and the ribbons to support our troops images I would consider kitsch--attempts at being tasteful, but more for the purpose of making a buck than an artistic expressing themselves.
And then there is the definition of kitsch by Milan Kundera in The Unberable Lightness of Being. For Kundera, kitsch is a totalitarian myth--it is a denial of reality by those in power. Spektor uses this idea of kitsch to stand against the myth of Americana. Although her album is Soviet Kitsch, a reference not only to her Russian heritage, but also because "Soviet" conjures negative images and communism to the US mind. And yet, her album is not about anything particularly Russian, but rather, US American: "Ode to Divorce," "Ghost of Corporate Future," "Carbon Monoxide," "Sailor Song," "Chemo Limo," "Poor Little Rich Boy." She is emphasizing that which is behind the Americana, dismantling the kitsch and showing reality.
The sailor isn't yearning for Mary Ann and, besides, Mary Ann's a bitch. So much for home, sweet home. So much Americana. The myth of Americana is as cheap as juice (the word "tropicana" also takes some of the sensual imagery often associated with the exotic, the Other--this song sets up the binary of Americana with its exotic, tropical, fictional other and dismantles it).
It seems that which connected us to the myth of Americana was an anchor that "couldn't even reach the bottom of a bath tub." And the myth is barely alive today, although still held onto in some form by many, especially in politics. It is like a boat that was never fully built, like the USS Kentucky.
And thus the song has de-romanticized the USA, war, and the USA at war.
Sailor Song
by Regina Spektor on her album, Soviet Kitsch (2004)
She will kiss ya 'til your lip bleeds
But she will not take her dress off
Americana, Tropicana
All the sailor boys have demons
They sing "Oh Kentucky why did you forsake me
If I was meant to sail the sea
Why did you make me
Should've been another(*1) state
Oh state.."
Cause Mary Anne's a bitch
Mary Anne's a bitch x5
Does it matter that our anchors
Couldn't even reach the bottom
Of a bath tub
And the sails reflect the moon
It's such a strange job
Playing blackjack on the deck
Still, atop this giant puddle, dressed in white
We quietly huddle with our missiles
And we miss the girls back home
Oh home sweet home
Cause Mary Anne's a bitch
Mary Anne's a bitch x5
She will kiss you 'til your lip bleeds
But she will not take her dress off
Americana, Tropicana
Americana, Tropicana
Americana, Americana (*2)
(*1) Many "lyrics" websites have "should've been with the state"
(*2) Especially during these last two words, Regina may be saying "Americano" or "America-no"
At first glance, this song sounds like it has something to do with sailors and some women named Mary Ann(e)/Marianne. I think that idea is meant to be portrayed, but more as an establishing metaphor than a "meaning" of the song.
The song plays with the negative, almost cliché idea of a boat of sailors--hypersexual, US Navy men--on the ocean for long periods of time, longing for heterosexual coitus. The first stanza play on this image, since the main reason Mary Ann is considered a bitch is because "she will not take her dress off." In the second stanza, the sailors are on the boat "huddl[ing] with our missiles and we miss the girls back home," a double entendre implying not only the weapons on the boat, but also masturbation.
Although the hypersexual sailor is an image with which we are familiar today, it wasn't always that way. At least, not in all circles. In many stories of the US, sexuality was downplayed. The Navy and all of the US Armed Forces was a place for brave, virtuous men to go protect their country. While away, they thought of a special girl back home. Both boy and girl were chaste while awaiting the other.
An American folk song captures this thread of tradition. Bob Dylan did a version of the song on his 1973 album Dylan: "Mary Ann." In this piece of Americana, the speaker sings to his beloved Mary Ann before going to sea. He says the crow will "surely turn to white" if chastity be broken by the sailor.
Although a large fan of Dylan, Regina Spektor is not a folk musician. Rather, she is part of what folks are calling "anti-folk." In her "Sailor Song," she is doing just what you would think an anti-folk song would do: it takes Americana and stands it on its head, poking through the holes in the story so that reality can peak through.
In the folk song, Mary Ann is a static image, since the man does all the talking. The sailor claims he will be chaste, but Mary Ann makes no such claims. In this song, Mary Ann is still a silent character, but now she is sexualized by Spektor. She doesn't have sex with any of the other guys, but she's kissing men so much that their lips are bleeding--a skewed idea of chastity. Mary Ann has changed from the folk song's static idea to the image of the tease.
Spektor changes the sailor, too, from the chaste man who fights for his girl back home. Instead, he's jacking off and gambling while "miss[ing] the girls back home"--not just one girl, but multiple girls, girls in general.
These two changes are anti-folk because they change a myth of Americana. We no longer have a gender split between those serving in the military and those "waiting" at home. People aren't always waiting at home, either. Life goes on while the soldiers are away. The soldiers aren't perfect, either. Most Americana pieces don't pay attention to the negatives of US history and culture, like the photos we all saw in the news from the Abu Ghraib prison in 2004. It is not only the fictional Mary Ann who is a bitch, it is the whole concept of Americana, the myths about America, the stories we construct and hold on to in order to hide reality.
This anti-folk message is apropos of the album's title: Soviet Kitsch. Indeed, much Americana can be understood as kitsch--a derogatory term used for art aimed at mimicking something popular in order to be popular. The overuse of the American flag and the ribbons to support our troops images I would consider kitsch--attempts at being tasteful, but more for the purpose of making a buck than an artistic expressing themselves.
And then there is the definition of kitsch by Milan Kundera in The Unberable Lightness of Being. For Kundera, kitsch is a totalitarian myth--it is a denial of reality by those in power. Spektor uses this idea of kitsch to stand against the myth of Americana. Although her album is Soviet Kitsch, a reference not only to her Russian heritage, but also because "Soviet" conjures negative images and communism to the US mind. And yet, her album is not about anything particularly Russian, but rather, US American: "Ode to Divorce," "Ghost of Corporate Future," "Carbon Monoxide," "Sailor Song," "Chemo Limo," "Poor Little Rich Boy." She is emphasizing that which is behind the Americana, dismantling the kitsch and showing reality.
The sailor isn't yearning for Mary Ann and, besides, Mary Ann's a bitch. So much for home, sweet home. So much Americana. The myth of Americana is as cheap as juice (the word "tropicana" also takes some of the sensual imagery often associated with the exotic, the Other--this song sets up the binary of Americana with its exotic, tropical, fictional other and dismantles it).
It seems that which connected us to the myth of Americana was an anchor that "couldn't even reach the bottom of a bath tub." And the myth is barely alive today, although still held onto in some form by many, especially in politics. It is like a boat that was never fully built, like the USS Kentucky.
And thus the song has de-romanticized the USA, war, and the USA at war.
Monday, December 26, 2011
O if we but knew what we do / When we delve and hew
Below is a dream and interpretation I had January 2011
I was at Gardner-Webb University where I recently graduated and, at the time of this dream, worked and lived, but the scenery was my elementary school in Friendship, Maine. I walked to the back of the small-town school and saw machines at work cutting down trees.
I was aghast. I went to the other side of the playground where I saw a lady preparing a chainsaw to cut down a tree whose width spoke of its age, but whose height invited a good climb or friendly shade on a hot summer's day. I screamed at the lady, "You have no heart!"
Two other ladies were standing near me, guarding the area. The elder was Lois Lash, my third-grade teacher and my church's choir director from when I was kid until the past year or so. The younger was her daughter, Carol Ehle, the church's pianist for as long as I can remember. She is also mother to a neighborhood boy my age with whom I went to school and participated in band and academic events. They looked at me with such surprise, wondering how such terrible words could come from the mouth of a man who was once a young angel of the church, a young man with whom they worked many hours for the church's music.
They were disgusted with me and so I explained to them how wonderful the trees are, for aesthetics, for shade, for the homes of animals, and for the very air we breathe. Despite my reasoning, they stood as still in their ways as the sentries of the Queen's Guard in England. Their foundation was firm and they faltered and wavered not.
So I watched the austere, heartless woman cut down the tree with her chainsaw. In the heaviness of the moment, a crowd gathered. I became anxious, claustrophobic. I was being pressed against a pole of a swing-set. I started to push myself from the pole when two men grabbed me and carried me away.
Scared out of my mind, the men dropped me off at the basketball court, one of the boundaries of our recesses when in elementary school. They wanted me to leave, to stop causing trouble. Before I could interact with them anymore, I woke up to my phone vibrating on the windowsill above my head.
Trees are sacred symbols. They aid us in worship. They provide us shelter and furniture. I look to them and I see us in their seasonal phases of life and death, their ubiquity, their diversity. It is hard for me to see them cut down, although I understand why we cut them. Still, the thought of cutting down a tree before its time gives me pause. In the words of G. M. Hopkins, "O if we but knew what we do / When we delve or hew -- / Hack and rack the growing green!" ("Binsey Poplars")
Considering my dream, I first thought of them as symbols of justice, diverse, strong, and good for life. I was watching a woman destroy something for which I stood, a long-standing tree of my faith. Not only was the tree wide with age, but also at a place marking bookends of my life. The scenery was my elementary school, a place I first began to learn about ecojustice, although I understood the area as my current home, a place where my love for the earth was re-inspired.
In one of my less tactful moments, I told her she had no heart for injustices hurt people. I could not believe she would cut down such an obviously wonderful truth. At least, the truth is so obvious to me. Two pillars of the faith community from which I grew stood as still as trees not seeing what I thought was obvious.
With the injustice committed, with the tree of my affection gone, I felt alone in the masses. People from my past, present, and future are all around me, yet I do not feel safe because I think differently, appreciate different things. I am growing and changing like the trees. Will I be cut down, too? Will my life be cut short, because the acorn has fallen a little too far from the tree?
Anxious, claustrophobic, I felt I would die if I did not push against the grain of the crowd coming in on me. In my dream, my life was cut off, in a sense. I was cut off, exiled from the people by two strong men. The anima and the animus have ousted me, one ignoring me and the other removing me. I am rejected and I awake, thrust away from the subconscious mingling of past, present, and future, and forced once again into the conscious present, left on the margins of recess.
The tree was not simply a justice for which I stand. The tree stood for still more than just the people I know who are hurt and oppressed by the injustices of felling such trees, left not to be themselves, but a haunting visage of who they could be in a just society. The tree was also me, falling when he cannot stand to see others fall, falling with them and going with them to the fire. The tree was me, dealing with the potential end of my formal education, watching others and wondering if I can join in. The tree was me dealing with the rejection of women and men as I apply for jobs.
The tree is me and the tree is you, co-inheritors of the sins of others. Whether we wield the chainsaw, yell slurs, stand guard, or watch, we reap what we sew and what others sew, be it a cut tree, the evil deeds of capitalism, or the hodgepodge donations of surplus. Like a forest, we are all in this life and on this earth together. We might fall when we sin and we might fall when others sin, but one day we will fall.
I was at Gardner-Webb University where I recently graduated and, at the time of this dream, worked and lived, but the scenery was my elementary school in Friendship, Maine. I walked to the back of the small-town school and saw machines at work cutting down trees.
I was aghast. I went to the other side of the playground where I saw a lady preparing a chainsaw to cut down a tree whose width spoke of its age, but whose height invited a good climb or friendly shade on a hot summer's day. I screamed at the lady, "You have no heart!"
Two other ladies were standing near me, guarding the area. The elder was Lois Lash, my third-grade teacher and my church's choir director from when I was kid until the past year or so. The younger was her daughter, Carol Ehle, the church's pianist for as long as I can remember. She is also mother to a neighborhood boy my age with whom I went to school and participated in band and academic events. They looked at me with such surprise, wondering how such terrible words could come from the mouth of a man who was once a young angel of the church, a young man with whom they worked many hours for the church's music.
They were disgusted with me and so I explained to them how wonderful the trees are, for aesthetics, for shade, for the homes of animals, and for the very air we breathe. Despite my reasoning, they stood as still in their ways as the sentries of the Queen's Guard in England. Their foundation was firm and they faltered and wavered not.
So I watched the austere, heartless woman cut down the tree with her chainsaw. In the heaviness of the moment, a crowd gathered. I became anxious, claustrophobic. I was being pressed against a pole of a swing-set. I started to push myself from the pole when two men grabbed me and carried me away.
Scared out of my mind, the men dropped me off at the basketball court, one of the boundaries of our recesses when in elementary school. They wanted me to leave, to stop causing trouble. Before I could interact with them anymore, I woke up to my phone vibrating on the windowsill above my head.
Trees are sacred symbols. They aid us in worship. They provide us shelter and furniture. I look to them and I see us in their seasonal phases of life and death, their ubiquity, their diversity. It is hard for me to see them cut down, although I understand why we cut them. Still, the thought of cutting down a tree before its time gives me pause. In the words of G. M. Hopkins, "O if we but knew what we do / When we delve or hew -- / Hack and rack the growing green!" ("Binsey Poplars")
Considering my dream, I first thought of them as symbols of justice, diverse, strong, and good for life. I was watching a woman destroy something for which I stood, a long-standing tree of my faith. Not only was the tree wide with age, but also at a place marking bookends of my life. The scenery was my elementary school, a place I first began to learn about ecojustice, although I understood the area as my current home, a place where my love for the earth was re-inspired.
In one of my less tactful moments, I told her she had no heart for injustices hurt people. I could not believe she would cut down such an obviously wonderful truth. At least, the truth is so obvious to me. Two pillars of the faith community from which I grew stood as still as trees not seeing what I thought was obvious.
With the injustice committed, with the tree of my affection gone, I felt alone in the masses. People from my past, present, and future are all around me, yet I do not feel safe because I think differently, appreciate different things. I am growing and changing like the trees. Will I be cut down, too? Will my life be cut short, because the acorn has fallen a little too far from the tree?
Anxious, claustrophobic, I felt I would die if I did not push against the grain of the crowd coming in on me. In my dream, my life was cut off, in a sense. I was cut off, exiled from the people by two strong men. The anima and the animus have ousted me, one ignoring me and the other removing me. I am rejected and I awake, thrust away from the subconscious mingling of past, present, and future, and forced once again into the conscious present, left on the margins of recess.
The tree was not simply a justice for which I stand. The tree stood for still more than just the people I know who are hurt and oppressed by the injustices of felling such trees, left not to be themselves, but a haunting visage of who they could be in a just society. The tree was also me, falling when he cannot stand to see others fall, falling with them and going with them to the fire. The tree was me, dealing with the potential end of my formal education, watching others and wondering if I can join in. The tree was me dealing with the rejection of women and men as I apply for jobs.
The tree is me and the tree is you, co-inheritors of the sins of others. Whether we wield the chainsaw, yell slurs, stand guard, or watch, we reap what we sew and what others sew, be it a cut tree, the evil deeds of capitalism, or the hodgepodge donations of surplus. Like a forest, we are all in this life and on this earth together. We might fall when we sin and we might fall when others sin, but one day we will fall.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Christmas According to Mark: A Deconstructing Advent & Christmas
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.
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.
Monday, December 5, 2011
This Advent, I'm Not Waiting for Peace: Isaiah 40:1
At this point in the Advent season, tradition emphasizes people waiting for the peace associated with the coming of Christ. As I at least hinted at last week, I believe the real impact of Advent is not waiting for Christ, but embodying the return of Emanuel. When I sing, "O Come, o come Emanuel," I am not singing for a human to come out of the clouds, as if I believed heaven were literally above the sky. Rather, I am singing for God to be born in me, that I might be pregnant with God's transformative love and power. The second coming of Christ is not a one time event to happen in the future. This parousia is a continual event. Like the first advent, this advent consists of Christ being born in humans. But this time, unlike the first, it can happen in all of us, not just in Mary.
In light of this understanding of Advent, I don't wait for peace.
In an attempt to mimic the Hebrew words, Isaiah 40:1 has become hard to understand in English. In the Hebrew, the verb is in a tense known for intensity (Piel). The intensity increases when the word is repeated, not something we do in English. In verse 1, God really wants comforting to happen, given the verb tense.
Apparently comforting is really needed. In v.2, we find out why: "[Jerusalem] has received [...] double for all her sins." Generally one dose of retribution is bad enough, let alone two. For this sort of comforting, generally you expect divine action. The Bible is full of God promising to make up for any sort of suffering of the Israelites, even when it is deserved.
But in this instance, God tells someone else to be the one doing the comforting. Actually, God is telling a group of someones to be comforting; the imperative "comfort" is plural in Hebrew, a construction we don't have in English.
To whom is God talking in the mind of Isaiah the author?
I don't care.
Let's remember that Isaiah or Deutero-Isaiah and Tertiary-Isaiah understood the world like people understood the world before the common era (BC/E). You know, back when it would have been acceptable to think evil existed below us, in the center of the earth.
I don't care who Isaiah thought God was talking to, because God can only be telling us, in reality. A few truths from Isaiah 40:15 are: (A) people need comforting and (B) God wants those people comforted. Who is going to do that comforting? Us, the people of God.
It is no wonder that Isaiah 40:1 echoes the common construction of "your God" and "my people" from "I will be your God and you will be my people." The two concepts are inseparable. If God's people are to be comforted, then God will do it through God's people. It isn't just the concepts that are inseparable. God and God's people are inseparable. God exists in God's people.
"I will be your God and you will be my people." Today's Christianity knows this concept better in the idea of "the body." The Church is the body of Christ. They are one and the same. Inseparable. Interdependent.
Don't wait for the advent of God's peace. Be God's peace. People, let it be born in you.
In light of this understanding of Advent, I don't wait for peace.
"Comfort, O comfort my people," says your God.I am not waiting for peace, because I am making it.
"Speak kindly to Jerusalem;
And clal out to her, that her warfare has ended,
That her iniquity has been removed,
That she has received of the LORD's hand
Double for all her sins"
A voice is calling, "Clear the way for the LORD in the wilderness;
Make smooth in the desert a highway for our God.
Let every valley be lifted up,
And every mountain and hill be made low;
And let the rough ground become a plain,
And the rugged terrain a broad valley;
Then the glory of the LORD will be revealed,
And all flesh will see it together;
For the mouth of the LORD has spoken." (Isaiah 40:1-5)
In an attempt to mimic the Hebrew words, Isaiah 40:1 has become hard to understand in English. In the Hebrew, the verb is in a tense known for intensity (Piel). The intensity increases when the word is repeated, not something we do in English. In verse 1, God really wants comforting to happen, given the verb tense.
Apparently comforting is really needed. In v.2, we find out why: "[Jerusalem] has received [...] double for all her sins." Generally one dose of retribution is bad enough, let alone two. For this sort of comforting, generally you expect divine action. The Bible is full of God promising to make up for any sort of suffering of the Israelites, even when it is deserved.
But in this instance, God tells someone else to be the one doing the comforting. Actually, God is telling a group of someones to be comforting; the imperative "comfort" is plural in Hebrew, a construction we don't have in English.
To whom is God talking in the mind of Isaiah the author?
I don't care.
Let's remember that Isaiah or Deutero-Isaiah and Tertiary-Isaiah understood the world like people understood the world before the common era (BC/E). You know, back when it would have been acceptable to think evil existed below us, in the center of the earth.
I don't care who Isaiah thought God was talking to, because God can only be telling us, in reality. A few truths from Isaiah 40:15 are: (A) people need comforting and (B) God wants those people comforted. Who is going to do that comforting? Us, the people of God.
It is no wonder that Isaiah 40:1 echoes the common construction of "your God" and "my people" from "I will be your God and you will be my people." The two concepts are inseparable. If God's people are to be comforted, then God will do it through God's people. It isn't just the concepts that are inseparable. God and God's people are inseparable. God exists in God's people.
"I will be your God and you will be my people." Today's Christianity knows this concept better in the idea of "the body." The Church is the body of Christ. They are one and the same. Inseparable. Interdependent.
Don't wait for the advent of God's peace. Be God's peace. People, let it be born in you.
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