Hail the Sun of Righteousness, anyway...
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
LC's Tree: Here Comes the Sun?
I know that compared to places like northern California the weather here is swell...but I miss the sun. It's been foggy, soggy, dark and gloomy for a week now. I just want to feel the sun on my face for a few minutes.
Hail the Sun of Righteousness, anyway...
Hail the Sun of Righteousness, anyway...
Community (Book) Chest
Hoo-boy...a box from Amazon arrived today.
This was an order that "just growed." I began by ordering the book Gathered and Sent, a sort of primer on the basic structure of Christian worship, by Karen Bockelman (Augsburg Fortress) for my lay ministry class' next retreat, next month. It's such a small book that it seemed a shame not to make the most of the shipping and handling, so I added two books by Marva J. Dawn, a theologian and church musician who's written some great stuff about the theology of worship. These two titles, though, go in somewhat different directions. Unfettered Hope: A Call to Faithful Living in an Affluent Society, which critiques the faith-killing "affluenza" of our time and place while reminding us of an alternative, countercultural way of living in the world. Truly the Community: Romans 12 and How to Be the Church is fairly self-explanatory.
As you can see, all these books have something to do with Christian community -- living with and interacting with other Christians, and engaging the wider culture as a group. And I will admit to you that I am struggling right now, again, with the paradox that what feels like the best place to be can also feel like the worst place to be. I know people who have been and who are at this moment being hurt, and hurt badly, by the institutional Church. I've had a recent run-in of my own with Christian luv that didn't exactly feel like a warm hug either. (Being indirectly labeled "demonic" by, say, some gibbering Fred-Phelpsian maniac isn't much of a surprise, and is actually a good touchstone that one is, in fact, one of the children of the Light; but when that adjective is quoted with seeming approval by a sane individual in a mainstream tradition, someone I thought of as a fairly friendly or at least benign online acquaintance, it's like getting kicked in the solar plexus.) Is this what "Christian community" is always like? I know what Dietrich Bonhoeffer would say: Wish-dream -- get over it. I think I know what Jesus would say: Following me -- get used to it. And then I wonder what peculiar flaw in my own psyche makes me so sensitive and defensive and unable to respond in a way that makes me feel like I'm doing or saying the right thing, and what to do about that.
Anyhow -- much reading ahead. And somewhere in between this I'm going to be writing some essays for Ordinary Time.
And...another book order en route: The Daily Prayer of the Church. I rather suspect this will be one of my refuges when "community" starts getting to me. Ironically.
This was an order that "just growed." I began by ordering the book Gathered and Sent, a sort of primer on the basic structure of Christian worship, by Karen Bockelman (Augsburg Fortress) for my lay ministry class' next retreat, next month. It's such a small book that it seemed a shame not to make the most of the shipping and handling, so I added two books by Marva J. Dawn, a theologian and church musician who's written some great stuff about the theology of worship. These two titles, though, go in somewhat different directions. Unfettered Hope: A Call to Faithful Living in an Affluent Society, which critiques the faith-killing "affluenza" of our time and place while reminding us of an alternative, countercultural way of living in the world. Truly the Community: Romans 12 and How to Be the Church is fairly self-explanatory.
As you can see, all these books have something to do with Christian community -- living with and interacting with other Christians, and engaging the wider culture as a group. And I will admit to you that I am struggling right now, again, with the paradox that what feels like the best place to be can also feel like the worst place to be. I know people who have been and who are at this moment being hurt, and hurt badly, by the institutional Church. I've had a recent run-in of my own with Christian luv that didn't exactly feel like a warm hug either. (Being indirectly labeled "demonic" by, say, some gibbering Fred-Phelpsian maniac isn't much of a surprise, and is actually a good touchstone that one is, in fact, one of the children of the Light; but when that adjective is quoted with seeming approval by a sane individual in a mainstream tradition, someone I thought of as a fairly friendly or at least benign online acquaintance, it's like getting kicked in the solar plexus.) Is this what "Christian community" is always like? I know what Dietrich Bonhoeffer would say: Wish-dream -- get over it. I think I know what Jesus would say: Following me -- get used to it. And then I wonder what peculiar flaw in my own psyche makes me so sensitive and defensive and unable to respond in a way that makes me feel like I'm doing or saying the right thing, and what to do about that.
Anyhow -- much reading ahead. And somewhere in between this I'm going to be writing some essays for Ordinary Time.
And...another book order en route: The Daily Prayer of the Church. I rather suspect this will be one of my refuges when "community" starts getting to me. Ironically.
Absolute Trust
I keep straining my ears to hear a sound.
Maybe someone is digging underground,
or have they given up and all gone home to bed,
thinking those who once existed must be dead. -- New York Mining Disaster 1941
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours? -- The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
"'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'" -- Jesus
The mining disaster in Tallmansville, West Virginia, with its especially cruel interlude of premature hope before it became clear that all but one of the trapped m miners had died, has weighed heavy on my mind this week. It's odd that, in a year filled with disasters around the world, this local, small-scale tragedy should make such an impression. Perhaps it's because we were waiting, in our living rooms, along with those miners' families, seeing and hearing them as they kept vigil for hours, enjoyed a brief respite, then had their happiness crushed.
Theodicy -- the theological conversation focusing on why God does what God does, or doesn't do -- is a stone that I think has crushed more than one fragile faith. My speculations are no better than others. But when I try to reconcile the bad things that happen in the world on an ongoing basis with my faith, I keep coming back to something Dan Erlander wrote in his book Baptized We Live; when I first read these words I found them incredibly jarring, but the more I've lived with them, the more they've provided me with a touchstone when bad things happen:
We live by trust and not by certitude...we live in ambiguity. Life is joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, good and evil, health and sickness. Having no proof that God cares, we take the "leap of faith." We trust that God is good, that God means us well...we trust that God will bring the shalom.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
LC's Tree: The Birds At the Back
When I was just a li'l kid, I desperately wanted a parakeet. On rare trips into what passes for the big city around here, I'd attach myself to the pet department of Woolworth's and stare forlornly at the budgie cages until dragged away to look at clothes or kitchenware or some other equally boring merchandise.
One of my aunts felt my pain, and when I was about five or six she gave me these two plastic parakeets to put on the little tree that my parents put up in my playroom. These were real trees, scraggly white pine saplings culled from our property -- dead ringers for Charlie Brown's classic tree.
These 40-year-old birds look fairly charming in my photo -- almost real, if you don't focus too hard -- but the fact of the matter is, they've seen better days. One is missing a foot; both are missing significant amounts of paint. Both of them have suffered assault at the hands, or more accurately the fangs, of family pets. Now, whenever I pull them out of the ornament chest, my mother rolls her eyes and exclaims, "You're not putting those on the tree, are you?"
I do. But in these latter days, they are consigned to the back of the tree, the side facing the front porch window. Because, on one hand, you don't want a naked Christmas tree facing the world; it looks dumb. On the other hand, you don't want to waste your really pretty ornaments by hanging them where almost noone can see them.
So the budgies are at the back. As are a pair of yellowed crocheted snowflakes, and an inexplicable plastic-canvas-needlepoint creature that someone gave my mother many years ago, and a small glass Christmas tree that arrived as a premium on a jar of instant coffee, and a little knitted bell that once came attached to a Christmas gift. A couple of artsy-craftsy wooden ornaments whose purchase seemed like a good idea at the time. Some plain glass balls that are...well...unremarkable in any way.
At a time of year when I'm doing a certain amount of reviewing and retooling and perhaps even reinventing, I wonder if I'm not a little like my Christmas tree, trying to keep the shabbier parts of myself out of sight, yet not quite ready to let go of them. And maybe some of them shouldn't be let go of; maybe I'm in fact undervaluing what role they've played in making me who I am.
Maybe next year the budgies will migrate to the front of the tree.
Sweet birds of youth
One of my aunts felt my pain, and when I was about five or six she gave me these two plastic parakeets to put on the little tree that my parents put up in my playroom. These were real trees, scraggly white pine saplings culled from our property -- dead ringers for Charlie Brown's classic tree.
These 40-year-old birds look fairly charming in my photo -- almost real, if you don't focus too hard -- but the fact of the matter is, they've seen better days. One is missing a foot; both are missing significant amounts of paint. Both of them have suffered assault at the hands, or more accurately the fangs, of family pets. Now, whenever I pull them out of the ornament chest, my mother rolls her eyes and exclaims, "You're not putting those on the tree, are you?"
I do. But in these latter days, they are consigned to the back of the tree, the side facing the front porch window. Because, on one hand, you don't want a naked Christmas tree facing the world; it looks dumb. On the other hand, you don't want to waste your really pretty ornaments by hanging them where almost noone can see them.
So the budgies are at the back. As are a pair of yellowed crocheted snowflakes, and an inexplicable plastic-canvas-needlepoint creature that someone gave my mother many years ago, and a small glass Christmas tree that arrived as a premium on a jar of instant coffee, and a little knitted bell that once came attached to a Christmas gift. A couple of artsy-craftsy wooden ornaments whose purchase seemed like a good idea at the time. Some plain glass balls that are...well...unremarkable in any way.
At a time of year when I'm doing a certain amount of reviewing and retooling and perhaps even reinventing, I wonder if I'm not a little like my Christmas tree, trying to keep the shabbier parts of myself out of sight, yet not quite ready to let go of them. And maybe some of them shouldn't be let go of; maybe I'm in fact undervaluing what role they've played in making me who I am.
Maybe next year the budgies will migrate to the front of the tree.
Sweet birds of youth
Monday, January 02, 2006
LC's Tree: From the 'Rents
This ornament -- pretty but not particularly remarkable -- is one of a set that my parents bought for their very first Christmas tree.
At the time, in the early 50's, they were living in a trailer next to my grandparents' farmhouse, which would later become their home. My mother reports that those first trees tended to be of the Charlie Brown style, and small enough to fit in the little Airstream.
My parents did not have an Ozzie-and-Harriet relationship, and Christmas was not always a particularly happy time at our house. But the day the Christmas tree went up was always a good day. My father usually went to the tree farm himself and cut the tree; he was very particular about getting one as near to perfect in symmetry as possible, and also obsessive about stringing the lights in just the right way. Once that was done it was my mother's turn to put on the ornaments. (Until I was high-school age my only contribution to this endeavor was as an ornament unwrapper and go-fer.) My dad -- perhaps thinking back to his own childhood Christmas Eves when my grandmother would literally chase the kids outside, lock the doors and pull down the shades until the tree was decorated and the candles lit -- would always find something to do outside while my mom took her turn with the tree adornment. Then he'd come inside, gaze upon the finished display, and murmur, "Not bad."
Sometimes when I'm feeling a little moony and sentimental I wish I had a Sweet Baboo with whom to engage in domestic rituals like this. But...my mother has really enjoyed our Christmas tree this year, so it was worth doing, even if this isn't exactly the Kodak moment I had in my head a decade ago when I'd imagine my future. And even if I lived all by myself I'd still decorate a Christmas tree. And it would be...not bad. Not bad at all.
A parental ornament
At the time, in the early 50's, they were living in a trailer next to my grandparents' farmhouse, which would later become their home. My mother reports that those first trees tended to be of the Charlie Brown style, and small enough to fit in the little Airstream.
My parents did not have an Ozzie-and-Harriet relationship, and Christmas was not always a particularly happy time at our house. But the day the Christmas tree went up was always a good day. My father usually went to the tree farm himself and cut the tree; he was very particular about getting one as near to perfect in symmetry as possible, and also obsessive about stringing the lights in just the right way. Once that was done it was my mother's turn to put on the ornaments. (Until I was high-school age my only contribution to this endeavor was as an ornament unwrapper and go-fer.) My dad -- perhaps thinking back to his own childhood Christmas Eves when my grandmother would literally chase the kids outside, lock the doors and pull down the shades until the tree was decorated and the candles lit -- would always find something to do outside while my mom took her turn with the tree adornment. Then he'd come inside, gaze upon the finished display, and murmur, "Not bad."
Sometimes when I'm feeling a little moony and sentimental I wish I had a Sweet Baboo with whom to engage in domestic rituals like this. But...my mother has really enjoyed our Christmas tree this year, so it was worth doing, even if this isn't exactly the Kodak moment I had in my head a decade ago when I'd imagine my future. And even if I lived all by myself I'd still decorate a Christmas tree. And it would be...not bad. Not bad at all.
A parental ornament
Johann Karl Wilhelm Who?
That was my thought upon seeing today's commemoration on the calendar. So I did a little checking.
Turns out that Johann Karl Wilhelm Loehe is a Renewer of the Church with a somewhat local connection to me. Loehe, a Pietist pastor from Franconia, responded to a call for missionaries to the American wilderness by planning a mission village that would minister to the Native Americans. With his guidance, in 1845 a small group of missionaries and a mission pastor left Bremen, endured a difficult sea voyage to the United States and eventually wound up in the forests of Michigan, near Saginaw. The group founded a village named Frankenmuth -- "courage of the Franks" -- and established St. Lorenz Church, which like Frankenmuth is still alive and thriving. The missionaries did not have a great deal of long-term success converting the Native Americans, but they did help provide a comforting bit of home to many a new immigrant from Germany looking for a place to settle, and their church also became one of the founding congregations of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod. So even though Loehe never left Germany, his vision of the Church as an active, in-breaking presence in new places was a significant influence on Lutheranism in the New World.
You can read all about Loehe and the beginnings of St. Lorenz here .
A couple of my college friends were Frankenmuth residents who worshipped at St. Lorenz. And I can't help but think that the church infrastructure that had its start in Frankenmuth had something to do with the planting of my young-childhood church, the long-closed Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church, in a corner of Outer Podunk once upon a time.
Turns out that Johann Karl Wilhelm Loehe is a Renewer of the Church with a somewhat local connection to me. Loehe, a Pietist pastor from Franconia, responded to a call for missionaries to the American wilderness by planning a mission village that would minister to the Native Americans. With his guidance, in 1845 a small group of missionaries and a mission pastor left Bremen, endured a difficult sea voyage to the United States and eventually wound up in the forests of Michigan, near Saginaw. The group founded a village named Frankenmuth -- "courage of the Franks" -- and established St. Lorenz Church, which like Frankenmuth is still alive and thriving. The missionaries did not have a great deal of long-term success converting the Native Americans, but they did help provide a comforting bit of home to many a new immigrant from Germany looking for a place to settle, and their church also became one of the founding congregations of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod. So even though Loehe never left Germany, his vision of the Church as an active, in-breaking presence in new places was a significant influence on Lutheranism in the New World.
You can read all about Loehe and the beginnings of St. Lorenz here .
A couple of my college friends were Frankenmuth residents who worshipped at St. Lorenz. And I can't help but think that the church infrastructure that had its start in Frankenmuth had something to do with the planting of my young-childhood church, the long-closed Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church, in a corner of Outer Podunk once upon a time.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Helping People in Central Asia
Sometimes it's easy to get overwhelmed by natural and human-engineered disasters; they're too big, too bad for us to comprehend or even want to think about. But here are a couple of small-scale projects that are helping people in some hurting parts of the world.
The Central Asia Institute , an organization begun by a mountain climber concerned by the poverty, lack of opportunity and gender inequity he found in countries he visited, is raising money to help keep schools open in earthquake-damaged communities in rural Pakistan. The money is going toward tents and shelters, clothing for kids, school supplies and other needs. Visit the website and check it out.
For many of us Afghanistan has fallen off our mental map. Ecology Action , a nonprofit dedicated to promoting good, sustainable gardening practices and empowering people in developing countries to grow their own food, is helping sponsor a gardening project in Kabul, where an Afghan agriculturalist and graduate of Ecology Action's apprenticeship program in California is planning on teaching others the gardening practices he learned. Ecology Action is also accepting donations to help fund Kenyan gardening education projects. Among other good things, Ecology Action publishes the Bountiful Gardens gardening catalog, which offers all sorts of wonderful open-pollinated vegetable, grain, flower and green manure plant seeds, as well as gardening supplies and books. I can personally vouch for the quality of their seeds and customer service; once they had to back-order a packet of sweetcorn seeds for me, and I received a personal, chatty handwritten note from one of the staff telling me about her own experience with the variety in question -- very impressive! So visit the website, maybe throw a little change the way of one of their development projects, and shop for seeds -- another way to support the work of Ecology Action.
And...most of our denominations' relief agencies are helping out in Central and South Asia, the southern U.S., Niger, Darfur and other places that may be easy to forget as we enter a new year. Even something as simple as giving up a weekend pizza or morning latte, or earmarking random "found money" for charity, can help you fit some extra giving into your budget. You'll feel good for having done it, and any amount will help.
The Central Asia Institute , an organization begun by a mountain climber concerned by the poverty, lack of opportunity and gender inequity he found in countries he visited, is raising money to help keep schools open in earthquake-damaged communities in rural Pakistan. The money is going toward tents and shelters, clothing for kids, school supplies and other needs. Visit the website and check it out.
For many of us Afghanistan has fallen off our mental map. Ecology Action , a nonprofit dedicated to promoting good, sustainable gardening practices and empowering people in developing countries to grow their own food, is helping sponsor a gardening project in Kabul, where an Afghan agriculturalist and graduate of Ecology Action's apprenticeship program in California is planning on teaching others the gardening practices he learned. Ecology Action is also accepting donations to help fund Kenyan gardening education projects. Among other good things, Ecology Action publishes the Bountiful Gardens gardening catalog, which offers all sorts of wonderful open-pollinated vegetable, grain, flower and green manure plant seeds, as well as gardening supplies and books. I can personally vouch for the quality of their seeds and customer service; once they had to back-order a packet of sweetcorn seeds for me, and I received a personal, chatty handwritten note from one of the staff telling me about her own experience with the variety in question -- very impressive! So visit the website, maybe throw a little change the way of one of their development projects, and shop for seeds -- another way to support the work of Ecology Action.
And...most of our denominations' relief agencies are helping out in Central and South Asia, the southern U.S., Niger, Darfur and other places that may be easy to forget as we enter a new year. Even something as simple as giving up a weekend pizza or morning latte, or earmarking random "found money" for charity, can help you fit some extra giving into your budget. You'll feel good for having done it, and any amount will help.
LC's Tree: Washed and Fed
It's interesting, during this season when we ponder God coming to us in such a state of utter vulnerability, that washing and feeding -- the same things that we do for the youngest and most helpless among us -- are the ways in which we experience God's sacramental presence in the most powerful way.
And how interesting that throughout history the Church has tended to place barriers before people seeking these sacraments -- insisting that baptismal candidates (or their parents) or communicants demonstrate a certain level of "understanding" or merit before the sacraments are administered."Bathe me"; "feed me"; the primal needs of the helpless. The God we believe in, teach and confess once came to us as one just as helpless. So just as a mother or father freely give these gifts to their children out of love for them, the Church might re-envision its role in administering the sacraments with a mind to the mothering, fathering God who has given them to us as acts conveying God's love and care.
What's In a Name?
I was once part of an online discussion whose participants included a rather excitable individual with an urgent need to communicate his concerns about Satan. He was so fired up (so to speak) about the devil that, after awhile, instead of typing "Satan" he'd type "Stan"...over and over again.
It was interesting to me how Satan's transformation into Stan, in the context of this extended conversation, robbed Satan of the power to evoke the expected emotional reaction to his name. You just can't get too exercised over hearing, for example, that Stan wants you to neglect your devotional life or stop reading your Bible or sleep in on Sunday morning. Oh, yeah? Stan wants that? Well, tell Stan to go...
What's in a name, anyway?
Today's Gospel lesson pairs a very unusual event -- strange shepherds showing up at Bethlehem to visit the infant Jesus and share their amazing, numinous experience with his wondering parents -- with a very commonplace event, in a Jewish family: Eight days after Jesus' birth, he was circumcised according to the Law, and given a name. He was named Joshua, after the great hero: "God saves." It wasn't a particularly unusual name; probably when the neighborhood kids in Nazareth were out playing and a mother's voice suddenly rang out, "Joshua!" many little heads turned in that direction.
It seems curious, at first, to consider that the Church has a special observance dedicated to the naming of Jesus.
But maybe not.
How do you pronounce the name of God? How do you spell it? If you are a pious Jew, this is a ridiculous question: You don't. God is so great, so glorious, so righteous, so other, that to presume to speak God's name or write it down, no matter how well intentioned, constitutes blasphemy; a misappropriation of the power of The Name by mere mortals.
In our studiously casual and irreverent age, we sometimes forget what it means to revere the name of the Divine. Many pious contemporary Christians become agitated at the sight of "X-mas," for instance, when the abbreviation actually originated as a sign of respect for Christ's name. But even now there are times when, while reading Scripture, even we may feel our hair stand on end: The beginning of John's Gospel, where we read about the Word of God, who is life, and the light of all people, through whom all things came into being; the hymn to Christ in the letter to the Colossians, describing him as "the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and earth were created...all things have been created through him and for him"; the Alpha and Omega of Revelation.
How can we possibly get our heads around the concept of this Cosmic Christ, let alone the entire Godhead?
We can't. Which may be why, once upon a time, God came to us in the person of one new baby named Joshua. Nothing regal or otherwise special in that name, other than the perennial hope that God's saving power might reach out to God's people.
And, more than this, Joshua -- one of countless Joshuas before and since -- was known as Joshua, son of Mary. In a patriarchal, honor/shame culture, being known by one's mother's name instead of one's father's was a wagging-fingered, shaming assessment by the community that one's paternity was in question. So not only did the Word become one of us, but he became one of the least of us; an object of derision and dismissal in a community heavily invested in its "family values."
What's in a name? In the name of Jesus we find a continuum of human experience -- everything from heroism to humiliation to hope. And a God with a name too holy to be spoken who is willing to take on that name, with all the human story that goes with it, so that it all may become "the name that is above every name."
The Circumcision of Jesus, Ottoviano Nelli
It was interesting to me how Satan's transformation into Stan, in the context of this extended conversation, robbed Satan of the power to evoke the expected emotional reaction to his name. You just can't get too exercised over hearing, for example, that Stan wants you to neglect your devotional life or stop reading your Bible or sleep in on Sunday morning. Oh, yeah? Stan wants that? Well, tell Stan to go...
What's in a name, anyway?
Today's Gospel lesson pairs a very unusual event -- strange shepherds showing up at Bethlehem to visit the infant Jesus and share their amazing, numinous experience with his wondering parents -- with a very commonplace event, in a Jewish family: Eight days after Jesus' birth, he was circumcised according to the Law, and given a name. He was named Joshua, after the great hero: "God saves." It wasn't a particularly unusual name; probably when the neighborhood kids in Nazareth were out playing and a mother's voice suddenly rang out, "Joshua!" many little heads turned in that direction.
It seems curious, at first, to consider that the Church has a special observance dedicated to the naming of Jesus.
But maybe not.
How do you pronounce the name of God? How do you spell it? If you are a pious Jew, this is a ridiculous question: You don't. God is so great, so glorious, so righteous, so other, that to presume to speak God's name or write it down, no matter how well intentioned, constitutes blasphemy; a misappropriation of the power of The Name by mere mortals.
In our studiously casual and irreverent age, we sometimes forget what it means to revere the name of the Divine. Many pious contemporary Christians become agitated at the sight of "X-mas," for instance, when the abbreviation actually originated as a sign of respect for Christ's name. But even now there are times when, while reading Scripture, even we may feel our hair stand on end: The beginning of John's Gospel, where we read about the Word of God, who is life, and the light of all people, through whom all things came into being; the hymn to Christ in the letter to the Colossians, describing him as "the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and earth were created...all things have been created through him and for him"; the Alpha and Omega of Revelation.
How can we possibly get our heads around the concept of this Cosmic Christ, let alone the entire Godhead?
We can't. Which may be why, once upon a time, God came to us in the person of one new baby named Joshua. Nothing regal or otherwise special in that name, other than the perennial hope that God's saving power might reach out to God's people.
And, more than this, Joshua -- one of countless Joshuas before and since -- was known as Joshua, son of Mary. In a patriarchal, honor/shame culture, being known by one's mother's name instead of one's father's was a wagging-fingered, shaming assessment by the community that one's paternity was in question. So not only did the Word become one of us, but he became one of the least of us; an object of derision and dismissal in a community heavily invested in its "family values."
What's in a name? In the name of Jesus we find a continuum of human experience -- everything from heroism to humiliation to hope. And a God with a name too holy to be spoken who is willing to take on that name, with all the human story that goes with it, so that it all may become "the name that is above every name."
The Circumcision of Jesus, Ottoviano Nelli
Saturday, December 31, 2005
LC's Tree: Virgin and Child
"The Virgin Mary...heard the angel out, pondered the repercussions, and replied, 'I am the Lord's servant. May it be to me as you have said.' Often the work of God comes with two edges, great joy and great pain, and in that matter-of-fact response Mary embraced both. She was the first person to accept Jesus on his own terms, regardless of the personal cost." -- Philip Yancey, The Jesus I Never Knew, excerpted in Watch For the Light: Readings For Advent and Christmas, Plough Publishing House
The Christmas Saints; and Going Back For Thomas
You know that episode of "I Love Lucy" where Lucy is working on the assembly line at the candy factory, trying desperately to keep up with the conveyor belt? That's how it feels to me trying to keep up with December saints' days and commemorations; they keep speeding past, especially now at the very end of the year.
This past week the Church remembered the Christmas Saints, also known as the Christmas Martyrs: St. Stephen; St. John the Divine; and the Holy Innocents. St Stephen represents martyrdom by deed and by will; St. John, martyrdom by will but not by deed; and the Holy Innocents, martyrdom by deed but not by will.
The proximity of their feast days to Christmas is a reminder that, even as we celebrate the joy of Christ's birth, the shadow of the Cross falls over the manger. At my church, for a couple of years, we'd put up a live Christmas tree in the sanctuary opposite our main Christmas tree, trimmed in white and gold -- and then on the following Sunday we'd come to church to find the branches lopped off, decorations and all, to symbolize Christ's kenosis, his emptying of himself into our humanity. On Ash Wednesday, entering the sanctuary, we'd find the old Christmas tree trunk set up again, another tree limb bound across it to form a cross.
This is one of the things I love about following the Church calendar; the teaching that goes on, almost subliminally, in the ordering of the days. And, just as thanking God for these saints helps us remember the Lenten season during Christmastime, in the springtime we celebrate the Annunciation -- a bit of Advent joy and hope during the Lenten season. It's a kind of sacred choreography, the Church calendar.
And since I'm a lousy dancer, I wound up missing a step and neglecting one of my own favorite saints and apostles, St. Thomas, whose feast day was back on the 21st. Thomas is a saint who doesn't always get much respect; the story of his doubting Jesus' resurrection and subsequent encounter with the risen Christ is sometimes spun in a way that makes him appear to be a bad guy, when he isn't at all, and makes Jesus appear to be scolding him, which isn't really the case either. I just found a good online overview of St. Thomas , written by James Kiefer, whose name will be familiar to those of you who use the Online Daily Office. I love the portrait; I also like Kiefer's description of Thomas as "pessimistic" but "sturdily loyal," two qualities that I think are endearing in a saint.
This past week the Church remembered the Christmas Saints, also known as the Christmas Martyrs: St. Stephen; St. John the Divine; and the Holy Innocents. St Stephen represents martyrdom by deed and by will; St. John, martyrdom by will but not by deed; and the Holy Innocents, martyrdom by deed but not by will.
The proximity of their feast days to Christmas is a reminder that, even as we celebrate the joy of Christ's birth, the shadow of the Cross falls over the manger. At my church, for a couple of years, we'd put up a live Christmas tree in the sanctuary opposite our main Christmas tree, trimmed in white and gold -- and then on the following Sunday we'd come to church to find the branches lopped off, decorations and all, to symbolize Christ's kenosis, his emptying of himself into our humanity. On Ash Wednesday, entering the sanctuary, we'd find the old Christmas tree trunk set up again, another tree limb bound across it to form a cross.
This is one of the things I love about following the Church calendar; the teaching that goes on, almost subliminally, in the ordering of the days. And, just as thanking God for these saints helps us remember the Lenten season during Christmastime, in the springtime we celebrate the Annunciation -- a bit of Advent joy and hope during the Lenten season. It's a kind of sacred choreography, the Church calendar.
And since I'm a lousy dancer, I wound up missing a step and neglecting one of my own favorite saints and apostles, St. Thomas, whose feast day was back on the 21st. Thomas is a saint who doesn't always get much respect; the story of his doubting Jesus' resurrection and subsequent encounter with the risen Christ is sometimes spun in a way that makes him appear to be a bad guy, when he isn't at all, and makes Jesus appear to be scolding him, which isn't really the case either. I just found a good online overview of St. Thomas , written by James Kiefer, whose name will be familiar to those of you who use the Online Daily Office. I love the portrait; I also like Kiefer's description of Thomas as "pessimistic" but "sturdily loyal," two qualities that I think are endearing in a saint.
Friday, December 30, 2005
2006: The Big Do-Over
Checking in with the RevGalBlogPals' Friday Five:
Do you make New Year's Resolutions?
Usually at least a couple. Ironically, I tend to find New Year's Day a more envigorating day than Christmas because it's a kind of annual life reboot -- a big do-over. By January 1 I'm usually ready to do that.
If so, are they generally successful?
Sometimes yes, sometimes no, sometimes in part.
Do you write them down, or make a mental list?
When I've been a more faithful journaler I've written them down; otherwise I keep mental track. Now that I have a blog, I've added a new level of accountability, no?
Even if you don't make resolutions, is there something you want to focus on in the New Year?
Well, keeping in mind that it's generally counterproductive to work on changing more than three life behaviors at once -- that's pretty much an act of self-sabotage -- here are three that I want to work on first:
1. I want to be more faithful and methodical in following the Daily Office. Some weeks I really fall off the wagon. And when I do that, it affects the quality of my life, spiritual and otherwise, in a negative way. So I am going to make a concerted effort to try harder.
2. I want to work on my anger issues; specifically, I want to regain my ability to use humor as a response to things and people making me angry. I admire people who are able to exhibit wit in such situations.
3. I want to rediscover the joy of reading, as opposed to skimming, which I find myself doing more and more of these days. Marva Dawn has noted in her books on worship that technology is essentially rewiring our brains and changing how we process information; I can see and feel this in my own life. It's very seldom that I can completely immerse myself in a book the way I could as a child or even a college student. I want to recapture the ability to focus on what I'm reading to the exclusion of other things, instead of feeling compelled to multitask as I read. (This is, by the way, a repeat performance for this resolution, which tells you how successful it was the first time.)
Now, those are systemic/methodical/long-term resolutions. My less profound, less high-commitment to-do list for the year includes:
Replacing the air ducts around here. They're as old as the house, and they look gross.
Purchasing a copy of The Daily Prayers of the Church -- pricey but worth it, I've been told.
Getting out more. I'm not even sure what that might mean, exactly, but it's something I want to do in aught-six; get out more.
Upgrading my unmentionables. I know this is probably sliding down the slippery slope into Too Much Information, but the contents of my lingerie drawer were beginning to look like a cross between a liquidation sale at the North Korean Revolutionary People's Undergarment Factory Number 9 and a scary bag of discards left on a Salvation Army doorstep. One evening I was watching an old CSI re-run, and at one point in the episode a detective, looking down at a cadaver in the morgue, noted, "There is nothing sadder than a woman with dingy underwear." Ouch.
Finding my stomach muscles again. I know they're in there somewhere.
And do you have plans for New Year's Eve?
New Year's Eve is actually one of the more downer days on my calendar. New Year's Day is much better. New Year's Eve I usually overindulge in snack food and then sack out well before the ball drops. Whoo-freaking-hoo. But I'm open to attitude reformation.
Do you make New Year's Resolutions?
Usually at least a couple. Ironically, I tend to find New Year's Day a more envigorating day than Christmas because it's a kind of annual life reboot -- a big do-over. By January 1 I'm usually ready to do that.
If so, are they generally successful?
Sometimes yes, sometimes no, sometimes in part.
Do you write them down, or make a mental list?
When I've been a more faithful journaler I've written them down; otherwise I keep mental track. Now that I have a blog, I've added a new level of accountability, no?
Even if you don't make resolutions, is there something you want to focus on in the New Year?
Well, keeping in mind that it's generally counterproductive to work on changing more than three life behaviors at once -- that's pretty much an act of self-sabotage -- here are three that I want to work on first:
1. I want to be more faithful and methodical in following the Daily Office. Some weeks I really fall off the wagon. And when I do that, it affects the quality of my life, spiritual and otherwise, in a negative way. So I am going to make a concerted effort to try harder.
2. I want to work on my anger issues; specifically, I want to regain my ability to use humor as a response to things and people making me angry. I admire people who are able to exhibit wit in such situations.
3. I want to rediscover the joy of reading, as opposed to skimming, which I find myself doing more and more of these days. Marva Dawn has noted in her books on worship that technology is essentially rewiring our brains and changing how we process information; I can see and feel this in my own life. It's very seldom that I can completely immerse myself in a book the way I could as a child or even a college student. I want to recapture the ability to focus on what I'm reading to the exclusion of other things, instead of feeling compelled to multitask as I read. (This is, by the way, a repeat performance for this resolution, which tells you how successful it was the first time.)
Now, those are systemic/methodical/long-term resolutions. My less profound, less high-commitment to-do list for the year includes:
Replacing the air ducts around here. They're as old as the house, and they look gross.
Purchasing a copy of The Daily Prayers of the Church -- pricey but worth it, I've been told.
Getting out more. I'm not even sure what that might mean, exactly, but it's something I want to do in aught-six; get out more.
Upgrading my unmentionables. I know this is probably sliding down the slippery slope into Too Much Information, but the contents of my lingerie drawer were beginning to look like a cross between a liquidation sale at the North Korean Revolutionary People's Undergarment Factory Number 9 and a scary bag of discards left on a Salvation Army doorstep. One evening I was watching an old CSI re-run, and at one point in the episode a detective, looking down at a cadaver in the morgue, noted, "There is nothing sadder than a woman with dingy underwear." Ouch.
Finding my stomach muscles again. I know they're in there somewhere.
And do you have plans for New Year's Eve?
New Year's Eve is actually one of the more downer days on my calendar. New Year's Day is much better. New Year's Eve I usually overindulge in snack food and then sack out well before the ball drops. Whoo-freaking-hoo. But I'm open to attitude reformation.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
LC's Tree: The Last-Chance Woodpecker, and a Story
I bought this almost-lifesize woodpecker long ago, at a Ben Franklin store-liquidation sale. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And in fact, it's a handy decoration to have for a Christmas tree with, say, a big hole amid the branches, or with an overly tall top branch that needs some embellishment.
And as long as we're talking woodpeckers, here's an Anishnabe story about the origin of the woodpecker. There were indigenous people living, or at least hunting, right in my back yard, once upon a time -- I have the arrowhead to prove it. So maybe my woodpecker now serves as a nod to the previous tenants. The star of this story is Nanabozho, an interesting figure in Anishnabe mythology, a bit like Jesus (human mother, spirit father; sent by Kitchi Manitou, the Great Spirit, to teach the people); a bit like the trickster Coyote of Southwestern Native American mythology; and a bit like the demigods of classical paganism.
The moral of the story...share your bread.
And as long as we're talking woodpeckers, here's an Anishnabe story about the origin of the woodpecker. There were indigenous people living, or at least hunting, right in my back yard, once upon a time -- I have the arrowhead to prove it. So maybe my woodpecker now serves as a nod to the previous tenants. The star of this story is Nanabozho, an interesting figure in Anishnabe mythology, a bit like Jesus (human mother, spirit father; sent by Kitchi Manitou, the Great Spirit, to teach the people); a bit like the trickster Coyote of Southwestern Native American mythology; and a bit like the demigods of classical paganism.
Once upon a time an old woman wearing a red headdress, black dress and white apron was making a batch of bread dough, when a stranger came to her doorway. "I'm terribly hungry," said the stranger. "Would you mind sharing some of your bread with me?" "Sure," replied the old woman. She went to her fire and placed a big piece of dough over it; but as it cooked, it looked so perfect, so beautiful, that she thought, "This is much too nice to give to a stranger." So she took that piece of bread and hid it in the ashes, and instead pinched off another piece of dough to make more bread. But that piece, as it browned over the fire, looked even more beautiful than the first. "This bread is too fine to give away," thought the woman, and hid that bread as well. "The stranger can have this last bit of dough instead." She set the last little piece of her dough over the fire; but it too grew large and golden and lovely. "I can't possibly give away such a fine piece of bread," thought the old woman. She slipped the last of the bread into the ashes with the others.
She went back to the stranger. "I'm sorry," she lied, "but my dough fell into the fire and was ruined. So I have no bread to give you."
At this point the stranger revealed himself: He was Nanabozho, the great teacher and magician of The People, son of a human mother and The West. "You greedy, selfish woman! Because you would not show hospitality to a hungry stranger, you yourself will know hunger, and will have to forage for your food in the very wood of the trees!" And with that the woman was turned into a woodpecker. And even now you can see her red headdress, and black clothing, and white apron, and hear her remorseful call as she flies through the forest.
The moral of the story...share your bread.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
The Feast of the Holy Innocents
This time of year we often hear that "Christmas is for children." Adults smile indulgently at children's unbridled excitement; treacly song lyrics speak wistfully of "Toyland, beautiful girl and boy land," where "once you've passed its borders you can never return again."
I recently read a sermon by Paul Neuchterlein (see The Text This Week's commentaries for December 28th for the link) in which he points out that Christmas is for all children, not just middle-class American children or the dimpled tots of our picture-perfect fantasy holidays.
Christmas -- the real Christmas, the inbreaking of God's saving power in the person of Jesus Christ -- is also for children who live in the shadow of death -- death by the hand of the mad or malicious; death by the culmination of many banal evils inflicted by a chain of ignorant and/or callous adults; death by natural disaster; death by poverty, by disease, by neglect.
It's as true now as it was 2,000 years ago: In most times and places, children have been the most vulnerable citizens of our planet. They're often the last to be fed; the first to be exploited or abused. Not too long ago I read an article by a biblical scholar who thinks that the Slaughter of the Innocents is a mythical event because there appears to be no independent verification of its occurrence in the historical record. My reaction -- as a forty-something whose lifespan has coincided with the atrocities of Vietnam; the days of Cambodian killing fields; genocidal slaughter in Uganda, in Rwanda, in Bosnia, in the Sudan and many other places, and who has over the years seen and heard countless reports of child abuse, neglect and exploitation -- is that in a world where children are expendable and where violence in service to self-interest is the norm, perhaps this event wasn't recorded because it wasn't particularly remarkable...then or now.
This is the world where God met us in the person of Jesus -- a helpless child, one of countless helpless children; soon to be a refugee child, like many small refugees. Because the God we meet in the Gospels refuses to fight the powers of evil on their own terms -- terms of power-over and payback. God's power is made perfect in weakness: the weakness of a baby; the weakness of an executed prisoner.
We often feel helpless in the face of evil; it seems too big, too overwhelming, too persistent. But the Christ we follow calls us into battle against the darkness by calling us into what the rest of the world sees as weakness -- the kind of weakness that allows our hearts to be broken; that helps our closed minds give way to new vision and understanding; that opens our clenched, grasping fists; that lets us be pulled out of our safe, dark fortresses of self-absorption and self-interest.
Christmas is for children -- for all children, everywhere. It's for all the children of Eve, of every age and place. What's the mission of the Body of Christ -- which is to say, all of us? "Let them know it's Christmastime."
Starving Somalian child; a 1994 Pulitzer Prize winning photograph by Kevin Carter
I recently read a sermon by Paul Neuchterlein (see The Text This Week's commentaries for December 28th for the link) in which he points out that Christmas is for all children, not just middle-class American children or the dimpled tots of our picture-perfect fantasy holidays.
Christmas -- the real Christmas, the inbreaking of God's saving power in the person of Jesus Christ -- is also for children who live in the shadow of death -- death by the hand of the mad or malicious; death by the culmination of many banal evils inflicted by a chain of ignorant and/or callous adults; death by natural disaster; death by poverty, by disease, by neglect.
It's as true now as it was 2,000 years ago: In most times and places, children have been the most vulnerable citizens of our planet. They're often the last to be fed; the first to be exploited or abused. Not too long ago I read an article by a biblical scholar who thinks that the Slaughter of the Innocents is a mythical event because there appears to be no independent verification of its occurrence in the historical record. My reaction -- as a forty-something whose lifespan has coincided with the atrocities of Vietnam; the days of Cambodian killing fields; genocidal slaughter in Uganda, in Rwanda, in Bosnia, in the Sudan and many other places, and who has over the years seen and heard countless reports of child abuse, neglect and exploitation -- is that in a world where children are expendable and where violence in service to self-interest is the norm, perhaps this event wasn't recorded because it wasn't particularly remarkable...then or now.
This is the world where God met us in the person of Jesus -- a helpless child, one of countless helpless children; soon to be a refugee child, like many small refugees. Because the God we meet in the Gospels refuses to fight the powers of evil on their own terms -- terms of power-over and payback. God's power is made perfect in weakness: the weakness of a baby; the weakness of an executed prisoner.
We often feel helpless in the face of evil; it seems too big, too overwhelming, too persistent. But the Christ we follow calls us into battle against the darkness by calling us into what the rest of the world sees as weakness -- the kind of weakness that allows our hearts to be broken; that helps our closed minds give way to new vision and understanding; that opens our clenched, grasping fists; that lets us be pulled out of our safe, dark fortresses of self-absorption and self-interest.
Christmas is for children -- for all children, everywhere. It's for all the children of Eve, of every age and place. What's the mission of the Body of Christ -- which is to say, all of us? "Let them know it's Christmastime."
Starving Somalian child; a 1994 Pulitzer Prize winning photograph by Kevin Carter
LC's Tree: The Voice of the Lobster
'Twas the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare:
"You have baked me too brown; I must sugar my hair." -- Lewis Carroll
You may wonder why I have a lobster hanging on my Christmas tree.
My mother does. She hates the lobster, which is why he is relegated to the back side of the tree, where he will not elicit negative commentary like, "Why did you ever buy that thing?"
But I was very happy to have found the lobster, because I needed a Christmas crustacean.
It's like this: I have always, ever since I was a little kid, loved the old-fashioned German blown-glass Christmas ornaments, representing all manner of thing from the sublime to the ridiculous. When I grew up and began shopping for the latter-day reproductions on my own, I determined that I would collect one representing every major classification of animal. (Plants are a little harder; I do seek out fruits and vegetables of all kinds -- my collection includes everything from a lumpy brown potato to a tiny raspberry, and once I almost succumbed to the lure of a purple-tinged artichoke.)
I've done very well -- I have various mammals and birds, a couple of insects, a few mollusks (a snail, a scallop and a nautilus shell), a frog and a fish. I don't yet have a reptile; my usual source for seasonal bling-bling does have a turtle that may find itself in my ornament stash some year, and I'm suprised there isn't a snake as well (perhaps with a divine foot whomping it in the head). I don't think I've ever seen a blown-glass worm, or anything farther down the zoological tree. But finding a representative of Crustacea was a shopping challenge for a long time. Since so many of us are crabby at Christmas, you'd think there might be one of those around...or a cute little shrimp. But no.
Anyhow -- as the Song of the Three Young Men says, "All ye whales and all that move in the waters, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him forever."
Rudolph the Red-Shelled Lobster
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Doing to the Least of These
Here is an excellent column by Cynthia Tucker on the disconnect between our nation's self-professed values and how it actually treats poor people.
LC's Tree: A Bird of a Different Feather
It was 1983. I was a recent college graduate, with no real job and no prospects, slumming in a bookstore and sharing a duplex with my best friend and another student acquaintance.
Our townhouse was, once upon a time, kind of a classy place...rumor had it that Frank Lloyd Wright had designed our building, which we didn't believe for a minute, but you could tell that whoever had built it had cared about its design. But that had been upwards of 45 years ago. Now it was ramshackle inside and out; repainted untold times on the inside; windows so loose that in the winter the sheets of Visqueen covering them billowed like sails; appliances from the 50's that were constantly breaking down. Our living room furniture consisted of a single mattress and spring on a metal pull-out bed, and a bookcase made out of bricks and planks.
Still, we tried to make the place as homey as we could. I'd bought a straggly Norfolk Island pine, maybe two feet tall, to add something green and alive to our common area, and come Christmas I decorated it with some straw ornaments from an alternative Christmas fair, and some homemade paper snowflakes and other found items light enough to hang on the branches without the flimsy tree doing "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and bending completely over. ("Oh, no! I've killed it!") My friend was the daughter of a home-ec teacher, and had learned to channel her considerable nervous energy into a variety of crafts; this particular year she'd taken up origami, and she presented me with a lavender peace crane to add to my tree. At the time I found no special significance to the color of the crane, or at least none that I wanted to think about very hard because thinking about it scared the stuffing out of me. (I now find this hysterically funny, and wonder if my housemate knew something about me that I didn't.)
But, anyway, I still have my lavender peace crane. It has survived the end of that particular friendship, over time and distance, and numerous moves, as well as the teeth of my other post-college housemate's cat, who liked to surreptitiously remove ornaments from my tree and bat them down our basement stairs. I like to think that it's come to represent peace within myself just as it represents the hope for peace in the world. So it has an honored place on my tree.
A rare bird from my youth
Our townhouse was, once upon a time, kind of a classy place...rumor had it that Frank Lloyd Wright had designed our building, which we didn't believe for a minute, but you could tell that whoever had built it had cared about its design. But that had been upwards of 45 years ago. Now it was ramshackle inside and out; repainted untold times on the inside; windows so loose that in the winter the sheets of Visqueen covering them billowed like sails; appliances from the 50's that were constantly breaking down. Our living room furniture consisted of a single mattress and spring on a metal pull-out bed, and a bookcase made out of bricks and planks.
Still, we tried to make the place as homey as we could. I'd bought a straggly Norfolk Island pine, maybe two feet tall, to add something green and alive to our common area, and come Christmas I decorated it with some straw ornaments from an alternative Christmas fair, and some homemade paper snowflakes and other found items light enough to hang on the branches without the flimsy tree doing "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and bending completely over. ("Oh, no! I've killed it!") My friend was the daughter of a home-ec teacher, and had learned to channel her considerable nervous energy into a variety of crafts; this particular year she'd taken up origami, and she presented me with a lavender peace crane to add to my tree. At the time I found no special significance to the color of the crane, or at least none that I wanted to think about very hard because thinking about it scared the stuffing out of me. (I now find this hysterically funny, and wonder if my housemate knew something about me that I didn't.)
But, anyway, I still have my lavender peace crane. It has survived the end of that particular friendship, over time and distance, and numerous moves, as well as the teeth of my other post-college housemate's cat, who liked to surreptitiously remove ornaments from my tree and bat them down our basement stairs. I like to think that it's come to represent peace within myself just as it represents the hope for peace in the world. So it has an honored place on my tree.
A rare bird from my youth
Monday, December 26, 2005
St. Stephen's Day
It's a bit sobering to share a birthday with a martyr's feast day -- not only a martyr, but the first recorded martyr for the Christian faith. (It's a little like sharing one's birthday with the anniversary of the south Asian tsunami. Maybe I'll celebrate my birthday in June from now on.)
On the other hand, as I was thinking about St. Stephen yesterday, one of the first, admittedly flippant things that came to mind was, "He should be the patron saint of anyone who's ever been tapped for a church committee."
We usually think of the end of Stephen's life -- his courageous defense of the faith, his refusal to fight back, his forgiving his attackers even as they hurled rocks at him. But I keep finding myself thinking about the beginning of his diaconal ministry. Imagine being called to administer, and perhaps more accurately referee, an aid program in the context of a Balkanized community with one side accusing the other of unfairness in the distribution of assistance. Do you think that, when word reached Stephen that the Church leadership had, after prayerful discernment, picked him as one of the people to undertake this task, he was happy about it? I'm thinking not.
Stephen, from what we can gather, was a member of the church subgroup feeling marginalized -- Hellenized Jews, who were culturally and linguistically Greek, who seem to have been discriminated against in the early Christian community by the Hebrew/Aramaic speaking Jewish converts, probably because, in the eyes of the latter, the former's Jewishness had been compromised by their assimilation into Greek culture. Yet Stephen had been picked, it seems, to be part of the team working for reconciliation and equity between the groups. And evidently he did his job well, and more than that -- exceptionally well, not only in terms of his diaconal job description but in terms of working "signs," and of preaching and debating critics of Christianity. Well enough to find himself in the sights of the religious authorities when they decided to crack down on this increasingly visible and vocal new sect.
I think that's one lesson we can learn from Stephen's story: That in a Church where we're still learning how to do things, still trying to get it right but not always succeeding, some of us may be called to "represent" on behalf of others; and it's going to be a tough, thankless job and one that may cost us more than we might think at first, but that the process may also lead us to our finest hour, to a time and place where we can reflect Christ in a way that we may not have thought possible.
There's another lesson in Stephen's story...at the very end, when Stephen's murderers lay their cloaks at the feet of one Saul of Tarsus -- apparently the instigator of Stephen's stoning. You really have to admire Luke's narrative skill here; doesn't that ominous line make you want to read more, and find out about this villainous character Saul? Oh, we will.
The beauty of Stephen's martyrdom is not only that he dies without hatred or regret, with his eyes fixed on his Lord and Savior, but that his death also plays a role in the redemption of his killer.
I read that Bono recently had lunch with Jesse Helms. They're friends -- not just for photo ops, but for real. Whodathunkit? When Bono was advocating on Capitol Hill for more HIV/AIDS research and support funding, he lobbied Helms hard. Not the sort of fellow you'd think would have a metanoia moment on this particular issue, but he did. I understand that Bono's passionate advocacy, which included "doing theology" Bible in hand with the old senator, moved Helms to tears.
When Christ comes down, things change. People change. Even institutions change. "Even so, come, Lord Jesus."
The stoning of St. Stephen, 13th century, Black Bourton, Oxon
On the other hand, as I was thinking about St. Stephen yesterday, one of the first, admittedly flippant things that came to mind was, "He should be the patron saint of anyone who's ever been tapped for a church committee."
We usually think of the end of Stephen's life -- his courageous defense of the faith, his refusal to fight back, his forgiving his attackers even as they hurled rocks at him. But I keep finding myself thinking about the beginning of his diaconal ministry. Imagine being called to administer, and perhaps more accurately referee, an aid program in the context of a Balkanized community with one side accusing the other of unfairness in the distribution of assistance. Do you think that, when word reached Stephen that the Church leadership had, after prayerful discernment, picked him as one of the people to undertake this task, he was happy about it? I'm thinking not.
Stephen, from what we can gather, was a member of the church subgroup feeling marginalized -- Hellenized Jews, who were culturally and linguistically Greek, who seem to have been discriminated against in the early Christian community by the Hebrew/Aramaic speaking Jewish converts, probably because, in the eyes of the latter, the former's Jewishness had been compromised by their assimilation into Greek culture. Yet Stephen had been picked, it seems, to be part of the team working for reconciliation and equity between the groups. And evidently he did his job well, and more than that -- exceptionally well, not only in terms of his diaconal job description but in terms of working "signs," and of preaching and debating critics of Christianity. Well enough to find himself in the sights of the religious authorities when they decided to crack down on this increasingly visible and vocal new sect.
I think that's one lesson we can learn from Stephen's story: That in a Church where we're still learning how to do things, still trying to get it right but not always succeeding, some of us may be called to "represent" on behalf of others; and it's going to be a tough, thankless job and one that may cost us more than we might think at first, but that the process may also lead us to our finest hour, to a time and place where we can reflect Christ in a way that we may not have thought possible.
There's another lesson in Stephen's story...at the very end, when Stephen's murderers lay their cloaks at the feet of one Saul of Tarsus -- apparently the instigator of Stephen's stoning. You really have to admire Luke's narrative skill here; doesn't that ominous line make you want to read more, and find out about this villainous character Saul? Oh, we will.
The beauty of Stephen's martyrdom is not only that he dies without hatred or regret, with his eyes fixed on his Lord and Savior, but that his death also plays a role in the redemption of his killer.
I read that Bono recently had lunch with Jesse Helms. They're friends -- not just for photo ops, but for real. Whodathunkit? When Bono was advocating on Capitol Hill for more HIV/AIDS research and support funding, he lobbied Helms hard. Not the sort of fellow you'd think would have a metanoia moment on this particular issue, but he did. I understand that Bono's passionate advocacy, which included "doing theology" Bible in hand with the old senator, moved Helms to tears.
When Christ comes down, things change. People change. Even institutions change. "Even so, come, Lord Jesus."
The stoning of St. Stephen, 13th century, Black Bourton, Oxon
LC's Tree: Flora and Fauna
As you can see, there's all kinds of stuff going on in this sector of the ol' Christmas tree: You've got a pomegranate, and a turkey, and what I call the Semi-Pornographic Plum (shot from a discreet angle), and the Christmas Hedgehog, there above the Christmas Spider.
Now, at this point you may be thinking, What does any of this have to do with the Nativity of Our Lord? Good question. If a space alien landed in my living room and viewed my Christmas tree, at least this part of it, what information would s/he/it glean about my belief system?
Maybe nothing. Frankly, during my Pagan Period, I was just as excited about the family Christmas tree as ever, if not more so, because for me it was a delightful in- joke...I could go from ornament to ornament and find some touchstone of pre-Christian spirituality.
Then again, maybe everything. Yesterday many of us heard this passage, from the letter to the Hebrews:
Postscript: I just heard Dar Williams' "The Christians and the Pagans" on the radio...having lived "both sides now," I thought it was a lighthearted but meaningful meditation on finding commonalities and getting along.
All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small...
Now, at this point you may be thinking, What does any of this have to do with the Nativity of Our Lord? Good question. If a space alien landed in my living room and viewed my Christmas tree, at least this part of it, what information would s/he/it glean about my belief system?
Maybe nothing. Frankly, during my Pagan Period, I was just as excited about the family Christmas tree as ever, if not more so, because for me it was a delightful in- joke...I could go from ornament to ornament and find some touchstone of pre-Christian spirituality.
Then again, maybe everything. Yesterday many of us heard this passage, from the letter to the Hebrews:
Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, through whom he also created the worlds. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being, and he sustains all things by his powerful word.All things -- pomegranates and plums, arachnids, birds, insectivores, glassblowers and Christmas-tree-factory workers. And not only that, but the One in whom and through whom and for whom all things were made also chose to become part of the creation, arriving pretty much the way the rest of us do. Who knew you could get so much Incarnational theology out of fruit, a spider, a bird and a hedgehog?
Postscript: I just heard Dar Williams' "The Christians and the Pagans" on the radio...having lived "both sides now," I thought it was a lighthearted but meaningful meditation on finding commonalities and getting along.
All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small...
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