This is a pointless practice, it could be said.
No one reads poetry these days, some think.
I didn’t until a year or so ago. I would take
the time to write my thoughts, that catharsis
of Aristotelian poetics, for a slowing down
of my breath—but to take the time to listen?
But now I want to hear the whispers of silence,
and somehow I think that involves this reading
and writing of words in strange arrangement,
open mostly to inconclusive endings, for you
can’t expect anyone to read these things,
anyway. Any way is not one way, and I’d
encourage you to listen your way, as long
as that includes listening. Sounds are not always
voices and messages. Lack of message is at
times the loudest message of all. That’s how
they get you. We think we know discernment.
We make a lot of choices. But who really reads
poetry these days, and why would I bother
to write out my life’s thoughts when they arrive,
to look inside my heart looking for what is not
dark that I might be freed from my strange
arrangements?
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
A Year Without Poetry
I told myself, Write, and I put
the pen down. Told myself,
Write, and made a phone call.
They say you have to write,
just write, and write again, and
I don't know if they're right,
but I know I have not been. If
this has been a year without
poetry, it was not, I think, a
year without theory, a breadth
of time to be forgot. But a year
without verses must surely have
been recorded somewhere, even
an unseen somewhere; it was just
not so readily edited, spaced, paced,
or considered as it slipped by.
the pen down. Told myself,
Write, and made a phone call.
They say you have to write,
just write, and write again, and
I don't know if they're right,
but I know I have not been. If
this has been a year without
poetry, it was not, I think, a
year without theory, a breadth
of time to be forgot. But a year
without verses must surely have
been recorded somewhere, even
an unseen somewhere; it was just
not so readily edited, spaced, paced,
or considered as it slipped by.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Advent Sight
In a world embittered by what others have done in the name of God, we would do well to approach God in supplication with great humility when asking, Teach me your way, O Lord. Too often has God been morphed in our feeble minds into an enabler of bad tidings, into an oracle allowing our eyes to see whatever we want to see. But this is one of the many reasons we celebrate Advent, and all the other great festal seasons of the Church calendar. We need better vision. We need our actions to be guided by a holy pattern.
In this season, we await the in-breaking of the kingdom, the star and staff of Balaam's utterance (see Readings for Monday of 3rd Week of Advent), God in the flesh that all of our flesh might be renewed and quickened for the ways of God. Even now we partake in the Advent we await. And in this waiting we are strengthened to be humble, to be able to recognize the source of Christ's authority which shapes our whole beings to be faithful.
In this season, we await the in-breaking of the kingdom, the star and staff of Balaam's utterance (see Readings for Monday of 3rd Week of Advent), God in the flesh that all of our flesh might be renewed and quickened for the ways of God. Even now we partake in the Advent we await. And in this waiting we are strengthened to be humble, to be able to recognize the source of Christ's authority which shapes our whole beings to be faithful.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Hopeful Sadness
I would imagine that only
those who would say, "the
Lord does not judge us
according to what we
deserve," can only say such
with any authenticity
if they do so with some
grieving. Otherwise, why
the need for the lifting
of heavy burdens? For
strengthening our weaker
parts? For water to keep
us from fainting? In other
words, a tinge of sadness
is a great gift. A sense
of hopelessness is the
awakening of hope. We ought
to still have doubts; never
leave behind those questions.
Only, realize they can be freed
to new modes of lucidity.
So, bless the Lord, O my soul,
all that is within me--
my dissipating fears, my
confidences, affections, visions,
sadness and joy. Fuse my paradox,
and help me to learn from the
meek and humble heart. Jesus Christ,
Son of God, have mercy on me,
a sinner.
(Isaiah 40:25-31; Psalm 103; Matthew 11:28-30)
those who would say, "the
Lord does not judge us
according to what we
deserve," can only say such
with any authenticity
if they do so with some
grieving. Otherwise, why
the need for the lifting
of heavy burdens? For
strengthening our weaker
parts? For water to keep
us from fainting? In other
words, a tinge of sadness
is a great gift. A sense
of hopelessness is the
awakening of hope. We ought
to still have doubts; never
leave behind those questions.
Only, realize they can be freed
to new modes of lucidity.
So, bless the Lord, O my soul,
all that is within me--
my dissipating fears, my
confidences, affections, visions,
sadness and joy. Fuse my paradox,
and help me to learn from the
meek and humble heart. Jesus Christ,
Son of God, have mercy on me,
a sinner.
(Isaiah 40:25-31; Psalm 103; Matthew 11:28-30)
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Terra Incognitas
These are terra incognitas, histories,
to wade through marshes of words,
to swim across lakes of images. Disguised?
Their retreats seem more apparent, yet
transparent, when we’d rather not
know the past as it is felt presently,
a ghost’s nip. On our heels, we’re
forced to face mirrored halls, and
often we do so with closed eyes. Why?
History hurts. Our own acts are enough
to swallow, to still be able to shrug,
and so now the weight of the Church?
Leave it unknown! Leave it alone! Keep it
away! Let me say my pledge, covering my heart,
easy words of heavenly citizenship, I believe,
enough. Ahistory is much easier,
no need to point to how we got here.
But slow down and breathe. Yes,
mystery is unknown. But let us not run
from our flailing efforts, graced by mystery
drawn near. Nor put our back to nuance.
Things shift. We’re shifty characters and
so were our forefathers. Shifting
solidity, solidification, foundation, and
apostles are still sent to speak us back
down to this earth where grace breaks in.
Breathe together, gathered, called of
the Church in the world. Walk the unknown—
they were known—ways, the paths
the aisles to the chancel, the nave of
saints’ prayers and texts. And in all
things, still, say in the Spirit the name
over all names, prayer of prayers, Word
of words, history made history; the truth,
confession, sanctifier of flesh, tongues,
hearts that speak, “Jesus Christ.”
to wade through marshes of words,
to swim across lakes of images. Disguised?
Their retreats seem more apparent, yet
transparent, when we’d rather not
know the past as it is felt presently,
a ghost’s nip. On our heels, we’re
forced to face mirrored halls, and
often we do so with closed eyes. Why?
History hurts. Our own acts are enough
to swallow, to still be able to shrug,
and so now the weight of the Church?
Leave it unknown! Leave it alone! Keep it
away! Let me say my pledge, covering my heart,
easy words of heavenly citizenship, I believe,
enough. Ahistory is much easier,
no need to point to how we got here.
But slow down and breathe. Yes,
mystery is unknown. But let us not run
from our flailing efforts, graced by mystery
drawn near. Nor put our back to nuance.
Things shift. We’re shifty characters and
so were our forefathers. Shifting
solidity, solidification, foundation, and
apostles are still sent to speak us back
down to this earth where grace breaks in.
Breathe together, gathered, called of
the Church in the world. Walk the unknown—
they were known—ways, the paths
the aisles to the chancel, the nave of
saints’ prayers and texts. And in all
things, still, say in the Spirit the name
over all names, prayer of prayers, Word
of words, history made history; the truth,
confession, sanctifier of flesh, tongues,
hearts that speak, “Jesus Christ.”
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Child, deep down
You, child, reach deep down there,
into the deep opening of the earth,
the serpent's home. Not the cursed one,
but the eternal swallow, the staffed
snake, the swirl of your veins,
the path of you blood. Reach there,
into your depths, into your childlike
self, your revealed self, hidden person
freed from the lowliness of winter
and summer's despair. Reach down
and grow from there, flourish as justice
in the time of God's peace, with
blessed eyes that see what prophets and
humble rulers once only
imagined, now known
through the Son for the Father's good pleasure,
in the vitality of the Holy Spirit's
delightful fruit. Gather, now, all,
all you children and creatures—
those that bear piercing teeth now
purr; which bleat, coo in innocent
frivolity. Commingle around the
table, and banquet the gladness astir,
and taste that depth, that true good, that
endless end.
into the deep opening of the earth,
the serpent's home. Not the cursed one,
but the eternal swallow, the staffed
snake, the swirl of your veins,
the path of you blood. Reach there,
into your depths, into your childlike
self, your revealed self, hidden person
freed from the lowliness of winter
and summer's despair. Reach down
and grow from there, flourish as justice
in the time of God's peace, with
blessed eyes that see what prophets and
humble rulers once only
imagined, now known
through the Son for the Father's good pleasure,
in the vitality of the Holy Spirit's
delightful fruit. Gather, now, all,
all you children and creatures—
those that bear piercing teeth now
purr; which bleat, coo in innocent
frivolity. Commingle around the
table, and banquet the gladness astir,
and taste that depth, that true good, that
endless end.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Confession
Painful, it
empties tears, embraces
humility and, tingling,
moves forward.
The body relaxes,
throws off anxiety, with
lies uncovered, displaying
some truth, a step
toward assurance, uninsured.
empties tears, embraces
humility and, tingling,
moves forward.
The body relaxes,
throws off anxiety, with
lies uncovered, displaying
some truth, a step
toward assurance, uninsured.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Theology
Theology is a (poetic) bodily act.
Its project of “detachment” is most fully
realized when the body and soul
are found to be in harmonious union.
Then the theologian hymns
beautiful poems to God. The hand, with a pen,
spills out in verse, by the soul’s meter, images of divine mystery,
often found in the most mundane experiences
of daily life. The heart, the pulse of a human life,
is given voice, helping humanity to re-imagine
the image
it has bestowed upon itself by
seeing that humanity is to be perfected
as it is—the image of God, ordained by God.
Preachers begin to preach
a Gospel, not of an escapist hope for the soul of
one day leaving the confines of the body, but
of the possibilities of striving toward
the perfected life now, in the body.
The strife, struggle, suffering, and solemnity
of life is redeemed by the catharsis
of moving words that point to an end—
putting affliction to verse—an end of
the pain, perversion, privatization, and pestilence.
Instead of being alone in their heads, people
are empowered to share
together in the community of divine life,
bound together by prayer, conversation, and letter.
Its project of “detachment” is most fully
realized when the body and soul
are found to be in harmonious union.
Then the theologian hymns
beautiful poems to God. The hand, with a pen,
spills out in verse, by the soul’s meter, images of divine mystery,
often found in the most mundane experiences
of daily life. The heart, the pulse of a human life,
is given voice, helping humanity to re-imagine
the image
it has bestowed upon itself by
seeing that humanity is to be perfected
as it is—the image of God, ordained by God.
Preachers begin to preach
a Gospel, not of an escapist hope for the soul of
one day leaving the confines of the body, but
of the possibilities of striving toward
the perfected life now, in the body.
The strife, struggle, suffering, and solemnity
of life is redeemed by the catharsis
of moving words that point to an end—
putting affliction to verse—an end of
the pain, perversion, privatization, and pestilence.
Instead of being alone in their heads, people
are empowered to share
together in the community of divine life,
bound together by prayer, conversation, and letter.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Invitation, Acceptance, Power, and Humility
(a homily)
Invitation is a powerful notion. To invite another person or group into your life or your home or your group is an act involving power. It is not a power that lords over the other, but one that empowers the other; to invite is to lower yourself in order to clarify that you see the other as worthy of your company, significant in your sight.
Conversely, the acceptance of an invitation is also an act of lowering and empowering. Acceptance is a gracious disposition, a humbled manner of facing the other and the world. It is living with thankfulness of heart and a true sense of dependence. Within this framework we see the deep significance of the invitation of the woman from Thyatira, Lydia, and Paul and the other's welcoming acceptance. The giving and receiving of invitation and acceptance give us a vision of the spiritual life, the life lived worthy of the Gospel, the testimony of Jesus in the Spirit.
Worship and the Eucharist teach us how to invite and accept. We worship God in response to God's invitation. The conversation of worship leads us to invite others into our personal lives, even into our communal life together. Even when others do not know how to accept our invitation, we continue to lovingly offer ourselves to them, empowered as we are by the Advocate who proceeds from the Father. Our life in the Spirit draws us into fellowship with the Triune God.
Worship humbles us so we might invite God into our hearts. The seventh or ninth century Palestinian monk, Theodorus the Ascetic, profoundly writes concerning the life with God:
The Lord makes his abode
in the souls of the humble,
for the hearts of the proud
are full of shameful obsessions.
Nothing strengthens the obsessions
so much as arrogant thoughts;
nothing uproots the weeds of the soul
so quickly as blessed humility.
[Quoted in The Book of Mystical Chapters: Meditations on the Soul's Ascent from the Desert Fathers and Other Early Christian Contemplatives, Trans. and Intro. John Anthony McGuckin (Boston: Shambhala, 2003) 58.]
May our worship and the high praises of God in our throats lead us to blessed humility. In this humility we are delivered from the kind power that finds its source in arrogance and instead we are empowered by the love of Christ which guides us in a way of invitation and acceptance of the other.
(Acts 16:11-15; Psalm 149:1b-2, 3-4, 5-6a and 9b; John 15:26—16:4a)
Invitation is a powerful notion. To invite another person or group into your life or your home or your group is an act involving power. It is not a power that lords over the other, but one that empowers the other; to invite is to lower yourself in order to clarify that you see the other as worthy of your company, significant in your sight.
Conversely, the acceptance of an invitation is also an act of lowering and empowering. Acceptance is a gracious disposition, a humbled manner of facing the other and the world. It is living with thankfulness of heart and a true sense of dependence. Within this framework we see the deep significance of the invitation of the woman from Thyatira, Lydia, and Paul and the other's welcoming acceptance. The giving and receiving of invitation and acceptance give us a vision of the spiritual life, the life lived worthy of the Gospel, the testimony of Jesus in the Spirit.
Worship and the Eucharist teach us how to invite and accept. We worship God in response to God's invitation. The conversation of worship leads us to invite others into our personal lives, even into our communal life together. Even when others do not know how to accept our invitation, we continue to lovingly offer ourselves to them, empowered as we are by the Advocate who proceeds from the Father. Our life in the Spirit draws us into fellowship with the Triune God.
Worship humbles us so we might invite God into our hearts. The seventh or ninth century Palestinian monk, Theodorus the Ascetic, profoundly writes concerning the life with God:
The Lord makes his abode
in the souls of the humble,
for the hearts of the proud
are full of shameful obsessions.
Nothing strengthens the obsessions
so much as arrogant thoughts;
nothing uproots the weeds of the soul
so quickly as blessed humility.
[Quoted in The Book of Mystical Chapters: Meditations on the Soul's Ascent from the Desert Fathers and Other Early Christian Contemplatives, Trans. and Intro. John Anthony McGuckin (Boston: Shambhala, 2003) 58.]
May our worship and the high praises of God in our throats lead us to blessed humility. In this humility we are delivered from the kind power that finds its source in arrogance and instead we are empowered by the love of Christ which guides us in a way of invitation and acceptance of the other.
(Acts 16:11-15; Psalm 149:1b-2, 3-4, 5-6a and 9b; John 15:26—16:4a)
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Holy Spirit, and the Heavens, the Earth, the Seas
(a homily)
Does our vision, our way of life, have an advocate? Do we rightly see that the heavens and the earth are God's, that the Lord made them, that we are on the earth as a gift? We have being because of the overflowing love of a Creator God, who is so full of love that perfect union is known in a community of Three, a God who is not only transcendent and above the creation, but also immanent, present, desiring dwell in the lives of those who keep the word of love in Christ. This love, this presence, this union is manifested among us by the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, our Teacher, our lens. Do we allow the Advocate to re-mind us of Jesus words, to make our minds new, to dwell in our thoughts, our hearts, our hands, our eyes, our own words?
Vision is easily skewed. We may see the work of God before our very eyes, but attribute the deed to a false god, a god in our own image. Our world struggles today with the affects of the philosophical turn that made humans the image of divinity, the bearers of power in the earth. We wrongly think that the earth and the sea and all that is in them, even the heavens, belong to us.
Now, it is not wrong for us to see that our fate is the fate of the world, but it is misleading for us to believe we control that fate. Humans seeing themselves as masters of the earth has led to the earth's destruction, and the earth's destruction in turn leads to humanity's misery. The creation groans in pain; we too must learn to weep with it. The source of our tears, the source of living water that wells up in our innermost beings, is the Holy Spirit, the Liberator of the creation, the giver of New Life, the presence of God. It is this Spirit that makes holy that which we do in the love of Christ, by the direction of the Word. The Spirit makes us holy, makes us advocates of the creation, gives us vision to see the image of God in others and the work of God in all that is.
May all we do serve to remind us of Christ's words, that we may hear anew the promise of being made the dwelling of God. Let us listen to the teaching of the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, listen to the breeze through the grasses and trees, and go forth knowing that the God who heals, who can help us to see aright, is the God who made heaven and earth and the sea and all that is in them.
(Acts 14:5-18; Psalm 115; John 14:21-26)
Does our vision, our way of life, have an advocate? Do we rightly see that the heavens and the earth are God's, that the Lord made them, that we are on the earth as a gift? We have being because of the overflowing love of a Creator God, who is so full of love that perfect union is known in a community of Three, a God who is not only transcendent and above the creation, but also immanent, present, desiring dwell in the lives of those who keep the word of love in Christ. This love, this presence, this union is manifested among us by the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, our Teacher, our lens. Do we allow the Advocate to re-mind us of Jesus words, to make our minds new, to dwell in our thoughts, our hearts, our hands, our eyes, our own words?
Vision is easily skewed. We may see the work of God before our very eyes, but attribute the deed to a false god, a god in our own image. Our world struggles today with the affects of the philosophical turn that made humans the image of divinity, the bearers of power in the earth. We wrongly think that the earth and the sea and all that is in them, even the heavens, belong to us.
Now, it is not wrong for us to see that our fate is the fate of the world, but it is misleading for us to believe we control that fate. Humans seeing themselves as masters of the earth has led to the earth's destruction, and the earth's destruction in turn leads to humanity's misery. The creation groans in pain; we too must learn to weep with it. The source of our tears, the source of living water that wells up in our innermost beings, is the Holy Spirit, the Liberator of the creation, the giver of New Life, the presence of God. It is this Spirit that makes holy that which we do in the love of Christ, by the direction of the Word. The Spirit makes us holy, makes us advocates of the creation, gives us vision to see the image of God in others and the work of God in all that is.
May all we do serve to remind us of Christ's words, that we may hear anew the promise of being made the dwelling of God. Let us listen to the teaching of the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, listen to the breeze through the grasses and trees, and go forth knowing that the God who heals, who can help us to see aright, is the God who made heaven and earth and the sea and all that is in them.
(Acts 14:5-18; Psalm 115; John 14:21-26)
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Lay Down
(a homily)
What shall we lay down? What is there that causes us to fuss, to exclude? Who are we to hinder God from granting the gift of life to the world, even ourselves?
It seems that more questions arise than answers are received when we face the word of the Gospel. In the light of the love of God we are humbled; we ask ourselves, if we are willing to reckon Christ the rightful role of shepherd, Why are we not following the Voice of God? This is such a troubling question to ask, for we must look deep within ourselves to find the answer, and break through the barriers we've built up between our hearts and God. Such a view is not flattering.
But let us be at peace in the knowledge that God desires us to bid the Holy Spirit to come, to send forth light and faithfulness so that we might be led to the dwelling place of God to find rest. God desires to pour out the Spirit upon all flesh, to unite humanity, to bring together all people into one flock. We, as the church are called to be a part of this work. We have been granted life-giving repentance, and so we can turn away from death, from exclusion, and turn towards the still, small Voice, towards trust, love, contemplation, and selflessness. We can lay down our lives.
The Eucharist teaches us this way of life, the way of giving and receiving and giving, of being broken and being made whole. Let us give ourselves to the Good Shepherd who will lead us in the way of love, in life baptized by the Holy Spirit.
What shall we lay down? What is there that causes us to fuss, to exclude? Who are we to hinder God from granting the gift of life to the world, even ourselves?
It seems that more questions arise than answers are received when we face the word of the Gospel. In the light of the love of God we are humbled; we ask ourselves, if we are willing to reckon Christ the rightful role of shepherd, Why are we not following the Voice of God? This is such a troubling question to ask, for we must look deep within ourselves to find the answer, and break through the barriers we've built up between our hearts and God. Such a view is not flattering.
But let us be at peace in the knowledge that God desires us to bid the Holy Spirit to come, to send forth light and faithfulness so that we might be led to the dwelling place of God to find rest. God desires to pour out the Spirit upon all flesh, to unite humanity, to bring together all people into one flock. We, as the church are called to be a part of this work. We have been granted life-giving repentance, and so we can turn away from death, from exclusion, and turn towards the still, small Voice, towards trust, love, contemplation, and selflessness. We can lay down our lives.
The Eucharist teaches us this way of life, the way of giving and receiving and giving, of being broken and being made whole. Let us give ourselves to the Good Shepherd who will lead us in the way of love, in life baptized by the Holy Spirit.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Eunucized Mind
I admit, I want to
spread my seed,
sow my virile
oats. To leave a mark,
a point of
remembrance for
my name. But, no,
not now, not when
marks mark the
lands with the
works of hands
led by minds
corrupt. My name
is enough, my thoughts
and my touch
are of love and
possess only themselves,
them being held
by the fingernail
that scraped the
humus and humanized
the dirt, moved by
the breathing wind.
Enough, this is.
Enough and no need
to leave marks.
The humus already
stands to be consumed.
spread my seed,
sow my virile
oats. To leave a mark,
a point of
remembrance for
my name. But, no,
not now, not when
marks mark the
lands with the
works of hands
led by minds
corrupt. My name
is enough, my thoughts
and my touch
are of love and
possess only themselves,
them being held
by the fingernail
that scraped the
humus and humanized
the dirt, moved by
the breathing wind.
Enough, this is.
Enough and no need
to leave marks.
The humus already
stands to be consumed.
Monday, April 7, 2008
When Did He Get Here?
(a homily)
"Teacher, when did you get here?" the crowd asked. It seems the evangelist John meant to imply that the people were dumbfounded that Jesus had made it to the other side of the lake during the night, alone, without a boat. Even more, they were upset that he had gone on his way because their meal for the day left with him. But Jesus looks through their questions. He doesn't bother addressing their intrigue, but instead leads them to consider deeper things than transportation and dinner: food that does not perish, everlasting food, the Son of Man's food; this they are to look and work for. We are to look and work for.
But what is our work? We are very much like the crowd, going to church, going to various places, looking for Jesus, looking for something. Christ is there, but I'm sure at times we wonder to ourselves, When did he get here? We recognize there is work for us to do, work for imperishable food, but what is it? (Manna, Exodus 16.) And what is imperishable food, anyway? Such a thing seems inconsiderate to imagine in a world plagued by hunger, cruel to people suffering from the havoc wrought by unjust economic systems and the greed of others.
And yet, perhaps we get a glimpse of the work of the Jesus of John's Gospel in the action of St. Stephen. Stephen, who's speech and story we will hear in the following days, spoke in the Spirit to the people with great wisdom. And what was his work, his task that occasioned great wonders and signs? Waiting tables and distributing food to widows. (Now, at the same time, the twelve apostles were going about their work of prayer and teaching--this too is a work for imperishable food.)
So, what is our work? To believe. If we could, in English, make "faith" a verb, "to faith." (We wouldn't have such a problem in Greek.) Our work is to give our whole selves to the one God sent, Jesus Christ. It is to allow his word to cut through our questions, so that we might be given a new petition, to say with the psalmist, "Remove from me the way of falsehood, the way of truth I have chosen." Our work is to pray, to feed on the meal Christ gives, to seek justice for the poor and the widows and the orphans, to create a place in which the apostles' teaching can be received. People will ask, "When did Jesus get here?" and we will be able to say, "We are working for an answer."
(Acts 6:8-15; Psalm 119:23-24, 26-27, 29-30; John 6:22-29)
"Teacher, when did you get here?" the crowd asked. It seems the evangelist John meant to imply that the people were dumbfounded that Jesus had made it to the other side of the lake during the night, alone, without a boat. Even more, they were upset that he had gone on his way because their meal for the day left with him. But Jesus looks through their questions. He doesn't bother addressing their intrigue, but instead leads them to consider deeper things than transportation and dinner: food that does not perish, everlasting food, the Son of Man's food; this they are to look and work for. We are to look and work for.
But what is our work? We are very much like the crowd, going to church, going to various places, looking for Jesus, looking for something. Christ is there, but I'm sure at times we wonder to ourselves, When did he get here? We recognize there is work for us to do, work for imperishable food, but what is it? (Manna, Exodus 16.) And what is imperishable food, anyway? Such a thing seems inconsiderate to imagine in a world plagued by hunger, cruel to people suffering from the havoc wrought by unjust economic systems and the greed of others.
And yet, perhaps we get a glimpse of the work of the Jesus of John's Gospel in the action of St. Stephen. Stephen, who's speech and story we will hear in the following days, spoke in the Spirit to the people with great wisdom. And what was his work, his task that occasioned great wonders and signs? Waiting tables and distributing food to widows. (Now, at the same time, the twelve apostles were going about their work of prayer and teaching--this too is a work for imperishable food.)
So, what is our work? To believe. If we could, in English, make "faith" a verb, "to faith." (We wouldn't have such a problem in Greek.) Our work is to give our whole selves to the one God sent, Jesus Christ. It is to allow his word to cut through our questions, so that we might be given a new petition, to say with the psalmist, "Remove from me the way of falsehood, the way of truth I have chosen." Our work is to pray, to feed on the meal Christ gives, to seek justice for the poor and the widows and the orphans, to create a place in which the apostles' teaching can be received. People will ask, "When did Jesus get here?" and we will be able to say, "We are working for an answer."
(Acts 6:8-15; Psalm 119:23-24, 26-27, 29-30; John 6:22-29)
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
The Believe is to Breathe
(a homily for Adoration, Hopwood Christian Church)
We often think that to believe is to simply give mental ascent, to appreciate in our minds and probably with our lips that “such and such is true” or that some particular proposition is trustworthy. Such is the legacy of Western “enlightenment.” On the other hand, it seems that those who have become aware that belief is not merely a mental thing, but a bodily way of life, often run the risk of becoming busy-bodies. “There are so many problems to be taken care of in the world, and if I don’t do something, who will?” such folks ask. I must admit that I think active believers are probably going more so in the right direction than merely rational believers. They say, like “doubting” Thomas, “I want to touch the scars of Christ.” Our Gospel reading tells us that Thomas was not with the other ten disciples when the risen Lord appeared to them. Some Christian traditions hold that Thomas was absent because he was already out doing the work of the Gospel. The other ten, were, in a sense, still in a state of shock, and they locked themselves up in a room trying to wrap their minds around the news they had received from Mary of Magdala, that she had seen the risen Lord. The question arises, however, as to which type of disciples we should try to be like: the active, physically oriented Thomas type or the hiding, mentally oriented type? All of us are potentially like Thomas and the other disciples. Perhaps there’s a way to bring both together.
What if our mentally-minded friends are not entirely wrong, just merely misguided by the likes of Descartes, talking head politics, state education required aptitude tests, or that great disembodying device, television? It is to be our hope that all are able to be made new; such is the promise of the Resurrection. But where does Resurrection Reality bring the ephemerally fanciful mind back into fellowship with the hardened, busy body, those parts of the person never meant to be considered divided? Well, take a deep breath. No, really, breathe deeply.
We must regain our hearts, the seat of our very beings. The Greek term in the New Testament and other ancient Christian writings often translated as “mind” or “intellect,” is nous. Nous is, however, something more than “mind,” or the faculty of reason. It is our “spirit,” that essential part of us that connects to God, being even the image of God in humanity. Thus, as the Eastern spiritual fathers express, true prayer and worship is “to descend with the mind (the nous) into the heart.”[Timothy Ware, in Introduction, The Art of Prayer, compiled by Igumen Chariton of Valamo (London: Faber and Faber, 1966), 17f.] If we’ve forgotten, or never learned, the profundity of the mind, that it’s not only for thinking and mental ascent, it will be difficult for us to let it reconnect with the heart. However, a practice that can help us do this is that of being attentive to our breathing. Perhaps a selection from a poem by the contemporary poet Scott Cairns about the subtle meaning of nous will help to illustrate:
“… Dormant in its roaring cave,
the heart’s intellective aptitude grows dim,
unless you find a way to wake it. So,
let’s try something, even now. Even as
you tend these lines, attend for a moment
to your breath as you draw it in: regard
the breath’s cool descent, a stream from mouth
to throat to the furnace of the heart.
Observe that queer, cool confluence of breath
and blood, and do your thinking there.
[Scott Cairns, “Adventures in New Testament Greek: Nous,” Compass of Affection (Brewster,
MA: Paraclete Press, 2006), 104-105.]
When we become mindful of our breath, when we slow down to take notice of something so easily unnoticed as breathing, we become profoundly aware of the inseparable nature of our mind—our spirit—and our body. We come to recognize that the mental aspect of believing is wedded to the flesh, to our mouth, our throat, our lungs, our heart. We find that to believe is to breathe.
Now, I must tell you that we are not to do all of this believing and breathing alone. Bringing the mind and the heart and the body back together, mending the internal divide caused by sin, deception, and a philosophical inheritance will be a trying process. And thus we find, at least in part, the wisdom of gathering here together in this place to fellowship and foster friendship in the context of worship. We need help in believing, that radically active disposition that takes hold of all we are, and points us towards all we are becoming. When we find it difficult to breathe, our fellow believers in Christ are a peaceful presence. In worship, in receiving the body and blood of Christ, we are given true breath and we learn how to breathe in the everyday.
Here in this place, and in life’s mindful encounters, the risen Jesus comes among us, his disciples, and he says to us, “Peace be with you,” and he shows us the marks of his crucifixion, those gruesome and glorious reminders of the reward of fulfilling the law of love, of faithfully living the Gospel. Jesus tells us, and he shows us, that believing is not something simply done “up here, in the mind, with sheer thoughts.” Belief is done in and with the body—in our wrists, in our sides, with our hearts, with our very breath. But neither is belief merely physical; it is truly spiritual, the mind’s activity of repentance and purification, the turning of our whole selves towards God to be cleansed and renewed. Let us breathe. Let us believe. Let us think not only about the body of Christ, nor simply touch Christ’s scars, but let us be the body of Christ, broken for the world and raised to new life.
Jesus, breathe on us anew, that we may receive the Holy Spirit, the Advocate sent by your Father. Thank you for the gifts of worship, prayer, life, doubt, belief and breath. Give us breath, so we may live in a way that gives you glory. Amen.
(Gospel: John 20:19-31)
We often think that to believe is to simply give mental ascent, to appreciate in our minds and probably with our lips that “such and such is true” or that some particular proposition is trustworthy. Such is the legacy of Western “enlightenment.” On the other hand, it seems that those who have become aware that belief is not merely a mental thing, but a bodily way of life, often run the risk of becoming busy-bodies. “There are so many problems to be taken care of in the world, and if I don’t do something, who will?” such folks ask. I must admit that I think active believers are probably going more so in the right direction than merely rational believers. They say, like “doubting” Thomas, “I want to touch the scars of Christ.” Our Gospel reading tells us that Thomas was not with the other ten disciples when the risen Lord appeared to them. Some Christian traditions hold that Thomas was absent because he was already out doing the work of the Gospel. The other ten, were, in a sense, still in a state of shock, and they locked themselves up in a room trying to wrap their minds around the news they had received from Mary of Magdala, that she had seen the risen Lord. The question arises, however, as to which type of disciples we should try to be like: the active, physically oriented Thomas type or the hiding, mentally oriented type? All of us are potentially like Thomas and the other disciples. Perhaps there’s a way to bring both together.
What if our mentally-minded friends are not entirely wrong, just merely misguided by the likes of Descartes, talking head politics, state education required aptitude tests, or that great disembodying device, television? It is to be our hope that all are able to be made new; such is the promise of the Resurrection. But where does Resurrection Reality bring the ephemerally fanciful mind back into fellowship with the hardened, busy body, those parts of the person never meant to be considered divided? Well, take a deep breath. No, really, breathe deeply.
We must regain our hearts, the seat of our very beings. The Greek term in the New Testament and other ancient Christian writings often translated as “mind” or “intellect,” is nous. Nous is, however, something more than “mind,” or the faculty of reason. It is our “spirit,” that essential part of us that connects to God, being even the image of God in humanity. Thus, as the Eastern spiritual fathers express, true prayer and worship is “to descend with the mind (the nous) into the heart.”[Timothy Ware, in Introduction, The Art of Prayer, compiled by Igumen Chariton of Valamo (London: Faber and Faber, 1966), 17f.] If we’ve forgotten, or never learned, the profundity of the mind, that it’s not only for thinking and mental ascent, it will be difficult for us to let it reconnect with the heart. However, a practice that can help us do this is that of being attentive to our breathing. Perhaps a selection from a poem by the contemporary poet Scott Cairns about the subtle meaning of nous will help to illustrate:
“… Dormant in its roaring cave,
the heart’s intellective aptitude grows dim,
unless you find a way to wake it. So,
let’s try something, even now. Even as
you tend these lines, attend for a moment
to your breath as you draw it in: regard
the breath’s cool descent, a stream from mouth
to throat to the furnace of the heart.
Observe that queer, cool confluence of breath
and blood, and do your thinking there.
[Scott Cairns, “Adventures in New Testament Greek: Nous,” Compass of Affection (Brewster,
MA: Paraclete Press, 2006), 104-105.]
When we become mindful of our breath, when we slow down to take notice of something so easily unnoticed as breathing, we become profoundly aware of the inseparable nature of our mind—our spirit—and our body. We come to recognize that the mental aspect of believing is wedded to the flesh, to our mouth, our throat, our lungs, our heart. We find that to believe is to breathe.
Now, I must tell you that we are not to do all of this believing and breathing alone. Bringing the mind and the heart and the body back together, mending the internal divide caused by sin, deception, and a philosophical inheritance will be a trying process. And thus we find, at least in part, the wisdom of gathering here together in this place to fellowship and foster friendship in the context of worship. We need help in believing, that radically active disposition that takes hold of all we are, and points us towards all we are becoming. When we find it difficult to breathe, our fellow believers in Christ are a peaceful presence. In worship, in receiving the body and blood of Christ, we are given true breath and we learn how to breathe in the everyday.
Here in this place, and in life’s mindful encounters, the risen Jesus comes among us, his disciples, and he says to us, “Peace be with you,” and he shows us the marks of his crucifixion, those gruesome and glorious reminders of the reward of fulfilling the law of love, of faithfully living the Gospel. Jesus tells us, and he shows us, that believing is not something simply done “up here, in the mind, with sheer thoughts.” Belief is done in and with the body—in our wrists, in our sides, with our hearts, with our very breath. But neither is belief merely physical; it is truly spiritual, the mind’s activity of repentance and purification, the turning of our whole selves towards God to be cleansed and renewed. Let us breathe. Let us believe. Let us think not only about the body of Christ, nor simply touch Christ’s scars, but let us be the body of Christ, broken for the world and raised to new life.
Jesus, breathe on us anew, that we may receive the Holy Spirit, the Advocate sent by your Father. Thank you for the gifts of worship, prayer, life, doubt, belief and breath. Give us breath, so we may live in a way that gives you glory. Amen.
(Gospel: John 20:19-31)
Monday, March 31, 2008
Together the Handmaid
(a homily)
Today we celebrate the Annunciation of the Lord. The story is told that the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary to tell her that she would bear the Son of God. The conception was to be the work of the Holy Spirit. Though the news puzzled her, she accepted the word of the angel and declared, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word.”
Not being the kind of human that would be able to bear a child, I admit that I tend to struggle with how to place myself in this story. Who am I? Certainly I'm not Mary; really, none of us are. Neither am I Gabriel, though this particular morning I am supposed to bring a message. But perhaps part of the problem for me to conceive of my place in this story is that I'm trying to find my place, my individual self. If we're going to read ourselves into this story, we need to do it together.
It is true that the story depicts one particular event in history. However, the Word of God still speaks today, still "stories" those who read and hear it. The Annunciation is announced among us today, even here in East Tennessee. Today, an angel tells us, the Holy Spirit will come upon you and the will of the Son of God will dwell in you. We must respond, "Behold, we are the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to us according to your word."
Christ is among us in our gathering. We receive the bread and wine, his body and blood, and the grace of God is conceived within us and among us as we are made anew the Body of Christ. We even are made messengers, heralds of the impossible made actual. And thus, by God's empowerment, we too can say, "Here I am, Lord; I come to do your will." We may not be Mary, or Gabriel, or even Joseph or King Ahaz, but by the Word of God, we fellowship with them, we are incorporated into their stories together. Hopefully we will respond well to the signs given to us, a response made possible by the one sacrifice of the Son of God, a response that reverberates throughout all our lives, individually and communally.
(Feast of the Annunciation of the Lord: Isaiah 7:10-14; 8:10; Psalm 40; Hebrews 10:4-10; Luke 1:26-38)
Today we celebrate the Annunciation of the Lord. The story is told that the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary to tell her that she would bear the Son of God. The conception was to be the work of the Holy Spirit. Though the news puzzled her, she accepted the word of the angel and declared, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word.”
Not being the kind of human that would be able to bear a child, I admit that I tend to struggle with how to place myself in this story. Who am I? Certainly I'm not Mary; really, none of us are. Neither am I Gabriel, though this particular morning I am supposed to bring a message. But perhaps part of the problem for me to conceive of my place in this story is that I'm trying to find my place, my individual self. If we're going to read ourselves into this story, we need to do it together.
It is true that the story depicts one particular event in history. However, the Word of God still speaks today, still "stories" those who read and hear it. The Annunciation is announced among us today, even here in East Tennessee. Today, an angel tells us, the Holy Spirit will come upon you and the will of the Son of God will dwell in you. We must respond, "Behold, we are the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to us according to your word."
Christ is among us in our gathering. We receive the bread and wine, his body and blood, and the grace of God is conceived within us and among us as we are made anew the Body of Christ. We even are made messengers, heralds of the impossible made actual. And thus, by God's empowerment, we too can say, "Here I am, Lord; I come to do your will." We may not be Mary, or Gabriel, or even Joseph or King Ahaz, but by the Word of God, we fellowship with them, we are incorporated into their stories together. Hopefully we will respond well to the signs given to us, a response made possible by the one sacrifice of the Son of God, a response that reverberates throughout all our lives, individually and communally.
(Feast of the Annunciation of the Lord: Isaiah 7:10-14; 8:10; Psalm 40; Hebrews 10:4-10; Luke 1:26-38)
Friday, March 21, 2008
good, Friday
What year, which reading,
will the cries of "no king but Caesar"
curdle our own blood when we speak them
with our lives?
Our legs broken that we might bow,
bend the knee, quibbling
before governors for our murderous
intentions fulfilled.
Righteousness, goodness,
love, meekness: despised and crucified.
Enemy forgiveness, suffering swallowed,
endured.
O Caesar, you don't understand.
Forgive us for giving
you power, corrupting you,
giving you reason
to smirk.
Lord, we kill, we die,
but let us rise above
our derelict voices, our
choice for power.
Restore us to
exiled love.
will the cries of "no king but Caesar"
curdle our own blood when we speak them
with our lives?
Our legs broken that we might bow,
bend the knee, quibbling
before governors for our murderous
intentions fulfilled.
Righteousness, goodness,
love, meekness: despised and crucified.
Enemy forgiveness, suffering swallowed,
endured.
O Caesar, you don't understand.
Forgive us for giving
you power, corrupting you,
giving you reason
to smirk.
Lord, we kill, we die,
but let us rise above
our derelict voices, our
choice for power.
Restore us to
exiled love.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
An Ecotheological Thought for Holy Week
To know that the world is essentially united is excruciating; a person in that moment of recognition, that experience of unity, realizes the place of the cross in creation. That person feels in that moment the separation that sin generates between created beings in themselves and among each other; even more the separation between the created order and God. Such a recognition will lead a person in the way towards the cross, towards the work of participation in the restoration of unity begun, completed, and to be in Christ and perfected by the Spirit.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Tea on back deck, under the sun
A cup of amber tea.
My friend crafted
the cup from clay
made by God, packaged
by humans, glaze
probably mechanically
distilled. Amber tea,
from yellow, black
leaves, Chinese. Iron
Japanese pot for steeping.
Unbleached sugar, its time
as Paraguayan cane
crystallized, shipped last
in plastic. Dust bits float
on the surface. Am I
swallowing my own skin?
Spume, mirror of the sun,
of a face, diminutive,
effervescent, from
the center out to a
circumstantial part
of the potter's
boundary, minus the three
aloofly polar domes
there alone, noticed
and inspiring. Inspiring
to be not too concerned,
not merely observant.
My friend crafted
the cup from clay
made by God, packaged
by humans, glaze
probably mechanically
distilled. Amber tea,
from yellow, black
leaves, Chinese. Iron
Japanese pot for steeping.
Unbleached sugar, its time
as Paraguayan cane
crystallized, shipped last
in plastic. Dust bits float
on the surface. Am I
swallowing my own skin?
Spume, mirror of the sun,
of a face, diminutive,
effervescent, from
the center out to a
circumstantial part
of the potter's
boundary, minus the three
aloofly polar domes
there alone, noticed
and inspiring. Inspiring
to be not too concerned,
not merely observant.
Nothing to Fear
(a homily)
"Of whom shall we be afraid?" Even though this week we prepare to walk again the way to the cross, we have nothing to fear. Even though we face the truth that faithfulness to the Gospel brings upon us opposition from the powers, we ought not withhold the Word of Love. This Word has set us free, and it calls us to work for the freedom of others. We have something to say to those who seek to imprison the nations if we in our spirits are freed from their ways of oppression. Literally, there are people in this world in dark dungeons, and not so figuratively in prisons, be they penitentiaries, covert detention centers, ghettos, slums, hollers, and projects; or mansions, high-rise apartments, cubicles, and corporate boardrooms. The very philosophical foundations of our surrounding culture and political system seek to confine us by fear to our individual selves, our individual families and friends, and to make us blind to the just union that God seeks to bring forth to the nations in Jesus Christ, and through the body of Christ, the Church.
But let us remember, we have nothing to fear. We, in our baptisms, were placed in the grave. We have already tasted death (though, perhaps, its stench has been hidden from us). Having tasted death, we shall not be afraid of death any longer. Instead, this Holy Week we walk in the steps of Jesus to the Cross. We hear his teachings, witness his betrayal, see his agony. We can see these anytime we read the news or make an effort to observe and engage the world. This day, and throughout the week, too, we gather around the table; we feast with the company of the saints. We recognize that we must break open our perfumes and anoint the feet of Jesus, wash the feet of our brothers and sisters. We like Lazarus have been raised from the dead, only to watch the Lord of Life go to the cross to truly conquer death. With the cross there is resurrection; release from the dungeons and the mansions.
Let us become prepared in the worship of God, the fellowship at table, to walk in the way of Jesus in the power of the Holy Spirit. Such a walk leads to the cross, but we are guided by the Lord, our light and our salvation, so we shall not be afraid. Christ gives himself for us, and we ourselves for his cause, the Kingdom. At this table we taste death and we taste life, the life of the world.
(Isaiah 42:1-7; Psalm 27; John 12:1-11)
"Of whom shall we be afraid?" Even though this week we prepare to walk again the way to the cross, we have nothing to fear. Even though we face the truth that faithfulness to the Gospel brings upon us opposition from the powers, we ought not withhold the Word of Love. This Word has set us free, and it calls us to work for the freedom of others. We have something to say to those who seek to imprison the nations if we in our spirits are freed from their ways of oppression. Literally, there are people in this world in dark dungeons, and not so figuratively in prisons, be they penitentiaries, covert detention centers, ghettos, slums, hollers, and projects; or mansions, high-rise apartments, cubicles, and corporate boardrooms. The very philosophical foundations of our surrounding culture and political system seek to confine us by fear to our individual selves, our individual families and friends, and to make us blind to the just union that God seeks to bring forth to the nations in Jesus Christ, and through the body of Christ, the Church.
But let us remember, we have nothing to fear. We, in our baptisms, were placed in the grave. We have already tasted death (though, perhaps, its stench has been hidden from us). Having tasted death, we shall not be afraid of death any longer. Instead, this Holy Week we walk in the steps of Jesus to the Cross. We hear his teachings, witness his betrayal, see his agony. We can see these anytime we read the news or make an effort to observe and engage the world. This day, and throughout the week, too, we gather around the table; we feast with the company of the saints. We recognize that we must break open our perfumes and anoint the feet of Jesus, wash the feet of our brothers and sisters. We like Lazarus have been raised from the dead, only to watch the Lord of Life go to the cross to truly conquer death. With the cross there is resurrection; release from the dungeons and the mansions.
Let us become prepared in the worship of God, the fellowship at table, to walk in the way of Jesus in the power of the Holy Spirit. Such a walk leads to the cross, but we are guided by the Lord, our light and our salvation, so we shall not be afraid. Christ gives himself for us, and we ourselves for his cause, the Kingdom. At this table we taste death and we taste life, the life of the world.
(Isaiah 42:1-7; Psalm 27; John 12:1-11)
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Not He
When I think to myself
of myself:
"Here, this is the prophet
who was to come
into my world.
By force,
make him king"--
I must withdraw
to a quiet place
by myself
to remember kingdoms
were not meant
to be of this world.
of myself:
"Here, this is the prophet
who was to come
into my world.
By force,
make him king"--
I must withdraw
to a quiet place
by myself
to remember kingdoms
were not meant
to be of this world.
Monday, March 3, 2008
To the City of Peace and Wholeness, Unfamiliar
(a homily)
Those who can give up their native place will be open to making room for the other for they recognize their own displacement. Rejected, we can become accepting people, which is to love the enemy, the estranged and the stranger. Prophets have no honor in their hometowns. Miracles are performed in neighboring communities; the water is made into wine, the unfamiliar is familiarized and all the more made mysterious and beautiful.
This is newness of life; a new home, a new way of living in the City of Peace and Wholeness, the Kingdom of God. Past wrongs are forgiven and forgotten. Bitter tears are transformed into joyous exaltation. Wine is pressed from abundant grapes, the fruit of labor done not in vain. All work becomes a prayer, our practice becomes praise of God.
Let us continue journeying together toward Jerusalem, the city where we will meet our fate. It is where we have been heading in this Lenten season, following Jesus to the cross, His glorification. Today, feasting on simple bread and wine transformed by the Holy Spirit into transforming spiritual food, we taste the bitterness of Christ's broken body, Christ's death; but, we also receive a taste of the celebration to be had in the new city, a celebration that begins even now. Here, the new heaven becomes present, and we are made seed for the new earth.
As we near death this very hour, at just this time we too are told and we come to know that we will live; the Holy Spirit, the Breath of God, dwells in us. We may have to leave the place of our original comfort, but in so doing we walk towards the City of Peace and Wholeness.
(Isaiah 65:17-21; Psalm 30; John 4:43-54)
Those who can give up their native place will be open to making room for the other for they recognize their own displacement. Rejected, we can become accepting people, which is to love the enemy, the estranged and the stranger. Prophets have no honor in their hometowns. Miracles are performed in neighboring communities; the water is made into wine, the unfamiliar is familiarized and all the more made mysterious and beautiful.
This is newness of life; a new home, a new way of living in the City of Peace and Wholeness, the Kingdom of God. Past wrongs are forgiven and forgotten. Bitter tears are transformed into joyous exaltation. Wine is pressed from abundant grapes, the fruit of labor done not in vain. All work becomes a prayer, our practice becomes praise of God.
Let us continue journeying together toward Jerusalem, the city where we will meet our fate. It is where we have been heading in this Lenten season, following Jesus to the cross, His glorification. Today, feasting on simple bread and wine transformed by the Holy Spirit into transforming spiritual food, we taste the bitterness of Christ's broken body, Christ's death; but, we also receive a taste of the celebration to be had in the new city, a celebration that begins even now. Here, the new heaven becomes present, and we are made seed for the new earth.
As we near death this very hour, at just this time we too are told and we come to know that we will live; the Holy Spirit, the Breath of God, dwells in us. We may have to leave the place of our original comfort, but in so doing we walk towards the City of Peace and Wholeness.
(Isaiah 65:17-21; Psalm 30; John 4:43-54)
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Sight Anointed
Blind and blind
and awake O sleeper.
I'm tired, but I may be awake.
When do I see?
When I see I don't see, I see.
Small, slight, unobtrusive,
the light can be seen;
though it would be
better to not have a king.
Olive oil and wine poured,
tasted and absorbed.
Anoint with spit and mud,
words' liquid and earth.
Awake O sleeper, see.
(1 Samuel 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a; Psalm 23; Ephesians 5:8-14; John 9:1-41)
and awake O sleeper.
I'm tired, but I may be awake.
When do I see?
When I see I don't see, I see.
Small, slight, unobtrusive,
the light can be seen;
though it would be
better to not have a king.
Olive oil and wine poured,
tasted and absorbed.
Anoint with spit and mud,
words' liquid and earth.
Awake O sleeper, see.
(1 Samuel 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a; Psalm 23; Ephesians 5:8-14; John 9:1-41)
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Small Law of Love
The smallest mark,
the little insect,
fleeting thought in the dark.
Over all these,
and you with and over them,
streams the law so wise.
We would worry
about the smallest details
of the most foolish party,
but, see, we learn
all life is in the finest print.
It is not so we will burn
with anger, judgment, neurosis,
but so to discern with love,
with praise of fair justice.
We see the pupils
of our widened eyes,
the windows of people
closed in reflection,
looking upon intelligence,
the law of love in meditation.
(Deuteronomy 4:1, 5-9; Psalm 147; Matthew 5:17-19)
the little insect,
fleeting thought in the dark.
Over all these,
and you with and over them,
streams the law so wise.
We would worry
about the smallest details
of the most foolish party,
but, see, we learn
all life is in the finest print.
It is not so we will burn
with anger, judgment, neurosis,
but so to discern with love,
with praise of fair justice.
We see the pupils
of our widened eyes,
the windows of people
closed in reflection,
looking upon intelligence,
the law of love in meditation.
(Deuteronomy 4:1, 5-9; Psalm 147; Matthew 5:17-19)
Monday, February 25, 2008
history, no longer repeating
Last night I read this:
"In the age when life on earth was full, no one paid any special attention to worthy men, nor did they single out the man of ability. Rulers were simply the highest branches on the tree, and the people were like deer in the woods. They were honest and righteous without realizing that they were "doing their duty." They loved each other and did not know that this was "love of neighbor." They deceived no one yet they did not know that they were "men to be trusted." They were reliable and did not know that this was "good faith." They lived freely together giving and taking, and did not know that they were generous. For this reason their deeds have not been narrated. They made no history."
(Thomas Merton from The Way of Chuang Tzu, 1965, quoted in Echoing Silence: Thomas Merton on the Vocation of Writing, edited by Robert Inchausti. Boston: New Seeds, 2007. 204)
After reading this, I wrote the following. It should not be considered dogmatic. It is simply good to allow ourselves to struggle with the things we encounter, and that is what I am trying to do here. If you would like, struggle with me, please.
"A persons greatest goal ought to be to not make history. Certainly, our world is shaped by historical figures, 'history makers,' yes. They overcame the nameless folks, the censused and numbered of history. Our goal is to not be numbered. 'Sell your possessions.' Give up your binding objects, abstractions and senseless images that entangle you in the messiness of history disconnected from the story God wants to tell. Only in giving up that which is most cherished, your superficial name, that place in the Annals of Babel, will you gain your name, gain your story.
I will grant, we are all historical figures, but whose history? History is told from a certain perspective. Our perspective must change, and our voice must be muted by the still, small Voice, the meek Voice which spoke all things into being with a lyric of grace. From there we speak. Entering into this Voice, into its Word, moved by Its Spirit, we transcend history, and in so giving we mark time with the stamp of eternity come down, the beautiful touch of love which has no attachments, only a name and a God. There, history ceases to repeat itself for it is rightly placed and only the Voice speaks."
"In the age when life on earth was full, no one paid any special attention to worthy men, nor did they single out the man of ability. Rulers were simply the highest branches on the tree, and the people were like deer in the woods. They were honest and righteous without realizing that they were "doing their duty." They loved each other and did not know that this was "love of neighbor." They deceived no one yet they did not know that they were "men to be trusted." They were reliable and did not know that this was "good faith." They lived freely together giving and taking, and did not know that they were generous. For this reason their deeds have not been narrated. They made no history."
(Thomas Merton from The Way of Chuang Tzu, 1965, quoted in Echoing Silence: Thomas Merton on the Vocation of Writing, edited by Robert Inchausti. Boston: New Seeds, 2007. 204)
After reading this, I wrote the following. It should not be considered dogmatic. It is simply good to allow ourselves to struggle with the things we encounter, and that is what I am trying to do here. If you would like, struggle with me, please.
"A persons greatest goal ought to be to not make history. Certainly, our world is shaped by historical figures, 'history makers,' yes. They overcame the nameless folks, the censused and numbered of history. Our goal is to not be numbered. 'Sell your possessions.' Give up your binding objects, abstractions and senseless images that entangle you in the messiness of history disconnected from the story God wants to tell. Only in giving up that which is most cherished, your superficial name, that place in the Annals of Babel, will you gain your name, gain your story.
I will grant, we are all historical figures, but whose history? History is told from a certain perspective. Our perspective must change, and our voice must be muted by the still, small Voice, the meek Voice which spoke all things into being with a lyric of grace. From there we speak. Entering into this Voice, into its Word, moved by Its Spirit, we transcend history, and in so giving we mark time with the stamp of eternity come down, the beautiful touch of love which has no attachments, only a name and a God. There, history ceases to repeat itself for it is rightly placed and only the Voice speaks."
The Gospel Takes Us, Not Us the Gospel
(a homily)
Imagine... Jesus had just been tempted in the desert and overcame the devil. He came home and declared that he had been anointed to bring good news to the poor, release for captives, sight to the blind, freedom for the oppressed, and the year of the Lord's favor. His hometown neighbors were rather amazed at their quiet son's words, but soon their amazement turned to horror and offense when they were told these words were not their own. They were told they weren't going to get it. And they didn't disagree. They weren't going to wrestle with His words, either. They didn't want to share the words with Sidoneans or Syrians or anyone else. Instead, they simply wanted to kill that which they couldn't understand. They wanted these words for themselves, they wanted Jesus' proclamation of freedom to be their key to power, but he would not let them have it.
When we take the Gospel by force, or make it our own without letting it own and re-make us, it passes through us and goes away. We are left alone, burning with anger, blind and leprous, standing at the cliff from which we wished to hurl the Word we would not hear.
But, there is a prophet in Israel, a prophet in the Church. There is a river into which we can plunge. There are waters that will forever quench our thirst. The Holy Spirit is among us here. God's breath is here. When we are here, and when here is with us wherever we are, when Christ is in us, peace is with us. Love moves us. We are compelled to send word that there is good news, release, sight, freedom, and favor. We are compelled to be those things. However, to be such, we must first be at peace in ourselves. We must let go of our angers, our fears, our mistaken expectations, our comforts, the ghosts of exclusion. These are the things that should be thrown off summit of the hill. Having release from these we can take in the body of humility, the life force of forgiveness. We shall then go on our way transformed, renewed, remade, neighbors, brothers and sisters, the body of Christ for the world.
(2 Kings 5:1-15; Psalm 42:2, 3; 43:3, 4; Luke 4:24-30)
Imagine... Jesus had just been tempted in the desert and overcame the devil. He came home and declared that he had been anointed to bring good news to the poor, release for captives, sight to the blind, freedom for the oppressed, and the year of the Lord's favor. His hometown neighbors were rather amazed at their quiet son's words, but soon their amazement turned to horror and offense when they were told these words were not their own. They were told they weren't going to get it. And they didn't disagree. They weren't going to wrestle with His words, either. They didn't want to share the words with Sidoneans or Syrians or anyone else. Instead, they simply wanted to kill that which they couldn't understand. They wanted these words for themselves, they wanted Jesus' proclamation of freedom to be their key to power, but he would not let them have it.
When we take the Gospel by force, or make it our own without letting it own and re-make us, it passes through us and goes away. We are left alone, burning with anger, blind and leprous, standing at the cliff from which we wished to hurl the Word we would not hear.
But, there is a prophet in Israel, a prophet in the Church. There is a river into which we can plunge. There are waters that will forever quench our thirst. The Holy Spirit is among us here. God's breath is here. When we are here, and when here is with us wherever we are, when Christ is in us, peace is with us. Love moves us. We are compelled to send word that there is good news, release, sight, freedom, and favor. We are compelled to be those things. However, to be such, we must first be at peace in ourselves. We must let go of our angers, our fears, our mistaken expectations, our comforts, the ghosts of exclusion. These are the things that should be thrown off summit of the hill. Having release from these we can take in the body of humility, the life force of forgiveness. We shall then go on our way transformed, renewed, remade, neighbors, brothers and sisters, the body of Christ for the world.
(2 Kings 5:1-15; Psalm 42:2, 3; 43:3, 4; Luke 4:24-30)
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Church Death - Church Growth
(Forgive me for not regularly posting these days, those of you who you check to see if I am. And forgive me for not doing the usual work I do when I do make a post, such as today.)
For some reason, the idea of church expansion and growth came to my mind while I was working on a paper due this week. I'm sure there are healthy churches that grow, that is, acquire new members and converts. I'm sure there are some that are actually preaching the Gospel. But, I am also aware that some church leaders (yes, I have particular ones in mind--this is not a sweeping statement) today have a feeling that if they do not plant new churches, franchises if you will, the church will die. I'm not very familiar with their logic or arguments, but I have a gut feeling they are wrong, at least a bit misguided. Now certainly, I don't want the church to die. I want to see churches doing the work of the Kingdom of God. But franchising? Seems more like McChurch, and as most of us know by now, McAnything is not healthy for the body or soul.
It's not even that I don't want churches to grow or expand. However, we must consider what it is we mean by expansion. Empires expand, but they do it by violence, force, and imposing fear. The seeds they sow are those of hate. Corporations expand, but they do it by acquisition, shady deals, corrupt trade and manufacturing practices. They sow seeds for things that will never be harvested in the Kingdom Come. And yet on the day that Peter spoke to the people in Jerusalem on Pentecost roughly two-thousand years ago, three-thousand were added to the number of the fellowship of the Way, heeding the call to exit their corrupt generation. (Acts 2:40-41) But it was not exactly Peter doing the talking. To those with faith, we see that it was the Spirit of God moving and speaking through him. The old Peter, the old Apostles, had died; the new Creation had begun.
And this leads me to my punchline, if you will, the phrase that came to me when I should have been writing a paper: A church that thinks or feels that it must grow or expand probably needs to die first. Churches cannot go on acting like the corrupt generation they come from. They have been called to move out of the way, to allow the Spirit to take the reigns, not the market-mindset. That day of Pentecost and the days following, it was not fancy marketing schemes and cookie-cutter, or even contrived non-cookie-cut buildings, that attracted people and cut them to the heart. It was death and it was new birth. It was sorrow and it was joy. It was the impossibility of the whole situation that made sense. All the logic of empire and power was shown to be false. Only the Crucified could save them, the one who refused to save himself on their behalf. And now we too can choose to not save ourselves, but to be open to death, open to the life of Christ which leads to the cross and saves us from this corrupt generation. And it is through this openness to death that we actually show love and mercy to those corrupted. Our transparency allows others to see the beautiful Triune God that animates our life together. This death to the old and the normal is life anew. It is growth.
For some reason, the idea of church expansion and growth came to my mind while I was working on a paper due this week. I'm sure there are healthy churches that grow, that is, acquire new members and converts. I'm sure there are some that are actually preaching the Gospel. But, I am also aware that some church leaders (yes, I have particular ones in mind--this is not a sweeping statement) today have a feeling that if they do not plant new churches, franchises if you will, the church will die. I'm not very familiar with their logic or arguments, but I have a gut feeling they are wrong, at least a bit misguided. Now certainly, I don't want the church to die. I want to see churches doing the work of the Kingdom of God. But franchising? Seems more like McChurch, and as most of us know by now, McAnything is not healthy for the body or soul.
It's not even that I don't want churches to grow or expand. However, we must consider what it is we mean by expansion. Empires expand, but they do it by violence, force, and imposing fear. The seeds they sow are those of hate. Corporations expand, but they do it by acquisition, shady deals, corrupt trade and manufacturing practices. They sow seeds for things that will never be harvested in the Kingdom Come. And yet on the day that Peter spoke to the people in Jerusalem on Pentecost roughly two-thousand years ago, three-thousand were added to the number of the fellowship of the Way, heeding the call to exit their corrupt generation. (Acts 2:40-41) But it was not exactly Peter doing the talking. To those with faith, we see that it was the Spirit of God moving and speaking through him. The old Peter, the old Apostles, had died; the new Creation had begun.
And this leads me to my punchline, if you will, the phrase that came to me when I should have been writing a paper: A church that thinks or feels that it must grow or expand probably needs to die first. Churches cannot go on acting like the corrupt generation they come from. They have been called to move out of the way, to allow the Spirit to take the reigns, not the market-mindset. That day of Pentecost and the days following, it was not fancy marketing schemes and cookie-cutter, or even contrived non-cookie-cut buildings, that attracted people and cut them to the heart. It was death and it was new birth. It was sorrow and it was joy. It was the impossibility of the whole situation that made sense. All the logic of empire and power was shown to be false. Only the Crucified could save them, the one who refused to save himself on their behalf. And now we too can choose to not save ourselves, but to be open to death, open to the life of Christ which leads to the cross and saves us from this corrupt generation. And it is through this openness to death that we actually show love and mercy to those corrupted. Our transparency allows others to see the beautiful Triune God that animates our life together. This death to the old and the normal is life anew. It is growth.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Towards a Full Nothing
Nothingness, nothingness
in the heart of all that Is,
the Is, that which always was and will Be.
There in that heart, nothing beats
except what Is.
And then something, something
happens with great light,
not piercing darkness,
for there was only light,
but a new light,
a light fathomed
by those given fathoming.
An empty light, a void of light
indistinguishable of itself,
except from the heart that made,
the Is that opened up,
made a space to share,
to overflow.
What are these thoughts
from on high here on earth?
The heavens stir the waters,
thoughts hovering over
this new, deep void.
Floating upon the face
of the void.
From void it began,
to void it will return,
all that is in it,
all that dwells to reckon
emptiness,
nothingness with shapeless shape.
Such formless beauty,
potential breathed movement,
flux resting in stability,
peaceful craft.
The fullest emptiness.
A prayer whispered,
still heard when nothing
is seen for all it is.
in the heart of all that Is,
the Is, that which always was and will Be.
There in that heart, nothing beats
except what Is.
And then something, something
happens with great light,
not piercing darkness,
for there was only light,
but a new light,
a light fathomed
by those given fathoming.
An empty light, a void of light
indistinguishable of itself,
except from the heart that made,
the Is that opened up,
made a space to share,
to overflow.
What are these thoughts
from on high here on earth?
The heavens stir the waters,
thoughts hovering over
this new, deep void.
Floating upon the face
of the void.
From void it began,
to void it will return,
all that is in it,
all that dwells to reckon
emptiness,
nothingness with shapeless shape.
Such formless beauty,
potential breathed movement,
flux resting in stability,
peaceful craft.
The fullest emptiness.
A prayer whispered,
still heard when nothing
is seen for all it is.
Scattered Grain, One Loaf
(a homily)
We are scattered people. The sins of our past, the heavy weight of our present, the uncertainty of our future lead us to be detached, isolated from our very being. The prophet's of God have spoken to us so often, we're heard their call to repentance, to mark a change of direction in our lives, and yet we still manage to rebel, even when we know God has something better for us. We choose disorder over discipline, being ill at ease over serenity, conflict over peace.
Why are we like this, why are we a scattered people? Not only are we fractured in our individual selves, we are socially divided. We fail to be merciful as our Father in heaven is merciful. Why? Why wouldn't we want friendship, community, a peaceful world, even the Kingdom of God? I'm not entirely sure. However, when I do go inside, when I do search my inner being, attempting by the gace of God to get beyond my isolated person, I see that one of the reasons I'm unable to show mercy, unable to bring myself back together, is that I'm not at peace with myself. Sometimes, frankly, I don't like myself.
But this is not the way it should be among us. We are a people called out to show mercy, and we can do this because we have been shown the most perfect mercy. We are a people called to take the lead in repentance, to listen to the prophets, even to be prophets, for in the power of the Holy Spirit we follow Jesus Christ, who though being God and without sin, took on the flesh of his beloved creation to lead us in the way of righteousness. We are to be a just people, a forgiving people, a thankful people, a people not scattered in our very selves nor among each other.
In this season of Lent we look to see ourselves as we are. This may be painful, but we must look. We are also to look to see ourselves as God sees us, beautiful, forgiven, loved and loving people made in God's image. And that is why this stark season is actually a season of joy. We a sometimes scattered, rebellious people have, like grains of wheat into a loaf of bread, been brought back together, united in peace and love, so that we, like sweet wine, might bring calm and happiness to a world so desperately needing to be embraced with the compassion, mercy and love we have been given by God to offer. And this we do through Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit to the glory of God the Father. Amen.
(Daniel 9:4b-10; Psalm 79; Luke 6:36-38)
We are scattered people. The sins of our past, the heavy weight of our present, the uncertainty of our future lead us to be detached, isolated from our very being. The prophet's of God have spoken to us so often, we're heard their call to repentance, to mark a change of direction in our lives, and yet we still manage to rebel, even when we know God has something better for us. We choose disorder over discipline, being ill at ease over serenity, conflict over peace.
Why are we like this, why are we a scattered people? Not only are we fractured in our individual selves, we are socially divided. We fail to be merciful as our Father in heaven is merciful. Why? Why wouldn't we want friendship, community, a peaceful world, even the Kingdom of God? I'm not entirely sure. However, when I do go inside, when I do search my inner being, attempting by the gace of God to get beyond my isolated person, I see that one of the reasons I'm unable to show mercy, unable to bring myself back together, is that I'm not at peace with myself. Sometimes, frankly, I don't like myself.
But this is not the way it should be among us. We are a people called out to show mercy, and we can do this because we have been shown the most perfect mercy. We are a people called to take the lead in repentance, to listen to the prophets, even to be prophets, for in the power of the Holy Spirit we follow Jesus Christ, who though being God and without sin, took on the flesh of his beloved creation to lead us in the way of righteousness. We are to be a just people, a forgiving people, a thankful people, a people not scattered in our very selves nor among each other.
In this season of Lent we look to see ourselves as we are. This may be painful, but we must look. We are also to look to see ourselves as God sees us, beautiful, forgiven, loved and loving people made in God's image. And that is why this stark season is actually a season of joy. We a sometimes scattered, rebellious people have, like grains of wheat into a loaf of bread, been brought back together, united in peace and love, so that we, like sweet wine, might bring calm and happiness to a world so desperately needing to be embraced with the compassion, mercy and love we have been given by God to offer. And this we do through Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit to the glory of God the Father. Amen.
(Daniel 9:4b-10; Psalm 79; Luke 6:36-38)
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Say Nothing
(a homily)
No words that I say, no phrases that I write will make sense of this moment (of listening to the words of Scripture). I would like to speak lovely words, but in this moment I know they will do nothing. If anything, words spoken after the hearing of the Word can merely hop to bring the hearer back to the Spirit and life that moments ago descended upon the place in which it was heard. Silence is our best response. Not mere quietude, but deep, slow silence. Our words must cease so that they may be enlivened by that Word come down...
"Be holy, for I, the LORD, your God, am holy."
"I am the LORD."
"I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me drink,
a stranger and you welcomed me,
naked and you clothed me,
ill and you cared for me,
in prison and you visited me."
What can we say? What can we do? What will we do? What will we say?
"Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might,
heaven and earth are full of your glory."
"The peace of Christ be with you."
"Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,
but only say the word and I shall be healed."
"The body of Christ.
The blood of Christ.
Amen."
No words that I say, no phrases that I write will make sense of this moment (of listening to the words of Scripture). I would like to speak lovely words, but in this moment I know they will do nothing. If anything, words spoken after the hearing of the Word can merely hop to bring the hearer back to the Spirit and life that moments ago descended upon the place in which it was heard. Silence is our best response. Not mere quietude, but deep, slow silence. Our words must cease so that they may be enlivened by that Word come down...
"Be holy, for I, the LORD, your God, am holy."
"I am the LORD."
"I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me drink,
a stranger and you welcomed me,
naked and you clothed me,
ill and you cared for me,
in prison and you visited me."
What can we say? What can we do? What will we do? What will we say?
"Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might,
heaven and earth are full of your glory."
"The peace of Christ be with you."
"Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,
but only say the word and I shall be healed."
"The body of Christ.
The blood of Christ.
Amen."
Monday, February 4, 2008
What Have You To Do With Me?
So much of the subject matter of today's readings might seem foreign to the ears of the average modern American. Princes rising up against their kingly fathers with swords; the calling down of actual curses; the leader of a country actually allowing the voice of descent to continue; being surrounded by actual foes; demon possession; exorcism. How do we, Christians living in a land ruled by arrogant leaders, a faulty system of government, during a time of perpetual war against no-so-clearly named enemies how do we act faithfully and responsibly? Are we able to conceive of the possibility of those possessed by possessions and power and fear asking us, "What have you to do with me, followers of Jesus, Son of the Most High God?" To live in this setting, in this time, we must be imaginative as we approach the Word, not so much so we can engage it critically (though this is a good thing), but more so that we allow it to engage us. The Word gives life, and even teaches us how to live, how to view our surroundings, if we listen well. By the Spirit, we can within the bounds of orthodoxy, read our selves into the story of salvation, the Good News that has reached us and finds its place on our tongues and fingertips to be spoken and to guide out reach.
Today we are surrounded by friends, by brothers and sisters in the faith, not by enemies, not by misled, power-hungry rulers, but by those whose presence reminds us there is salvation for us in God. It is our hope that others might come among us and see us in our right minds, not so that they might be fearful, but so they might join us as we make space for a people no longer ruled by the surrounding culture of fear. No, we are a people who, in recognizing our brokenness, are made strong together, made one in baptism, made one body in the feast of bread and wine. It is not that we are not allowed to be sad, or to be like King David and weeps for the state of the world around us; that we must do. But we must also go and announce the Lord's pity and God's happiness. May that salvation and the meal we are preparing to share guide us in our prayers and our proclamation of the Good News.
(2 Samuel 15:13-14, 30; 16:5-13; Psalm 3; Mark 5:1-20)
Today we are surrounded by friends, by brothers and sisters in the faith, not by enemies, not by misled, power-hungry rulers, but by those whose presence reminds us there is salvation for us in God. It is our hope that others might come among us and see us in our right minds, not so that they might be fearful, but so they might join us as we make space for a people no longer ruled by the surrounding culture of fear. No, we are a people who, in recognizing our brokenness, are made strong together, made one in baptism, made one body in the feast of bread and wine. It is not that we are not allowed to be sad, or to be like King David and weeps for the state of the world around us; that we must do. But we must also go and announce the Lord's pity and God's happiness. May that salvation and the meal we are preparing to share guide us in our prayers and our proclamation of the Good News.
(2 Samuel 15:13-14, 30; 16:5-13; Psalm 3; Mark 5:1-20)
Monday, January 28, 2008
Unforgiveable: Blaspheme of the Holy Spirit
(a homily)
There are perhaps no words for me that ring as mysterious, humbling, and troubling than Christ's words heard today. "Amen, I say to you, all sins and all blasphemes that people utter will be forgiven them. But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an everlasting sin." Such a pronouncement weighs heavily on my heart. It arouses a great flurry of questions and things to contemplate. What exactly is this blaspheming against the Holy Spirit? Is it a denial of the Spirit's power? Is it primarily related to the work of Christ as might be gleaned from the wider context of the passage in which he is said to drive out demons? Is it something that post-Enlightenment Christianity is guilty of by default? After all, it seems that the Spirit has been ignored by much of the Western Church, even though at times we can see with the eyes of faith that the Holy Spirit has moved in various movements in recent centuries.
Something leads me to think that perhaps one of the central issues here is the greater matter of authority. Jesus chides his misguided critics because they are unwilling or unable to recognize the source of his authority, and in so doing they deny God. Jesus was "offended" by their rumors because they sought to make him look to be one who conjured an evil spirit in order to mislead people by by crooked power, that is Beelzebub was a power-hungry spirit. However, the source of Jesus' strength was his humble submission to the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of Life who is sent by the Father. The scribes in saying Jesus' ability to exercise demons was given by the prince of demons did violence to the understanding of the very essence of the Triune God, the One God in Three Persons who continually and perfectly love and submit to one another.
We to do violence to God and ourselves when we deny the life giving Spirit. Perhaps we are tempted to do so because we observe various church movements that certainly abuse the mystery of the Holy Spirit for their own attempts at gaining and maintaining power and wealth. Or perhaps we ignore the call to wait and pray in silence for God. But let us be thankful, for here as we worship together, God invites us to be touched by the Holy Spirit, even to enter into the mysteries of the Godhead as we eat bread and drink wine that is blessed and transformed by the very Spirit, that is God, to be the Body and Blood of Christ. See, here we are able to focus on the source of any authority, in earth and in heaven, that may be enjoined to us, that is, love and submission to God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Let us wait and pray for the manifestation of that loving power of the Holy Spirit among us and in so waiting and receiving the blessed sacrament we can go and with Christ continue to the Gospel ministry in service to the Father. Amen.
(2 Samuel 5:1-7, 10; Psalm 89; Mark 3:22-30)
There are perhaps no words for me that ring as mysterious, humbling, and troubling than Christ's words heard today. "Amen, I say to you, all sins and all blasphemes that people utter will be forgiven them. But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an everlasting sin." Such a pronouncement weighs heavily on my heart. It arouses a great flurry of questions and things to contemplate. What exactly is this blaspheming against the Holy Spirit? Is it a denial of the Spirit's power? Is it primarily related to the work of Christ as might be gleaned from the wider context of the passage in which he is said to drive out demons? Is it something that post-Enlightenment Christianity is guilty of by default? After all, it seems that the Spirit has been ignored by much of the Western Church, even though at times we can see with the eyes of faith that the Holy Spirit has moved in various movements in recent centuries.
Something leads me to think that perhaps one of the central issues here is the greater matter of authority. Jesus chides his misguided critics because they are unwilling or unable to recognize the source of his authority, and in so doing they deny God. Jesus was "offended" by their rumors because they sought to make him look to be one who conjured an evil spirit in order to mislead people by by crooked power, that is Beelzebub was a power-hungry spirit. However, the source of Jesus' strength was his humble submission to the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of Life who is sent by the Father. The scribes in saying Jesus' ability to exercise demons was given by the prince of demons did violence to the understanding of the very essence of the Triune God, the One God in Three Persons who continually and perfectly love and submit to one another.
We to do violence to God and ourselves when we deny the life giving Spirit. Perhaps we are tempted to do so because we observe various church movements that certainly abuse the mystery of the Holy Spirit for their own attempts at gaining and maintaining power and wealth. Or perhaps we ignore the call to wait and pray in silence for God. But let us be thankful, for here as we worship together, God invites us to be touched by the Holy Spirit, even to enter into the mysteries of the Godhead as we eat bread and drink wine that is blessed and transformed by the very Spirit, that is God, to be the Body and Blood of Christ. See, here we are able to focus on the source of any authority, in earth and in heaven, that may be enjoined to us, that is, love and submission to God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Let us wait and pray for the manifestation of that loving power of the Holy Spirit among us and in so waiting and receiving the blessed sacrament we can go and with Christ continue to the Gospel ministry in service to the Father. Amen.
(2 Samuel 5:1-7, 10; Psalm 89; Mark 3:22-30)
Monday, January 21, 2008
Obedience Relearned
(a homily)
Why do we do the things we do? We'd probably like to a reasoned account for our daily ways of being, perhaps more accurately an answer aimed at justifying ourselves. "I do this because of that, because of so and so, and so on and so forth." There exists a plethora of reasons for anything that needs to be reasoned. We've got systems of thought at our fingertips to get ourselves through almost anything. And yet do these accounts, these reasoned apologetics, offer us any hope of salvation?
The lessons today seem to point to something beyond giving an account, something beyond our beloved Reason. Obedience. The word makes us shudder. It's chíc to be a rebel. It's expected that at some point you won't take heed of some authority figure's word, be it your mom or dad, or the principle. It's part of growing up. Rules are there to be broken. Yet, the law of the land, we're told, keeps everything from going up in flames.
We're told so many storied about obedience throughout our lives that it seems silly, stupid, impossible, pointless. And, in all honesty, I think I would in many instances agree with such sentiment. But not with the obedience we hear of today. This is the kind of obedience that overcomes the fearful law-abiding of national citizenship. It is the kind that enters into a purer way of being, one of sacrifice, of praise. Its focus, its center is on the Triune God, the Father Almighty, the Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord, the Holy Spirit, the giver of life. This obedience transforms the one obedient; we are made free, not afraid. (The law of the nations are sustained only by fear. Love is not in the picture.) We must relearn obedience, come to recognize that it is a right response to the perfect love of a God who sees all we do and stills loves us.
We learn this obedience here, together in worship, in the presence of God and God's people at Christ's table. We are made able to follow by the Holy Spirit who transforms our meal, quiets our hearts, bids us to wait and listen. I would not venture to say that God is without reason for bringing us here, but to us such reason is mysterious. Such a wine as God's Spirit requires that we be made new to receive the fruit of such a vine. Let us now be humbled and recognize who we truly are in the light of God's mercy and love. God will put praise on our lips that we may go in the right way and see the salvation of the Lord.
(1 Samuel 15:16-23; Psalm 50; Mark 2:18-22)
Why do we do the things we do? We'd probably like to a reasoned account for our daily ways of being, perhaps more accurately an answer aimed at justifying ourselves. "I do this because of that, because of so and so, and so on and so forth." There exists a plethora of reasons for anything that needs to be reasoned. We've got systems of thought at our fingertips to get ourselves through almost anything. And yet do these accounts, these reasoned apologetics, offer us any hope of salvation?
The lessons today seem to point to something beyond giving an account, something beyond our beloved Reason. Obedience. The word makes us shudder. It's chíc to be a rebel. It's expected that at some point you won't take heed of some authority figure's word, be it your mom or dad, or the principle. It's part of growing up. Rules are there to be broken. Yet, the law of the land, we're told, keeps everything from going up in flames.
We're told so many storied about obedience throughout our lives that it seems silly, stupid, impossible, pointless. And, in all honesty, I think I would in many instances agree with such sentiment. But not with the obedience we hear of today. This is the kind of obedience that overcomes the fearful law-abiding of national citizenship. It is the kind that enters into a purer way of being, one of sacrifice, of praise. Its focus, its center is on the Triune God, the Father Almighty, the Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord, the Holy Spirit, the giver of life. This obedience transforms the one obedient; we are made free, not afraid. (The law of the nations are sustained only by fear. Love is not in the picture.) We must relearn obedience, come to recognize that it is a right response to the perfect love of a God who sees all we do and stills loves us.
We learn this obedience here, together in worship, in the presence of God and God's people at Christ's table. We are made able to follow by the Holy Spirit who transforms our meal, quiets our hearts, bids us to wait and listen. I would not venture to say that God is without reason for bringing us here, but to us such reason is mysterious. Such a wine as God's Spirit requires that we be made new to receive the fruit of such a vine. Let us now be humbled and recognize who we truly are in the light of God's mercy and love. God will put praise on our lips that we may go in the right way and see the salvation of the Lord.
(1 Samuel 15:16-23; Psalm 50; Mark 2:18-22)
Monday, January 14, 2008
Enough
(a homily)
God is enough. God's call is plenty. Faithfully following God, heeding the Word is hard.
Though all grace has been offered, though our lives have been given us by God, inevitably life will at times be unbearable. There may be clear reasons why something is wrong; at other times it will be a mystery. Nonetheless, this gift of life will on occasion, even for long seasons feel as a curse. Like Hannah the Ephriamite, we will loose our appetite, our will to bear the stress that others, circumstance, and the plain evil in the world places on us.
In these times we must remember God is enough. God's call is plenty. God says to us, "Am I not more to you than anything you could ever determine to be that which makes you worthy?" And does not Christ call us to the shore, bidding us to leave our perceived task, our comfortable homes, our burdensome professions and follow? This, even in our weakness, our despair, ought to replenish our appetites if they have been diminished. And if our lives are fine today let us be thankful, and out of the abundance God has blessed us with offer ourselves in service to our downtrodden brothers and sisters.
We can never fully return to God the good things we have received. But we can follow God's command to take up the cup of salvation to our lips. Let us be filled today with God's comfort, God's blessing, God's most Holy Spirit.
(1 Samuel 1:1-8, Psalm 116, Mark 1:14-20)
God is enough. God's call is plenty. Faithfully following God, heeding the Word is hard.
Though all grace has been offered, though our lives have been given us by God, inevitably life will at times be unbearable. There may be clear reasons why something is wrong; at other times it will be a mystery. Nonetheless, this gift of life will on occasion, even for long seasons feel as a curse. Like Hannah the Ephriamite, we will loose our appetite, our will to bear the stress that others, circumstance, and the plain evil in the world places on us.
In these times we must remember God is enough. God's call is plenty. God says to us, "Am I not more to you than anything you could ever determine to be that which makes you worthy?" And does not Christ call us to the shore, bidding us to leave our perceived task, our comfortable homes, our burdensome professions and follow? This, even in our weakness, our despair, ought to replenish our appetites if they have been diminished. And if our lives are fine today let us be thankful, and out of the abundance God has blessed us with offer ourselves in service to our downtrodden brothers and sisters.
We can never fully return to God the good things we have received. But we can follow God's command to take up the cup of salvation to our lips. Let us be filled today with God's comfort, God's blessing, God's most Holy Spirit.
(1 Samuel 1:1-8, Psalm 116, Mark 1:14-20)
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
The Storm to Unknow
Turbulent waters
from the side of a silent mountain,
look like ripples,
like crashing tidal waves,
like monsoons,
like contingency,
look like calm.
You see what they see,
and you will walk alongside,
you will walk by,
walk in love,
looking ahead
from above and below.
You see better
and ask us to close our eyes
to view from your quiet.
No one has ever seen,
but love,
here is sight,
truest salvation.
And the sea storm
is no cause for fear,
but a moment for unknowing.
(1 John 4:11-18, Psalm 72, Mark 6:45-52)
from the side of a silent mountain,
look like ripples,
like crashing tidal waves,
like monsoons,
like contingency,
look like calm.
You see what they see,
and you will walk alongside,
you will walk by,
walk in love,
looking ahead
from above and below.
You see better
and ask us to close our eyes
to view from your quiet.
No one has ever seen,
but love,
here is sight,
truest salvation.
And the sea storm
is no cause for fear,
but a moment for unknowing.
(1 John 4:11-18, Psalm 72, Mark 6:45-52)
Monday, January 7, 2008
A Paradoxical Kingdom
(a homily)
"Repent for the Kingdom of heaven is at hand."
The Kingdom. It is Spirit and it is physical. It is, in a word, Jesus. It is repentance and grace.
It is Gentile and Jew, man and woman.
It is sickness cured, enemies reconciled, the poor sustained.
It reaches the darkest regions imaginable, the ends of the earth. It is preaching, teaching, confessing, listening, praying. It is all we have.
It is God's work and it is our gift. It is our work and it is what we present to the world. It is truth and it has conquered falsity.
It is justice and it is mercy.
It overcomes adversity and yet it patiently bears persecution. It is "yes" and it is is "no."
It is the most profound silence and the the most beautiful chord.
It is understanding and it alludes understanding. It is word and it is deed, contemplation and action. It is fasting and it is a great feast. It is bread and it is wine.
It cannot be defined and it is the only reality with meaning.
It is overwhelming and the greatest calm.
It is love.
"Repent for the Kingdom of heaven is at hand."
(First weekday of Epiphany, 1 John 3:22–4:6, Psalm 2, Matthew 4:12-17, 23-25)
"Repent for the Kingdom of heaven is at hand."
The Kingdom. It is Spirit and it is physical. It is, in a word, Jesus. It is repentance and grace.
It is Gentile and Jew, man and woman.
It is sickness cured, enemies reconciled, the poor sustained.
It reaches the darkest regions imaginable, the ends of the earth. It is preaching, teaching, confessing, listening, praying. It is all we have.
It is God's work and it is our gift. It is our work and it is what we present to the world. It is truth and it has conquered falsity.
It is justice and it is mercy.
It overcomes adversity and yet it patiently bears persecution. It is "yes" and it is is "no."
It is the most profound silence and the the most beautiful chord.
It is understanding and it alludes understanding. It is word and it is deed, contemplation and action. It is fasting and it is a great feast. It is bread and it is wine.
It cannot be defined and it is the only reality with meaning.
It is overwhelming and the greatest calm.
It is love.
"Repent for the Kingdom of heaven is at hand."
(First weekday of Epiphany, 1 John 3:22–4:6, Psalm 2, Matthew 4:12-17, 23-25)
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Hebel - Abel
Hebel*,
I am a void to be found,
a death to be lived,
a love to be resided in.
Do I know myself?
Have I lived long enough
before slain by a brother,
proved a breath,
a bit of dust
blown in twirls by the wind?
I feel the quake--
when I am listening
--of judgment
meant to release
when lived through,
when swallowed
and presented to absurd trust.
Upon the ridge of despair
I prepare to recite
the Jubilate.**
Should we admit
the desire to see spectacles?
Yes, and so we will,
if only to shake them off,
to let go of our name,
our nation,
our pretension,
our visions of light
actually blindness.
I am meaningless
and so have meaning;
you will kill me
and I will have meaning.
For I am giving up,
and will leave to return new.
(1 John 3:11-21, Psalm 100, John 1:43-51)
*Hebrew. Means "meaningless," "vanity, "void," "breath," perhaps even in the sense of Albert Camus "absurd" (ex. Ecclesiastes 1:2f.). Though it is not from the same root, Abel, the first son of Adam and Eve slain by his brother Cain, has a name that sounds the same in Hebrew. Poetically, this serves for us to consider our own beings.
**Psalm 100
I am a void to be found,
a death to be lived,
a love to be resided in.
Do I know myself?
Have I lived long enough
before slain by a brother,
proved a breath,
a bit of dust
blown in twirls by the wind?
I feel the quake--
when I am listening
--of judgment
meant to release
when lived through,
when swallowed
and presented to absurd trust.
Upon the ridge of despair
I prepare to recite
the Jubilate.**
Should we admit
the desire to see spectacles?
Yes, and so we will,
if only to shake them off,
to let go of our name,
our nation,
our pretension,
our visions of light
actually blindness.
I am meaningless
and so have meaning;
you will kill me
and I will have meaning.
For I am giving up,
and will leave to return new.
(1 John 3:11-21, Psalm 100, John 1:43-51)
*Hebrew. Means "meaningless," "vanity, "void," "breath," perhaps even in the sense of Albert Camus "absurd" (ex. Ecclesiastes 1:2f.). Though it is not from the same root, Abel, the first son of Adam and Eve slain by his brother Cain, has a name that sounds the same in Hebrew. Poetically, this serves for us to consider our own beings.
**Psalm 100
Friday, January 4, 2008
To Be Translated
Sometimes, probably often if we're honest, we need things to be translated for us. Not simply words of different languages, but concepts, gestures, activities. This can be frustrating because we must reconcile with the fact that we don't understand everything, perhaps very little, whereas we're probably heard from various sources out whole lives that understanding, mentally grasping things is possible. The readings this morning, however, present a different view, one that shows that translation is necessary, not merely for mental knowledge, but for our entire way of being.
Rabbi. Messiah. Cephas. These are words, titles, concepts, names we've heard so often, yet the Gospel writer, though we are different from his original audience, tells us today to not be quick to think we understand their meanings. Teacher. Christ. Peter. He translates them. Words, the Word, have such depth, such life. They contain no space, and yet they shape everything. We must be careful to not assume we understand just any word, some name. We need translation.
"Children, let no one deceive you." We need a rabbi, a teacher, one who has overcome the work of evil and sin. "The person who acts in righteousness is righteous, just as he is righteous." We need a Messiah, one christened by the Spirit, the Lamb of God, who walks in righteousness for he is the author of righteousness. "The children of God are made plain." God, through the work of Jesus, has by the Holy Spirit given us a name, one that sets us apart, renews us, captures our very essence.
Not only do we need translations, we ourselves need to be translated. Too often we act, speak, live like, as the epistle writer puts it, children of the Devil. But we are called to something so much greater. We are called to sing a new song, a song proclaiming the saving power of God throughout the earth. We are called to live the son in loving our brothers and sisters. We are to tell our brothers and sisters, like the apostle Andrew did Simon, "We have found the Messiah." The good news is a work of translation, a transformed reality. The bread and wine we will eat and drink transform us into the Body of Christ. The Word of God, the Lamb of God, is brought into our very beings. Here, in our prayers, our worship, our listening, our fellowship, in our silence, we are taught, we are anointed, we are named.
(1 John 3:7-10, Psalm 98, John 1:35-42)
Rabbi. Messiah. Cephas. These are words, titles, concepts, names we've heard so often, yet the Gospel writer, though we are different from his original audience, tells us today to not be quick to think we understand their meanings. Teacher. Christ. Peter. He translates them. Words, the Word, have such depth, such life. They contain no space, and yet they shape everything. We must be careful to not assume we understand just any word, some name. We need translation.
"Children, let no one deceive you." We need a rabbi, a teacher, one who has overcome the work of evil and sin. "The person who acts in righteousness is righteous, just as he is righteous." We need a Messiah, one christened by the Spirit, the Lamb of God, who walks in righteousness for he is the author of righteousness. "The children of God are made plain." God, through the work of Jesus, has by the Holy Spirit given us a name, one that sets us apart, renews us, captures our very essence.
Not only do we need translations, we ourselves need to be translated. Too often we act, speak, live like, as the epistle writer puts it, children of the Devil. But we are called to something so much greater. We are called to sing a new song, a song proclaiming the saving power of God throughout the earth. We are called to live the son in loving our brothers and sisters. We are to tell our brothers and sisters, like the apostle Andrew did Simon, "We have found the Messiah." The good news is a work of translation, a transformed reality. The bread and wine we will eat and drink transform us into the Body of Christ. The Word of God, the Lamb of God, is brought into our very beings. Here, in our prayers, our worship, our listening, our fellowship, in our silence, we are taught, we are anointed, we are named.
(1 John 3:7-10, Psalm 98, John 1:35-42)
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