I've never really thought much about the Saturday before Easter, but I think that's kind of on purpose. Saturday is the day that nothing changes.
The first time I lost someone I really loved was when I was 14, when my Aunt Kay died. I was still in bed when Mom told me the news, and I remember rolling over and crying for a long time. But then later, standing in the shower, I remember thinking, did that really just happen? For a moment, I almost really believed it had just been a dream. And I remember later, at the funeral, when of course there was no more pretending, realizing that unlike most of the things I had cried about up to that point in my life, this wouldn't just be OK.
Saturday is the day when you wake up and realize that it wasn't just a dream. That all the bad things that happened yesterday weren't just a bad day, they were the beginning of a new reality. Saturday is when it sinks in, when you start looking ahead and saying, this person died yesterday, but today they're just dead, and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.
For us, now, the Saturday before Easter is a day of waiting. But the first Saturday before Easter wasn't. Who knew there was anything to wait for? I think death still feels like that most of the time, even on this side of Easter. But at the same time, we're blessed to look back at Friday and Saturday from the other side. We at least have that idea, however faint and far away, that even when death is at its most real, it still isn't over.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Thoughts for Good Friday
Today is Good Friday, and I wanted some good, old-fashioned, hardcore, high-church solemnity. So, I went to Catholic church. Not even just Catholic church, but the cathedral of the diocese of Atlanta.
The solemnity was somewhat broken up by the toddler in the pew in front of me happily shrieking and touching everything within an arm's-length radius, but it had all the necessary parts: the canted psalms, the good ten minutes of standing and kneeling, the veneration of the cross (that was a little awkward for me, I won't lie), the homily about our own betrayal of Jesus. I like some guilt and solemnity now and then. Clearly not everyone shares my opinion, or Joel Osteen would be poor. But, at least judging from today's Facebook statuses, a lot of people do. What is it about the guilt and darkness that draws us?
Last year at this time, I was having a horrible semester for a combination of a lot of little reasons. I needed Lent then. In fact, I wasn't sure I was so keen on Easter. It didn't feel like Easter. If I could have stayed in the darkness of Good Friday for a little longer and kept Easter as the light on the horizon, I might have. I like the days of guilt and darkness and solemnity because often they acknowledge liturgically what is already present. They validate our brokenness. They make it holy.
This semester has been a good one. It's had its moments to be sure, but on the whole, much closer to Easter than Good Friday. Still, the brokenness is never very far away. Even if it feels like Easter already, it's good to remember what we've been through. Because there will come a time again when it won't feel like Easter, and then we will have rehearsed this. We'll know that death and life come very close together.
The bulletin made a note at the end that there would be no concluding rites after communion. The church would remain in prayer during the Triduum. I liked it. It was like a way of saying, we're not going to conclude this, because it's not over yet. We've spent time in solemnity and we leave in silence, but it's not over yet. We've acknowledged our brokenness like we want and need to, but it's not over yet. We wait still for the redemption and newness of Easter. But it's not over till we get there.
The solemnity was somewhat broken up by the toddler in the pew in front of me happily shrieking and touching everything within an arm's-length radius, but it had all the necessary parts: the canted psalms, the good ten minutes of standing and kneeling, the veneration of the cross (that was a little awkward for me, I won't lie), the homily about our own betrayal of Jesus. I like some guilt and solemnity now and then. Clearly not everyone shares my opinion, or Joel Osteen would be poor. But, at least judging from today's Facebook statuses, a lot of people do. What is it about the guilt and darkness that draws us?
Last year at this time, I was having a horrible semester for a combination of a lot of little reasons. I needed Lent then. In fact, I wasn't sure I was so keen on Easter. It didn't feel like Easter. If I could have stayed in the darkness of Good Friday for a little longer and kept Easter as the light on the horizon, I might have. I like the days of guilt and darkness and solemnity because often they acknowledge liturgically what is already present. They validate our brokenness. They make it holy.
This semester has been a good one. It's had its moments to be sure, but on the whole, much closer to Easter than Good Friday. Still, the brokenness is never very far away. Even if it feels like Easter already, it's good to remember what we've been through. Because there will come a time again when it won't feel like Easter, and then we will have rehearsed this. We'll know that death and life come very close together.
The bulletin made a note at the end that there would be no concluding rites after communion. The church would remain in prayer during the Triduum. I liked it. It was like a way of saying, we're not going to conclude this, because it's not over yet. We've spent time in solemnity and we leave in silence, but it's not over yet. We've acknowledged our brokenness like we want and need to, but it's not over yet. We wait still for the redemption and newness of Easter. But it's not over till we get there.
The old, old story, part 2
There was a kind of cool moment at the Maundy Thursday service at Trinity last night. Kathy talked a little about how we usually think of the Last Supper--something very somber--compared to what it probably was, a family laughing and enjoying each other's company before things changed completely. And also, she said, they probably weren't all on one side of the table, a la da Vinci.
For communion, usually we go up to the altar in shifts, but the service was small enough that everyone could just squeeze around the altar rail at once. It's a mostly straight altar rail that spans the front of the sanctuary, rather than one that goes around a sort of island like at home at Epiphany. And I looked down the row from one end and saw a wave of people tearing bread, dipping, chewing, and standing, one after another, and I thought, we're all on the same side of the table.
There's nothing profoundly theological about that. As Kathy said, that da Vinci depiction is hardly the way the Last Supper actually went down. But at the same time, since that is such a dominant image, it seemed for just an instant like we were making up that image. Like we were writing ourselves into the story.
Like I said last time, I think that's a big part of what Holy Week is all about. That's why we wave palms and march down Washington Street, it's why we have communion, it's why we wash feet (for those who unlike me don't intentionally skip chapel on the day that's scheduled), why we strip the church and watch it fall into shadows as candles are extinguished one by one. We act out this story because it makes us who we are.
After church a group of us met for dinner at Taco Mac, and people just kept coming, and we had to smush tables together and there were long rows of people on either side. And we laughed and enjoyed each other's company. And we all know that the time for this is winding down. So in a less intentional, less liturgical way, we acted out the story again. Because it's our story. It makes us who we are--inside church and out.
For communion, usually we go up to the altar in shifts, but the service was small enough that everyone could just squeeze around the altar rail at once. It's a mostly straight altar rail that spans the front of the sanctuary, rather than one that goes around a sort of island like at home at Epiphany. And I looked down the row from one end and saw a wave of people tearing bread, dipping, chewing, and standing, one after another, and I thought, we're all on the same side of the table.
There's nothing profoundly theological about that. As Kathy said, that da Vinci depiction is hardly the way the Last Supper actually went down. But at the same time, since that is such a dominant image, it seemed for just an instant like we were making up that image. Like we were writing ourselves into the story.
Like I said last time, I think that's a big part of what Holy Week is all about. That's why we wave palms and march down Washington Street, it's why we have communion, it's why we wash feet (for those who unlike me don't intentionally skip chapel on the day that's scheduled), why we strip the church and watch it fall into shadows as candles are extinguished one by one. We act out this story because it makes us who we are.
After church a group of us met for dinner at Taco Mac, and people just kept coming, and we had to smush tables together and there were long rows of people on either side. And we laughed and enjoyed each other's company. And we all know that the time for this is winding down. So in a less intentional, less liturgical way, we acted out the story again. Because it's our story. It makes us who we are--inside church and out.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The old, old story
I love Holy Week. All of it, from babies waddling down the church aisle with palm branches bigger than they are, to the bleakness of Good Friday, to the joy of Easter. I love the fact that there are extra church services. I love taking time to debate the christological implications of Jesus Christ Superstar with friends. I'm just nerdy that way.
I think the reason I like Holy Week so much is partly the story it tells, but only partly. This is the high point of the Christian year, and there's a lot of important stuff going on, stuff without which we might not have our faith tradition as we know it. There's a reason the evangelists spend a disproportionate amount of time on the Passion compared to the rest of Jesus' life. This is the climax of the story.
But I like Holy Week not just because of what the story is. I like it because I think this week, we do an especially good job telling it. That depends, of course, on people listening and participating. But for those who don't just go from Palm Sunday to Easter, who stick around for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, it's like we really get a chance to go through these last days with Jesus. We get to experience the highs and lows, the joy and the sorrow and the doubt and the unfortunate fickleness that come along with following Jesus. Those extra church services all have a purpose, they all do something different.
It's the story that makes us who we are, as a c0mmunity across the world and ages. The whole story, from the first day of Advent to Christ the King (or insert your own more inclusive appellation) Sunday. But during the liturgical drama of this week it's easier to remember it's a story, and that reminds us who we are. And it reminds us that we're still part of a story, one that keeps unfolding.
I think the reason I like Holy Week so much is partly the story it tells, but only partly. This is the high point of the Christian year, and there's a lot of important stuff going on, stuff without which we might not have our faith tradition as we know it. There's a reason the evangelists spend a disproportionate amount of time on the Passion compared to the rest of Jesus' life. This is the climax of the story.
But I like Holy Week not just because of what the story is. I like it because I think this week, we do an especially good job telling it. That depends, of course, on people listening and participating. But for those who don't just go from Palm Sunday to Easter, who stick around for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, it's like we really get a chance to go through these last days with Jesus. We get to experience the highs and lows, the joy and the sorrow and the doubt and the unfortunate fickleness that come along with following Jesus. Those extra church services all have a purpose, they all do something different.
It's the story that makes us who we are, as a c0mmunity across the world and ages. The whole story, from the first day of Advent to Christ the King (or insert your own more inclusive appellation) Sunday. But during the liturgical drama of this week it's easier to remember it's a story, and that reminds us who we are. And it reminds us that we're still part of a story, one that keeps unfolding.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Signs and wonders from Iowa
I know many Christians are writing blog entries today that are the exact opposite of mine, but I'm celebrating the Iowa Supreme Court's decision that the gay marriage ban is unconstitutional.
It's in actions like this that we experience the "already and the not yet" that we throw around so much in seminary. We don't yet live in a society or world where all of God's beloved children are treated as such--as fully human in all the beautiful diversity that entails. The kingdom is not yet. But every once in a while, like today, a sign of that future breaks through. And that is a cause for praise and celebration now. That is already.
But if only it was the church pointing to the kingdom instead of the state. If only the Body of Christ were in the forefront of this movement toward justice, which I truly believe is God's movement--though many will disagree--instead of so often fighting it. I'm thankful that God works despite us as well as through us. And I pray that as we move more and more from what's already to what's not yet, the church can be more and more a part of this work.
It's in actions like this that we experience the "already and the not yet" that we throw around so much in seminary. We don't yet live in a society or world where all of God's beloved children are treated as such--as fully human in all the beautiful diversity that entails. The kingdom is not yet. But every once in a while, like today, a sign of that future breaks through. And that is a cause for praise and celebration now. That is already.
But if only it was the church pointing to the kingdom instead of the state. If only the Body of Christ were in the forefront of this movement toward justice, which I truly believe is God's movement--though many will disagree--instead of so often fighting it. I'm thankful that God works despite us as well as through us. And I pray that as we move more and more from what's already to what's not yet, the church can be more and more a part of this work.
Friday, March 27, 2009
For the remembering of me
Today I made good decisions (maybe) by going to Friday Eucharist instead of finishing my Greek homework. Dr. Saliers was presiding, which meant everything in the service was extra poetic. He threw something into the liturgy about "memory on the tails of the stars" or something. Very Dr. Saliers.
When he got to the words of institution, instead of "Do this in remembrance of me," which of course is ingrained in everyone's mind who has ever been to church on a regular basis, he said "Do this for the remembering of me." And while I was sort of sitting there floating along with his liturgy, I heard that and went, damn! I LOVE IT! It's amazing how such a small, almost semantic change of wording can make such a big difference (to me, anyway). It's close enough that the Greek could probably encompass either or both equally. But the first one, the one we always say, sounds like we do the Eucharist because we remember Jesus, because we're supposed to. And the second one sounds like we do it in order to remember Jesus, or to keep remembering him.
I wrote a paper for New Testament last year about how Jesus' institution of the Lord's Supper gave the disciples (and the early Christian communities who the Gospels were written for) a way to keep acting out the Kingdom in Jesus' absence. It's a way to be, for just a fleeting moment, the community we're meant to be, in the hope that as we practice this more and more, that moment will be less and less fleeting. It's a way that God reminds us who we are as the Body of Christ.
The truth is that we don't always remember Jesus, not like we should. We remember that he lived and that he died and that we're supposed to do what he would have done, but we don't often remember in practice who Jesus is and how we participate in that. That's why I love communion. Because we do it for the remembering of him, and the remembering of the Kingdom he embodies and leads us to.
When he got to the words of institution, instead of "Do this in remembrance of me," which of course is ingrained in everyone's mind who has ever been to church on a regular basis, he said "Do this for the remembering of me." And while I was sort of sitting there floating along with his liturgy, I heard that and went, damn! I LOVE IT! It's amazing how such a small, almost semantic change of wording can make such a big difference (to me, anyway). It's close enough that the Greek could probably encompass either or both equally. But the first one, the one we always say, sounds like we do the Eucharist because we remember Jesus, because we're supposed to. And the second one sounds like we do it in order to remember Jesus, or to keep remembering him.
I wrote a paper for New Testament last year about how Jesus' institution of the Lord's Supper gave the disciples (and the early Christian communities who the Gospels were written for) a way to keep acting out the Kingdom in Jesus' absence. It's a way to be, for just a fleeting moment, the community we're meant to be, in the hope that as we practice this more and more, that moment will be less and less fleeting. It's a way that God reminds us who we are as the Body of Christ.
The truth is that we don't always remember Jesus, not like we should. We remember that he lived and that he died and that we're supposed to do what he would have done, but we don't often remember in practice who Jesus is and how we participate in that. That's why I love communion. Because we do it for the remembering of him, and the remembering of the Kingdom he embodies and leads us to.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Neighborhood watch
Tonight I'm going to exegete neighborhood watch signs. That's right.
I pass neighborhood watch signs on my way to and from school every day, though I don't usually take much notice, because after all, they are neighborhood watch signs. But for whatever reason I noticed one yesterday. It had a nice picture of some houses and said something like "watching out for each other" or something.
I remember getting to ride around the neighborhood with Dad when I was little and he had neighborhood watch. It was fun because I wanted to catch people. It was like being a detective. The neighborhood watch signs in our neighborhood, as I recall, had a big eye on them.
So I noticed the nice houses and slogan on this sign in Druid Hills and thought about how it was a different conception about what neighborhood watch was supposed to be. Not a bad-guy-catching adventure symbolized by a big scary we're-watching-you eye, but a chance to take care of the people you live with in a small way.
Probably neighborhood watch in Druid Hills isn't any different than neighborhood watch in our little corner of Vienna. I bet kids still ride along hoping to catch the bad guys. But I like the shift in meaning. Sometimes nicer language can just serve to mask a lack of real change, but I believe the language and symbols we use to describe things really can and do affect how we think about them. Which, of course, applies to God, too--especially when it comes to inclusive language and masculine/feminine imagery, but really in any set of symbols we use to conjure up an image of the divine. And which applies to other people--whether, for example, we consider them "sinners" or "children of God." (That was in something I was reading recently too...She Who Is?)
So that's why God is like a neighborhood watch sign. You know you wish you had thought of it first.
I pass neighborhood watch signs on my way to and from school every day, though I don't usually take much notice, because after all, they are neighborhood watch signs. But for whatever reason I noticed one yesterday. It had a nice picture of some houses and said something like "watching out for each other" or something.
I remember getting to ride around the neighborhood with Dad when I was little and he had neighborhood watch. It was fun because I wanted to catch people. It was like being a detective. The neighborhood watch signs in our neighborhood, as I recall, had a big eye on them.
So I noticed the nice houses and slogan on this sign in Druid Hills and thought about how it was a different conception about what neighborhood watch was supposed to be. Not a bad-guy-catching adventure symbolized by a big scary we're-watching-you eye, but a chance to take care of the people you live with in a small way.
Probably neighborhood watch in Druid Hills isn't any different than neighborhood watch in our little corner of Vienna. I bet kids still ride along hoping to catch the bad guys. But I like the shift in meaning. Sometimes nicer language can just serve to mask a lack of real change, but I believe the language and symbols we use to describe things really can and do affect how we think about them. Which, of course, applies to God, too--especially when it comes to inclusive language and masculine/feminine imagery, but really in any set of symbols we use to conjure up an image of the divine. And which applies to other people--whether, for example, we consider them "sinners" or "children of God." (That was in something I was reading recently too...She Who Is?)
So that's why God is like a neighborhood watch sign. You know you wish you had thought of it first.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Bible Voice
I thoroughly enjoyed the Old Testament reading from the lectionary today. It wasn't one I remembered. It was from Numbers, and basically the Israelites are whining in the desert about how their food isn't tasty and God gets mad and sends snakes to bite them and they die. That is an Old Testament reading, right there. Of course, that isn't the end of the story--Moses intercedes and God gives Moses a bronze serpent to hold up for people to look at and be healed--but that part was less entertaining.
When I was younger I went through a phase of trying to read the whole Bible. It lasted through the New Testament (which I read first) and then about to the second half of Exodus. I did NOT find the Bible entertaining. That is partially because the second half of Exodus is simply not entertaining. But it's also partially because in my head, I read with this very serious and reverent voice, and Bible Voice doesn't lend itself to entertainment. The Bible and I started getting along a lot better when I realized I was allowed to laugh at it.
Being entertained doesn't always make for a good message though, and that's why I'm glad Kathy preached on the Numbers passage today. If you just leave it at the reading, without saying anything more, you might get a chuckle, but you're left with a kind of pissy God who sends snakes to bite people. Kathy talked about how we need those snakes sometimes, when we have the bronze serpent to heal us, so we don't forget what we've been through, so we don't get complacent. Stories like this one can speak to us. But we have to let go of Bible Voice and actually enjoy them, I think, to more fully understand how.
When I was younger I went through a phase of trying to read the whole Bible. It lasted through the New Testament (which I read first) and then about to the second half of Exodus. I did NOT find the Bible entertaining. That is partially because the second half of Exodus is simply not entertaining. But it's also partially because in my head, I read with this very serious and reverent voice, and Bible Voice doesn't lend itself to entertainment. The Bible and I started getting along a lot better when I realized I was allowed to laugh at it.
Being entertained doesn't always make for a good message though, and that's why I'm glad Kathy preached on the Numbers passage today. If you just leave it at the reading, without saying anything more, you might get a chuckle, but you're left with a kind of pissy God who sends snakes to bite people. Kathy talked about how we need those snakes sometimes, when we have the bronze serpent to heal us, so we don't forget what we've been through, so we don't get complacent. Stories like this one can speak to us. But we have to let go of Bible Voice and actually enjoy them, I think, to more fully understand how.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
God definitely doesn't choose you
I was working on my next sermon for preaching today, so I think I'm going to cheat and process some ideas here. This is more immediately necessary than I thought, since I thought I was preaching Friday and then magically decided to look at the schedule and realized it was actually Wednesday...
My text is the story of the anointing of David from 1 Samuel, the one where Samuel has all of Jesse's sons line up and none of them are meant to be king until David, who Jesse has to send for specially, because it didn't even occur to anyone that he should be there. I was a little frustrated at first because the message seems pretty clear--God picking the underdog and all that--so what could I say that was new? As I told Lauren, I believe that Scripture is rich enough to say more than one thing, but I was wary of working too hard to find something new at the expense of what the message was actually supposed to be.
I was struck, though, by a few things--first of all, the fact that Samuel never tells Jesse or his sons what is going on. Basically he invites them to a sacrifice and then stands there appraising their chosenness or lack thereof, which personally would make me a little nervous. Second, as far as David's brothers are concerned, the verdict is just harsh. Nope, God doesn't choose you. Ouch.
It reminded me of a prayer I read in one of the ordination workbooks, which included the line "Let me be used by you, or laid aside by you." I thought that line was powerful even at the time. We all want to find our places in God's plan--but what if there is none? Are we willing to accept that God's plan for the world is bigger than us? I thought also of Henri Nouwen, who went from being a Harvard professor to working with mentally disabled people and wrote about giving up the temptation to be relevant.
I do believe that God calls each person. But maybe not all the time, and maybe not for everything. That's a humbling thought for someone trying to figure out where her life is going from here. But I guess the good news is that realizing what we're not chosen for, painful as that may be, gets us that much closer to realizing what we are.
My text is the story of the anointing of David from 1 Samuel, the one where Samuel has all of Jesse's sons line up and none of them are meant to be king until David, who Jesse has to send for specially, because it didn't even occur to anyone that he should be there. I was a little frustrated at first because the message seems pretty clear--God picking the underdog and all that--so what could I say that was new? As I told Lauren, I believe that Scripture is rich enough to say more than one thing, but I was wary of working too hard to find something new at the expense of what the message was actually supposed to be.
I was struck, though, by a few things--first of all, the fact that Samuel never tells Jesse or his sons what is going on. Basically he invites them to a sacrifice and then stands there appraising their chosenness or lack thereof, which personally would make me a little nervous. Second, as far as David's brothers are concerned, the verdict is just harsh. Nope, God doesn't choose you. Ouch.
It reminded me of a prayer I read in one of the ordination workbooks, which included the line "Let me be used by you, or laid aside by you." I thought that line was powerful even at the time. We all want to find our places in God's plan--but what if there is none? Are we willing to accept that God's plan for the world is bigger than us? I thought also of Henri Nouwen, who went from being a Harvard professor to working with mentally disabled people and wrote about giving up the temptation to be relevant.
I do believe that God calls each person. But maybe not all the time, and maybe not for everything. That's a humbling thought for someone trying to figure out where her life is going from here. But I guess the good news is that realizing what we're not chosen for, painful as that may be, gets us that much closer to realizing what we are.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Slacking
It's about halfway through Lent now, and I feel myself beginning to slack on this attempt at cultivating discipline. It's not that it's hard to come up with theological thoughts, but it is hard to come up with new ones.
On the other hand, I like the fact that writing these posts have made me intentionally look at my life a little differently. Thinking about ordinary events in theological terms gives life a sense of the sacred. Just a little bit. When you remember.
I remember Dr. Matthews last semester talking about how John Wesley quoted scripture so prolifically in his sermons. He said Wesley just lived in the world of scripture. He was so familiar with it that he couldn't help but talk about things in those terms. I'd like to be like that. Maybe if I lived a little more in the world of scripture I wouldn't run out of thoughts so easily!
Meanwhile, maybe new thoughts are overrated. Maybe when you're not feeling particularly insightful, it's enough just to be thankful for little things. Like the first day of spring. Like friends who mysteriously disappear from class for a long period of time and return with a latte for you. Like the guy Eric sent me an article about, who feeds homeless people every day with his own money and whatever donations he gets. When there are things to be thankful for, life is sacred.
On the other hand, I like the fact that writing these posts have made me intentionally look at my life a little differently. Thinking about ordinary events in theological terms gives life a sense of the sacred. Just a little bit. When you remember.
I remember Dr. Matthews last semester talking about how John Wesley quoted scripture so prolifically in his sermons. He said Wesley just lived in the world of scripture. He was so familiar with it that he couldn't help but talk about things in those terms. I'd like to be like that. Maybe if I lived a little more in the world of scripture I wouldn't run out of thoughts so easily!
Meanwhile, maybe new thoughts are overrated. Maybe when you're not feeling particularly insightful, it's enough just to be thankful for little things. Like the first day of spring. Like friends who mysteriously disappear from class for a long period of time and return with a latte for you. Like the guy Eric sent me an article about, who feeds homeless people every day with his own money and whatever donations he gets. When there are things to be thankful for, life is sacred.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Theological snippet
A few weeks ago I read a news article about how the Vatican had conducted a confession booth survey and determined that men and women sin differently. It seems, based on people's confessions, that the number one sin for men is (shocker) lust, while the number one sin for women is pride. I dismissed the survey as blaringly flawed. What it showed us, I thought, is not that men and women sin differently, but that we've been culturally and religiously conditioned to think differently about what our own sins are.
I'm familiar with the common criticism from feminist and liberation theology of the idea that pride is the fundamental sin. Dorothee Soelle, among others, suggests that while for men pride may indeed be the fundamental sin, for women it is not pride but self-denial. I don't quite buy this, both because I think it's kind of presumptuous to name one blanket "fundamental sin," and because I personally know both men and women who need a reality check out of both of those places. But I have to admit the Vatican study made me reconsider. Why is it that women are more likely to view themselves as prideful? Because we're told to think and expect less of ourselves?
This came to mind because of a snippet of my preaching reading for tomorrow that caught my attention. It was an article on Hispanic preaching by Justo Gonzalez, and writing from a community on the periphery of American society, he too has an issue with this hangup on pride. He goes back to Genesis. People always say that Adam and Eve ate the apple to try to be like God--but as we know from the beginning of the story, Adam and Eve were already like God! Their sin, Gonzalez says, is that they forgot.
As much as we can name one fundamental sin, I think this is eloquently stated. After all, forgetting we are like God can manifest itself in so many ways. It can be self-denial, thinking we're not good enough without that bite of the apple. Or it can look prideful, as if we define ourselves, forgetting that there is someone's image who we have been created in. And I think it can look like both at the same time, in men and women and people from everywhere around the world. So...there's someone else's theological nugget of wisdom to think about for the day! :)
I'm familiar with the common criticism from feminist and liberation theology of the idea that pride is the fundamental sin. Dorothee Soelle, among others, suggests that while for men pride may indeed be the fundamental sin, for women it is not pride but self-denial. I don't quite buy this, both because I think it's kind of presumptuous to name one blanket "fundamental sin," and because I personally know both men and women who need a reality check out of both of those places. But I have to admit the Vatican study made me reconsider. Why is it that women are more likely to view themselves as prideful? Because we're told to think and expect less of ourselves?
This came to mind because of a snippet of my preaching reading for tomorrow that caught my attention. It was an article on Hispanic preaching by Justo Gonzalez, and writing from a community on the periphery of American society, he too has an issue with this hangup on pride. He goes back to Genesis. People always say that Adam and Eve ate the apple to try to be like God--but as we know from the beginning of the story, Adam and Eve were already like God! Their sin, Gonzalez says, is that they forgot.
As much as we can name one fundamental sin, I think this is eloquently stated. After all, forgetting we are like God can manifest itself in so many ways. It can be self-denial, thinking we're not good enough without that bite of the apple. Or it can look prideful, as if we define ourselves, forgetting that there is someone's image who we have been created in. And I think it can look like both at the same time, in men and women and people from everywhere around the world. So...there's someone else's theological nugget of wisdom to think about for the day! :)
Monday, March 16, 2009
Ordinary time
Spring break officially ended tonight at 6:30 when I had to go to Polity and take a midterm. I was sad to see it go. This semester got off to a very slow start, one in which easy two-page reflection papers seemed like the biggest hurdles ever. But I got into it. Things started flowing a little more smoothly. And now, I'm back to square one. I don't feel like I should have to do anything.
If I described my life in liturgical seasons (and, perhaps the question is, why would I not describe my life in liturgical seasons??) maybe this would be Advent. It's a period of waiting for something (theoretically) better to come, of preparing for the new things that life will hold come May. Whatever those things are!
But it doesn't feel like Advent. In Advent, you know you're moving toward Christmas, and I don't know what I'm moving toward right now. I guess I need to find some eschatological hope! Instead, I feel more like I'm caught in the in-between. I want to be done, but I don't want to leave this place I love. I wish graduation would hurry itself up and I wish the rest of the semester would last forever. Meanwhile, it's back to plodding slowly through assignments. Maybe instead of Advent, I'm in Ordinary Time. The in-between of liturgical seasons. Not Christmas, not Easter, not moving immediately toward anything, just sort of there. But that's OK. There's a time for that. And there's hope in the future, but also a lot of stuff to live and love in the meantime.
If I described my life in liturgical seasons (and, perhaps the question is, why would I not describe my life in liturgical seasons??) maybe this would be Advent. It's a period of waiting for something (theoretically) better to come, of preparing for the new things that life will hold come May. Whatever those things are!
But it doesn't feel like Advent. In Advent, you know you're moving toward Christmas, and I don't know what I'm moving toward right now. I guess I need to find some eschatological hope! Instead, I feel more like I'm caught in the in-between. I want to be done, but I don't want to leave this place I love. I wish graduation would hurry itself up and I wish the rest of the semester would last forever. Meanwhile, it's back to plodding slowly through assignments. Maybe instead of Advent, I'm in Ordinary Time. The in-between of liturgical seasons. Not Christmas, not Easter, not moving immediately toward anything, just sort of there. But that's OK. There's a time for that. And there's hope in the future, but also a lot of stuff to live and love in the meantime.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Thin Mints and yellow ribbons
Today and yesterday I've been driving around hunting down Girl Scout cookies. This proved to be more of an adventure than I realized. First they weren't at the Kroger where they were supposed to be, then at the next Kroger they didn't take checks, and when I came back with cash they were out of Thin Mints and sent me back to the first Kroger. This wild goose chase for Thin Mints was a little frustrating, but I was getting them to send to Jen, one of my good friends from high school who's in the army in Afghanistan now. So my scavenger hunt made me feel kind of patriotic, too.
That was different. I've never really been a support-the-troops, magnetic-yellow-ribbon-on-car kind of girl. I'm mostly a pacifist. And no, I won't try to defend that on political grounds; all I mean is that military activity makes me morally uncomfortable. That doesn't make me hesitant to send cookies to a friend overseas or anything, but the cookie hunting has made me think about war and military and all that good stuff over the past few days.
Jen seems happy. Her last email talked about how the food in the chow hall was really good, and how her job was going to include buying donkeys and chickens from the locals. I can't imagine being happy doing what she does. But I'm glad she is. If I'm honest, I know I can also find moral ambiguity in my own sense of call--like my decision to be ordained into a church that doesn't support the full inclusion of homosexuals, a moral stance I disagree with. I guess it all goes to show how different our callings are and how we try our best to fulfill them in an imperfect world.
That was different. I've never really been a support-the-troops, magnetic-yellow-ribbon-on-car kind of girl. I'm mostly a pacifist. And no, I won't try to defend that on political grounds; all I mean is that military activity makes me morally uncomfortable. That doesn't make me hesitant to send cookies to a friend overseas or anything, but the cookie hunting has made me think about war and military and all that good stuff over the past few days.
Jen seems happy. Her last email talked about how the food in the chow hall was really good, and how her job was going to include buying donkeys and chickens from the locals. I can't imagine being happy doing what she does. But I'm glad she is. If I'm honest, I know I can also find moral ambiguity in my own sense of call--like my decision to be ordained into a church that doesn't support the full inclusion of homosexuals, a moral stance I disagree with. I guess it all goes to show how different our callings are and how we try our best to fulfill them in an imperfect world.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Giving to freaking Caesar
I don't normally consider myself a dumb person. I mean, I have my moments, to be sure. But generally I feel like I fall on the more intelligent side of the spectrum. This is why tax time is humbling. Because the IRS attempts to prove every year that I am just soooooo wrong.
Last year I cried doing taxes because both Virginia and Georgia claimed they needed my money and I couldn't figure out who needed what. This year it's even worse, because I've outgrown the 1040EZ form, so now I have a form with a lot more lines and a lot more terms that mean absolutely nothing to me. Even the instructions in the booklet don't make sense. In fact, I tried to look up instructions for line 41 because I was confused, and they didn't even have instructions for line 41. It was just supposed to be that self-explanatory. Clergy are legally self employed, so when I get a church, forget it. I'm getting people.
I heard Dave preach a sermon early last year about how grace wasn't complicated like taxes. It's come to mind again over the past few days. And all I have to say is amen to that. Here's to room in the Kingdom for the dumb people.
Last year I cried doing taxes because both Virginia and Georgia claimed they needed my money and I couldn't figure out who needed what. This year it's even worse, because I've outgrown the 1040EZ form, so now I have a form with a lot more lines and a lot more terms that mean absolutely nothing to me. Even the instructions in the booklet don't make sense. In fact, I tried to look up instructions for line 41 because I was confused, and they didn't even have instructions for line 41. It was just supposed to be that self-explanatory. Clergy are legally self employed, so when I get a church, forget it. I'm getting people.
I heard Dave preach a sermon early last year about how grace wasn't complicated like taxes. It's come to mind again over the past few days. And all I have to say is amen to that. Here's to room in the Kingdom for the dumb people.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Slightly ajar
More than once in the past few weeks I've talked to a friend who doesn't quite have a post-graduation career lined up yet and assured them that something would turn up. "Look at me!" I say bracingly. "I don't have a job yet, and I'm not worried!"
And for the most part, I'm really not. I'm applying to places, talking to a lot of different people about a lot of different opportunities, seeing what doors God opens, and walking through them. If so far the most promising doors seem to only be slightly ajar, that's OK. It's still early to expect to be hired for a position starting in May or June. Honestly, I kind of like the feeling of having my future open in front of me. There are so many possibilities. And it's kind of fun and even a little exhilarating to feel like my life isn't completely in my hands--like even though it's my job to search out opportunities, God's the one who's going to hook me up. And whatever it is, it'll be good.
But recently--like I knew it would--it's been getting a little harder to hold onto that feeling. Like when I look at job listings and, instead of having a hearty laugh at my lack of qualifications like I did in December, think, "That sounds exactly like the last six jobs that didn't contact me." Or when my phone interview with the only job to respond thus far ended with a simple "Thanks for your time. Have a good afternoon." (Isn't it common courtesy to at least say, "Um, yeah, we're totally going to talk and get back to you"?)
So I'm starting to have conversations with friends who tell me, "Don't worry, Allie. Something will turn up." And they're right. As long as I keep looking, God will open whatever doors I need to respond to whatever it is I'm called to in the immediate future (which might be as vague as it sounds!) It's good to have a community that makes you listen to your own advice and your own beliefs. Sometimes it sounds better coming from them.
And for the most part, I'm really not. I'm applying to places, talking to a lot of different people about a lot of different opportunities, seeing what doors God opens, and walking through them. If so far the most promising doors seem to only be slightly ajar, that's OK. It's still early to expect to be hired for a position starting in May or June. Honestly, I kind of like the feeling of having my future open in front of me. There are so many possibilities. And it's kind of fun and even a little exhilarating to feel like my life isn't completely in my hands--like even though it's my job to search out opportunities, God's the one who's going to hook me up. And whatever it is, it'll be good.
But recently--like I knew it would--it's been getting a little harder to hold onto that feeling. Like when I look at job listings and, instead of having a hearty laugh at my lack of qualifications like I did in December, think, "That sounds exactly like the last six jobs that didn't contact me." Or when my phone interview with the only job to respond thus far ended with a simple "Thanks for your time. Have a good afternoon." (Isn't it common courtesy to at least say, "Um, yeah, we're totally going to talk and get back to you"?)
So I'm starting to have conversations with friends who tell me, "Don't worry, Allie. Something will turn up." And they're right. As long as I keep looking, God will open whatever doors I need to respond to whatever it is I'm called to in the immediate future (which might be as vague as it sounds!) It's good to have a community that makes you listen to your own advice and your own beliefs. Sometimes it sounds better coming from them.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Seagull, come back!
Yesterday Kim and I sat on the beach enjoying the sunniest day yet this week. I am paying for that today, by the way, and will be reapplying aloe shortly. But it was beautiful. We both brought reading to do--Gregory and Howard Thurman--but instead, we spent most of our time watching the group of absolutely adorable kids set up in front of us. There were two little girls in matching tankinis and colorful plastic sunglasses, and two little boys who couldn't quite walk yet digging in the sand wearing floppy hats.
Kids are fun to watch because they're just so excited about everything. They see and value parts of God's world that the rest of us take for granted. Like the little girl with her small pink pail shouting, "I have SHELLS in my bucket!" And was it her or her sister stumbling after a seagull yelling, "Seagull, come back! Come back, seagull!" Grown ups all hate seagulls, lik
e the the old guy chasing them away shouting "There's no such thing as a free lunch!" But for kids there is something inexlicably magical about these birds. A few days before we'd even sat for a while watching a small baby slowly crawl after a completely unconcerned seagull for a very long time.
I love that kids love seagulls just because they're there. I love that they find so much excitement in a pink pail full of broken shells. I love how they remind me to see parts of creation that I don't, even the parts of creation that poop on you and try to steal your sandwich.
photo courtesy of Lauren :)
Kids are fun to watch because they're just so excited about everything. They see and value parts of God's world that the rest of us take for granted. Like the little girl with her small pink pail shouting, "I have SHELLS in my bucket!" And was it her or her sister stumbling after a seagull yelling, "Seagull, come back! Come back, seagull!" Grown ups all hate seagulls, lik
e the the old guy chasing them away shouting "There's no such thing as a free lunch!" But for kids there is something inexlicably magical about these birds. A few days before we'd even sat for a while watching a small baby slowly crawl after a completely unconcerned seagull for a very long time.I love that kids love seagulls just because they're there. I love that they find so much excitement in a pink pail full of broken shells. I love how they remind me to see parts of creation that I don't, even the parts of creation that poop on you and try to steal your sandwich.
photo courtesy of Lauren :)
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Drama, drama, drama
So I don't like patristic theology. Or at least, Gregory of Nazianzus has not, since first year, begun to suddenly inspire me. I don't mind reading him on the beach, but I'm looking forward to moving on with my foray into understanding the Trinity.
But what I did like about this book of his I'm reading is the introduction. It's pretty much all about what a drama queen Gregory was--always complaining about how sick he was, whining about his theological opponents more than necessary, always the victim. You know it has to be bad if the translator says that. This is a guy whose life is devoted to reading and re-communicating this stuff. His descriptions of Gregory made me laugh out loud.
It shouldn't have been a surprise when, sometime after reading the introduction, I flipped back to the cover and read the author's name: St. Gregory of Nazianzus. But it suddenly clicked that this whiny drama queen was a saint. The thought appealed to me for how it seems to lower the qualifications for sainthood. Sometimes, when you know the future leaders of the church as people, it's hard to think of them (of us) with all their drama and issues as saints. And sometimes, when you know the future leaders of the church as people, they impress you so much that you think you'll never be as good as them. But Gregory the whiny drama queen got to be a saint. He got to be a part of making the church what it was. And so do we. And all we can do is know that God works through and with the drama, just like God has always done.
But what I did like about this book of his I'm reading is the introduction. It's pretty much all about what a drama queen Gregory was--always complaining about how sick he was, whining about his theological opponents more than necessary, always the victim. You know it has to be bad if the translator says that. This is a guy whose life is devoted to reading and re-communicating this stuff. His descriptions of Gregory made me laugh out loud.
It shouldn't have been a surprise when, sometime after reading the introduction, I flipped back to the cover and read the author's name: St. Gregory of Nazianzus. But it suddenly clicked that this whiny drama queen was a saint. The thought appealed to me for how it seems to lower the qualifications for sainthood. Sometimes, when you know the future leaders of the church as people, it's hard to think of them (of us) with all their drama and issues as saints. And sometimes, when you know the future leaders of the church as people, they impress you so much that you think you'll never be as good as them. But Gregory the whiny drama queen got to be a saint. He got to be a part of making the church what it was. And so do we. And all we can do is know that God works through and with the drama, just like God has always done.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Beach sabbath
I've never really been the type to take Spring Break to sit and rest. Over the past six years, the only time I haven't gone on some sort of mission trip was the year I had to visit seminaries and figure out my future. So the fact that I am presently sitting by a sunny window in a beach condo and looking forward to another day by the water and evening in a hot tub feels kind of foreign to me. In a good way. In a Sabbath kind of way.
I'm not trying to claim that I have the most stressful life ever, especially this semester. But I've been in higher education for seven years now and, as much as I love it, burnout is setting in. There's something to be said for just getting away. It lets me reconnect. I can sit on the beach reading patristic theology and feel like I'm trying to understand God better by choice, instead of just being pressured to finish.
Yesterday evening Kim and Lauren and I drove around the island, from the condo to dinner, and to the house with the hot tub, and back. It was dark and completely peaceful, these windy roads under canopies of Spanish moss. Kim found some old CDs with redone traditional hymns and we all sang along as we drove. There was something about the night, the quiet, the being with good friends that made the words seem especially true. That's what Sabbath does, I think. It gives you time to remember what is especially true.
I'm not trying to claim that I have the most stressful life ever, especially this semester. But I've been in higher education for seven years now and, as much as I love it, burnout is setting in. There's something to be said for just getting away. It lets me reconnect. I can sit on the beach reading patristic theology and feel like I'm trying to understand God better by choice, instead of just being pressured to finish.
Yesterday evening Kim and Lauren and I drove around the island, from the condo to dinner, and to the house with the hot tub, and back. It was dark and completely peaceful, these windy roads under canopies of Spanish moss. Kim found some old CDs with redone traditional hymns and we all sang along as we drove. There was something about the night, the quiet, the being with good friends that made the words seem especially true. That's what Sabbath does, I think. It gives you time to remember what is especially true.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Head, meet desk
For spring break this year, I've decided to become a Trinitarian.
I am, of course, already a Trinitarian. My faith and theology wouldn't be complete without Father, Son and Spirit (to use non-inclusive but best-metaphor-available language.) But how the whole thing works has always been a little hazy to me. In Systematic Theology last year, I remember reading in one of our books one way we might look at the Trinity--that God is one "person" who we experience in three main and semi-distinct ways. "Oh!" I thought. "That is excellent. I pick that one." Then I read in the next line that that was widely considered to be heresy. Oops. Apparently the idea that God is three persons in Godself is pretty important.
Some people might say that there's no reason to try to convince myself of what other people say or believe. But that's not really what I'm trying to do. I think that what the community of faith over time has affirmed is important to who we are, even if we choose to look at things differently due to our own experiences. So I want to know what people say, and what makes something make sense to them that doesn't always make sense to me. It's the whole "faith seeking understanding" thing...
The reason I've been thinking about this lately is because the other day, Paige said she liked CT501, and especially the parts where we read the church fathers talking about things like the Trinity. That part of CT501 made me want to bang my head on a desk. It seemed to me like a bunch of guys claiming to know things they actually didn't. The same can be said about the human-divine nature of Jesus. But the realization that somebody actually liked that got me thinking. And I know Lauren got into the whole Trinity thing through a few classes last year. So I got three books from her--Moltmann, Gregory of Naz, and She Who Is by Elizabeth Johnson, a feminist Trinitarian. And by golly, my faith is going to spend the next week seeking some understanding. I'll let you know how that goes.
I am, of course, already a Trinitarian. My faith and theology wouldn't be complete without Father, Son and Spirit (to use non-inclusive but best-metaphor-available language.) But how the whole thing works has always been a little hazy to me. In Systematic Theology last year, I remember reading in one of our books one way we might look at the Trinity--that God is one "person" who we experience in three main and semi-distinct ways. "Oh!" I thought. "That is excellent. I pick that one." Then I read in the next line that that was widely considered to be heresy. Oops. Apparently the idea that God is three persons in Godself is pretty important.
Some people might say that there's no reason to try to convince myself of what other people say or believe. But that's not really what I'm trying to do. I think that what the community of faith over time has affirmed is important to who we are, even if we choose to look at things differently due to our own experiences. So I want to know what people say, and what makes something make sense to them that doesn't always make sense to me. It's the whole "faith seeking understanding" thing...
The reason I've been thinking about this lately is because the other day, Paige said she liked CT501, and especially the parts where we read the church fathers talking about things like the Trinity. That part of CT501 made me want to bang my head on a desk. It seemed to me like a bunch of guys claiming to know things they actually didn't. The same can be said about the human-divine nature of Jesus. But the realization that somebody actually liked that got me thinking. And I know Lauren got into the whole Trinity thing through a few classes last year. So I got three books from her--Moltmann, Gregory of Naz, and She Who Is by Elizabeth Johnson, a feminist Trinitarian. And by golly, my faith is going to spend the next week seeking some understanding. I'll let you know how that goes.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Even though I'm right...
Today I sat in my preaching class and heard what I thought was a really great lecture. Mostly I sit in preaching thinking things like, "Why did I take an 8 am class? Oh yeah, I have to graduate" and "that person's coffee smells good" and "I wonder if it's time for my chocolate chip Muffie." But today I thought, hey, this is a really great lecture. It was about preaching the Old Testament. Especially, it was about finding a balance between the fact that the Old Testament contains the fullness of God's revelation on its own, and the fact that for Christians Jesus is God's definitive revelation of Godself. Dr. O'Day didn't have answers so much as she gave us some really good ways to think about the issues. That was what I thought. I was inspired.
Dave was not inspired. Dave sat next to me muttering things like "...bordering on Arianism." We got into a few short whispered verbal scuffles during the lecture. So at the end I said, "Dave, I just wanted to say that I thought that was a really great lecture." And he said, "Hey, I affirm you in that. I've definitely heard lectures before that I thought were great and other people thought were the worst lectures ever." Something we could agree on.
We all want people to appreciate the things we appreciate. But it's also kind of beautiful--not to mention an important lesson for preaching--that God speaks to us in different ways. Things that are meaningless to some people inspire others, and some things are guaranteed to be neither a complete success nor a complete failure as long as Dave and I are both listening :) The important thing is that in the end, God speaks to everyone--and that's what revelation's all about, right?
Also, just because it's awesome, found on Dr. Blevins's office door: http://stillsearching.wordpress.com/2009/02/27/are-you-a-christian-hipster/
Dave was not inspired. Dave sat next to me muttering things like "...bordering on Arianism." We got into a few short whispered verbal scuffles during the lecture. So at the end I said, "Dave, I just wanted to say that I thought that was a really great lecture." And he said, "Hey, I affirm you in that. I've definitely heard lectures before that I thought were great and other people thought were the worst lectures ever." Something we could agree on.
We all want people to appreciate the things we appreciate. But it's also kind of beautiful--not to mention an important lesson for preaching--that God speaks to us in different ways. Things that are meaningless to some people inspire others, and some things are guaranteed to be neither a complete success nor a complete failure as long as Dave and I are both listening :) The important thing is that in the end, God speaks to everyone--and that's what revelation's all about, right?
Also, just because it's awesome, found on Dr. Blevins's office door: http://stillsearching.wordpress.com/2009/02/27/are-you-a-christian-hipster/
Thursday, March 5, 2009
One body
There's a lot to be thankful for today. The weather turned unexpectedly beautiful, it's Taco Mac Thursday, there is a cake in my oven, and a Greek midterm is the only thing that stands between me and spring break less than 24 hours away.
And I was thankful to get to go to the international student worship service today. It's the first regular Tuesday/Thursday chapel service I've been to all semester, since I'm usually at work then. The chapel was full, and in a very colorful way. Candler's such a diverse place, but you can't always just look around and see that like you could today. And it was a chance to recognize the real gifts that international students bring to the community, gifts that aren't always in the spotlight.
Obviously a three-paragraph blog entry isn't the place to go into the reasons why Candler's diversity doesn't always permeate our experience or why certain people's gifts haven't more often been in the spotlight. So though that's a worthy discussion topic, I'm not trying to lead it here today. All I want to say is that I was thankful for the chance today to come together and celebrate as one more complete, more representative body of Christ, and that I'm thankful for that chance whenever it arises.
And I was thankful to get to go to the international student worship service today. It's the first regular Tuesday/Thursday chapel service I've been to all semester, since I'm usually at work then. The chapel was full, and in a very colorful way. Candler's such a diverse place, but you can't always just look around and see that like you could today. And it was a chance to recognize the real gifts that international students bring to the community, gifts that aren't always in the spotlight.
Obviously a three-paragraph blog entry isn't the place to go into the reasons why Candler's diversity doesn't always permeate our experience or why certain people's gifts haven't more often been in the spotlight. So though that's a worthy discussion topic, I'm not trying to lead it here today. All I want to say is that I was thankful for the chance today to come together and celebrate as one more complete, more representative body of Christ, and that I'm thankful for that chance whenever it arises.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Inspiration...go!
Today, my thoughts revolve around one thing: harlotry. Well, harlotry and spring break, but harlotry is the more immediate of the two. I'm writing an exegesis of Jeremiah 3 which, over the last few days, has proven harder than I thought.
Don't get me wrong. I love sitting and working with a text in the nerdiest possible way. I'd like to do it for a living. Because it's so exciting when you can see something new in it, something that changes the tenor of the whole thing. In one of my classes first year we read something that said to preach, you first have to be astounded by the text. I love finding the part of each text that astounds me.
But I'm not astounded by Jeremiah 3. I wrenched out a thesis. It's basically taking part of another guy's thesis and nuancing it a bit to fit my passage. He took pieces of other people's scholarship and nuanced it a bit to fit his passage. Sometimes it feels like the pressure to write sucks the joy out of the discovery. But on the other hand, I love that theology is a conversation, even one of nuances. And maybe at some point I'll come back to this text and it will astound me. Maybe even later tonight, after a few too many lattes.
Don't get me wrong. I love sitting and working with a text in the nerdiest possible way. I'd like to do it for a living. Because it's so exciting when you can see something new in it, something that changes the tenor of the whole thing. In one of my classes first year we read something that said to preach, you first have to be astounded by the text. I love finding the part of each text that astounds me.
But I'm not astounded by Jeremiah 3. I wrenched out a thesis. It's basically taking part of another guy's thesis and nuancing it a bit to fit my passage. He took pieces of other people's scholarship and nuanced it a bit to fit his passage. Sometimes it feels like the pressure to write sucks the joy out of the discovery. But on the other hand, I love that theology is a conversation, even one of nuances. And maybe at some point I'll come back to this text and it will astound me. Maybe even later tonight, after a few too many lattes.
Monday, March 2, 2009
I'll be the vegetarian at the pot luck
Something caught my attention in my UMC Polity class this evening. (Yes! Something caught my attention in Polity, and it wasn't just Facebook on Meg's computer next to me!)
Dr. Frank was talking about how we can still see vestiges of historical understandings of Methodist ministry in the Book of Discipline. Of course I can't find what I'm looking for in the Discipline right now, but there was an old term still in there along the lines of "traveling ministry" or "covenant of traveling ministers." What a great way to look at itineracy.
I've done my share of grumbling about the itineracy system, especially since I decided to be ordained into it. It means, technically, that my bishop can appoint me anywhere in the Virginia Conference, and I have to go. And it means, I am convinced, that instead of being assigned to a nice urban church with a good homeless ministry, I will almost certainly be moving to a three-point charge two miles from West Virginia. That scares me. Especially the thought of announcing I'm a vegetarian at the first church pot luck. ("A what?")
But I've always loved to travel, and when you talk about itineracy as a ministry of travel, I'm in. As I've learned from being completely lost (literally and metaphorically) in places like Seoul and Madurai, you learn to rely a lot on God when you travel. You learn you're not as independent as you think you are, but you're also not as alone. You learn to be open to things and people you wouldn't be open to at home. Even just across the border from West Virginia.
There's something exciting about being completely not in control of your own future. Of course, I'm ignoring for now the politics and seniority that inevitably make their way into the appointment process. David assures me that God is present in the process, and David knows everything. So ministry of travel, I'm ready for you. At least, in a year or so. :)
Dr. Frank was talking about how we can still see vestiges of historical understandings of Methodist ministry in the Book of Discipline. Of course I can't find what I'm looking for in the Discipline right now, but there was an old term still in there along the lines of "traveling ministry" or "covenant of traveling ministers." What a great way to look at itineracy.
I've done my share of grumbling about the itineracy system, especially since I decided to be ordained into it. It means, technically, that my bishop can appoint me anywhere in the Virginia Conference, and I have to go. And it means, I am convinced, that instead of being assigned to a nice urban church with a good homeless ministry, I will almost certainly be moving to a three-point charge two miles from West Virginia. That scares me. Especially the thought of announcing I'm a vegetarian at the first church pot luck. ("A what?")
But I've always loved to travel, and when you talk about itineracy as a ministry of travel, I'm in. As I've learned from being completely lost (literally and metaphorically) in places like Seoul and Madurai, you learn to rely a lot on God when you travel. You learn you're not as independent as you think you are, but you're also not as alone. You learn to be open to things and people you wouldn't be open to at home. Even just across the border from West Virginia.
There's something exciting about being completely not in control of your own future. Of course, I'm ignoring for now the politics and seniority that inevitably make their way into the appointment process. David assures me that God is present in the process, and David knows everything. So ministry of travel, I'm ready for you. At least, in a year or so. :)
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Thoughts from this side of the window
Like pretty much everyone in Atlanta, I'm amazed by the snow today. I would be even more amazed if I had had a scraper when I was trying to leave church. Turns out a closed umbrella (still on the floor of my car, btw) is a surprisingly ineffective alternative.
There were more homeless (or apparently homeless) people in church than usual. A few wandered in halfway through the service, looking wet. During fellowship time I talked to a few of them; we chatted about the unusual weather, mutually wished each other good days and weeks. And I felt a little guilty--because where would they go when church was over?
When it's rainy or cold, we often remember people with nowhere to go. (Maybe not as often as we should.) But even people who can escape the elements don't usually get excited about downpours or potential frostbite. At least we're all agreed on that. But snow is beautiful and exciting. Snow makes people gather by the window in the kitchen instead of passing the peace. Only some people, though.
I'm glad my church was a place where people on the streets could spend an hour warm and dry. I'm glad Trinity is the kind of community that welcomes them. I'm glad people could come in and find a word of peace, coffee and a donut, a place for a nap, whatever they needed. And I know it's not as easy as just saying I wish the church could give them that for longer. But I wish it could.
There were more homeless (or apparently homeless) people in church than usual. A few wandered in halfway through the service, looking wet. During fellowship time I talked to a few of them; we chatted about the unusual weather, mutually wished each other good days and weeks. And I felt a little guilty--because where would they go when church was over?
When it's rainy or cold, we often remember people with nowhere to go. (Maybe not as often as we should.) But even people who can escape the elements don't usually get excited about downpours or potential frostbite. At least we're all agreed on that. But snow is beautiful and exciting. Snow makes people gather by the window in the kitchen instead of passing the peace. Only some people, though.
I'm glad my church was a place where people on the streets could spend an hour warm and dry. I'm glad Trinity is the kind of community that welcomes them. I'm glad people could come in and find a word of peace, coffee and a donut, a place for a nap, whatever they needed. And I know it's not as easy as just saying I wish the church could give them that for longer. But I wish it could.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Moving along at a slow waddle
As miserable as they sound to a lot of people, I've always enjoyed my weekend long runs. They're hard, of course, but I like the time to myself and the scenery of Stone Mountain and the sense of accomplishment when I'm done. This is the case almost every long run day. But not today.
Today's run killed me, brought me back to life, and killed me again. It was bad. It was bad from the start. Two and a half miles in I was running up this hill and a truck came up behind me and I thought, if that thing ran over me right now, I would probably not feel different. I was supposed to do 3 7-mile loops around the mountain. By the third, my "run" had pretty much become a slow waddle. And then I started walking up every hill. And then I just walked the last three miles. I've never had to do that before. I felt defeated.
So I came home and read some Ecclesiastes. As evidenced by my blog title, it's one of my favorite books (ever since Dr. Strawn's class first year.) Ecclesiastes is, in a way, about accepting our limitations. For Ecclesiastes that means death and the apparent lack of ultimate meaning in life. It's only when we stop trying to find or create things that last that we can simply eat, drink, and enjoy our toil--because that's God's gift to us.
My athletic limitations are probably a superficial parallel. After all, if I were Ecclesiastes, I would have run this marathon, won it handily, and still pronounced everything vanity in the face of death. But hey, we all have to accept less significant limitations every day. Accepting that I couldn't finish the run I planned today means that instead of dwelling on it I can be thankful for the fact that I could run, walk, and waddle around that mountain for 21 miles. And I am thankful for that. A few months ago it would have been unthinkable.
I'm not giving up on the marathon training. Come March 29 I am going to run that bad boy. But for today, I accept defeat with a grudging smile and give thanks for what God has given me the physical strength to do on this particular day of my vain life.
Today's run killed me, brought me back to life, and killed me again. It was bad. It was bad from the start. Two and a half miles in I was running up this hill and a truck came up behind me and I thought, if that thing ran over me right now, I would probably not feel different. I was supposed to do 3 7-mile loops around the mountain. By the third, my "run" had pretty much become a slow waddle. And then I started walking up every hill. And then I just walked the last three miles. I've never had to do that before. I felt defeated.
So I came home and read some Ecclesiastes. As evidenced by my blog title, it's one of my favorite books (ever since Dr. Strawn's class first year.) Ecclesiastes is, in a way, about accepting our limitations. For Ecclesiastes that means death and the apparent lack of ultimate meaning in life. It's only when we stop trying to find or create things that last that we can simply eat, drink, and enjoy our toil--because that's God's gift to us.
My athletic limitations are probably a superficial parallel. After all, if I were Ecclesiastes, I would have run this marathon, won it handily, and still pronounced everything vanity in the face of death. But hey, we all have to accept less significant limitations every day. Accepting that I couldn't finish the run I planned today means that instead of dwelling on it I can be thankful for the fact that I could run, walk, and waddle around that mountain for 21 miles. And I am thankful for that. A few months ago it would have been unthinkable.
I'm not giving up on the marathon training. Come March 29 I am going to run that bad boy. But for today, I accept defeat with a grudging smile and give thanks for what God has given me the physical strength to do on this particular day of my vain life.
Friday, February 27, 2009
This is the weather, with which I am not pleased
It's raining today. This annoys me. It annoys me first of all because I own two umbrellas, and I know where both of them are (on the floor of my car), and I knew it was going to rain today, and I did not manage to bring one to school. It annoys me because I always go to Panera between Friday morning classes for coffee and a chocolate chip Muffie, and I had to walk through the rain to get there. And it annoys me because I need to run later. I really want to love running in the rain. But last time I did water got in my contact and it rolled back in my eye and I ran half a mile with one eye open and one eye closed. I don't love running in the rain.
This semester I've started going to the Friday midday Eucharist service in chapel, and today the Gospel reading was the baptism of Jesus. I didn't think much of it. Then during the prayers of the people I caught one line between zoning in and out: "Pour out your gift of water on all creation." And I thought, HEY! God IS pouring out God's gift of water on all creation! Rain is like BAPTISM!"
Now, I know I am hardly the first person to connect rain to baptism. The Eucharist liturgy even mentioned the flood. But sometimes we need reminders, and I was reminded. So I sat there in the dry chapel feeling good about myself for realizing this and thinking about how my walk home after Greek would be like a mile-long affirmation of my baptism. I felt good about this all the way up until I had to leave the chapel to go to the theology building for Greek, and my thoughts changed from "Remember your baptism and be thankful" to "Oh, why, God, why?"
On the walk home I really tried to remember my baptism and be thankful. But it was cold. And my hair was getting frizzy. But then I thought about how babies cry when they get baptized. They don't like it, either. But that water is still a symbol of God's commitment to them. And I guess that's true with rain. On my walk home I made peace with the fact that God's grace doesn't depend on whether I'm thankful for it.
Then halfway home some people I know only a little stopped and made me in their car so they could drive me the rest of the way. Sometimes, grace is easy to be thankful for.
This semester I've started going to the Friday midday Eucharist service in chapel, and today the Gospel reading was the baptism of Jesus. I didn't think much of it. Then during the prayers of the people I caught one line between zoning in and out: "Pour out your gift of water on all creation." And I thought, HEY! God IS pouring out God's gift of water on all creation! Rain is like BAPTISM!"
Now, I know I am hardly the first person to connect rain to baptism. The Eucharist liturgy even mentioned the flood. But sometimes we need reminders, and I was reminded. So I sat there in the dry chapel feeling good about myself for realizing this and thinking about how my walk home after Greek would be like a mile-long affirmation of my baptism. I felt good about this all the way up until I had to leave the chapel to go to the theology building for Greek, and my thoughts changed from "Remember your baptism and be thankful" to "Oh, why, God, why?"
On the walk home I really tried to remember my baptism and be thankful. But it was cold. And my hair was getting frizzy. But then I thought about how babies cry when they get baptized. They don't like it, either. But that water is still a symbol of God's commitment to them. And I guess that's true with rain. On my walk home I made peace with the fact that God's grace doesn't depend on whether I'm thankful for it.
Then halfway home some people I know only a little stopped and made me in their car so they could drive me the rest of the way. Sometimes, grace is easy to be thankful for.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Now I can still have Splenda
Welcome to my Lent blog.
For those of you who don't know Hebrew, the title means "vanity of vanities," from Ecclesiastes. I named my blog that because that's probably what it's going to be.
When I got certified by my DCOM this January, the issue inevitably came up that I have no devotional life to speak of. Someone on the committee asked me a question about Wesleyan spiritual discipline and I kind of sat there awkwardly for a few minutes, hearing "Bueller? Bueller?" in my head. Then I gave a theological rockstar answer along the lines of "I don't really have any spiritual disciplines, but I really want to start." Another committe member said I sounded like the married couples he counsels who really mean to start going on dates sometime. Oh, snap.
So as much as doing something of the devotional variety shouldn't actually be an exclusively Lenten practice, it's a start. Here's my goal: have one theological thought a day, and write it down. That's all.
I was going to give up Splenda for Lent. Seriously, that was my plan for a long time. It was going to be like the opposite of giving up sweets in hope of being really, really skinny by Easter. (I've done that one a bunch, too...turns out it doesn't work if you just eat tortilla chips instead.) See, I use Splenda (and related brands of fake sugar) like it's my job. Soda, coffee, yogurt...I love Splenda because it's like cheap grace. Eat all you want, don't worry about the consequences.
The thought was, giving up Splenda would make me think harder about what I actually put in my body. Especially since I got back from India this summer I've been more and more convinced that there's just no reason to eat all the crap we eat here when people have so little in other places. Except then I realized that training for this marathon means I'm already thinking about my body pretty much all the time anyway. Adding a Lenten practice to make me do that more is probably just bordering on having issues.
Also, I didn't want Splenda to go out of business in These Troubled Economic Times.
Anyway, my lack of a devotional life is probably a bigger peril to my immortal soul right now than my consumption of sugar derivatives.
So if anyone is actually reading this, enjoy my attempt at a combination of spiritual discipline and public theology. And if not, well...hakkol hebel.
For those of you who don't know Hebrew, the title means "vanity of vanities," from Ecclesiastes. I named my blog that because that's probably what it's going to be.
When I got certified by my DCOM this January, the issue inevitably came up that I have no devotional life to speak of. Someone on the committee asked me a question about Wesleyan spiritual discipline and I kind of sat there awkwardly for a few minutes, hearing "Bueller? Bueller?" in my head. Then I gave a theological rockstar answer along the lines of "I don't really have any spiritual disciplines, but I really want to start." Another committe member said I sounded like the married couples he counsels who really mean to start going on dates sometime. Oh, snap.
So as much as doing something of the devotional variety shouldn't actually be an exclusively Lenten practice, it's a start. Here's my goal: have one theological thought a day, and write it down. That's all.
I was going to give up Splenda for Lent. Seriously, that was my plan for a long time. It was going to be like the opposite of giving up sweets in hope of being really, really skinny by Easter. (I've done that one a bunch, too...turns out it doesn't work if you just eat tortilla chips instead.) See, I use Splenda (and related brands of fake sugar) like it's my job. Soda, coffee, yogurt...I love Splenda because it's like cheap grace. Eat all you want, don't worry about the consequences.
The thought was, giving up Splenda would make me think harder about what I actually put in my body. Especially since I got back from India this summer I've been more and more convinced that there's just no reason to eat all the crap we eat here when people have so little in other places. Except then I realized that training for this marathon means I'm already thinking about my body pretty much all the time anyway. Adding a Lenten practice to make me do that more is probably just bordering on having issues.
Also, I didn't want Splenda to go out of business in These Troubled Economic Times.
Anyway, my lack of a devotional life is probably a bigger peril to my immortal soul right now than my consumption of sugar derivatives.
So if anyone is actually reading this, enjoy my attempt at a combination of spiritual discipline and public theology. And if not, well...hakkol hebel.
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