The fog is outside, so why wouldn’t the seeker be an outsider?

As the title of my blog should imply, I am exploring my place in God’s kingdom. I’m not always good at that exploration, or at doing God’s will even when I discern it, but that’s another story...

As part of my exploration, last night I attended the RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults) class hosted by the base chapel. It’s the class intended to introduce newcomer adults to the Roman Catholic Church (RCC), and generally the yearlong course of study is a prerequisite for baptism or reception into the RCC. I was in a particularly down place, so I thought I’d try something new to give my spiritual life a little shake.

Anyway, I arrived about a half-hour early. Normally, I would be early anyway, but I was a couple minutes late—for the time I’d seen advertised. I waited in the classroom, looking at the handwritten poster of church history that stretched halfway around the room. After about ten minutes, the priest entered the room and welcomed me. I filled out a two-page application (the second page ended up being blank save for one check box, since I’ve never been married and have no kids), and he and I sat at the middle of opposite sides of the classroom’s long table.

One by one, other students arrived and took their seats, beginning with the ends of the table. The class eventually began.

It’s interesting to explore the differences in how denominations view specific events in church history. For example, the RCC has a somewhat different view of the European Reformation than do many of the Protestant churches. Additionally, the 1054 split with the Eastern church was scarcely mentioned during the class—and not at all by the priest. These differences still plague ecumenical relations, and they likely will be factors in my ministry, should it ever get off the ground.

About a half-hour into the class, I came to the sudden realization that every seat at the table was filled—except for the seat to either side of me. I’m pretty sure I’d showered that morning, so what was up?

Was it my uniform? Doubtful, since most of the class was in uniform. I’m an officer, but the room was a mix of ranks.

Was it being the new guy in the room? Again, doubtful. I was one of two newcomers to the group, and the seats next to me were the only empty ones.

Whatever it was, it became a reminder for me that the RCC probably would never be quite the home for me that my own church has become. My ministry is outside the great hall of many rooms, so why wouldn’t I be an outsider? Maybe that was the point of the exercise...

In the fullness of time...

I’ve spent some time in the last few days thinking about the commitments I’ve gotten myself into, and where they put me in relation to the exploration of my ministry path.

Earlier this year, I applied for a PhD program at the Air Force Institute of Technology (AFIT). The results of that application should be out in about a month. If I get picked up for this program, I’ll start probably in Fall 2009, finish in Fall 2012, and I’ll be on the hook for staying in the Air Force for five years after that.

That commits me until Fall 2017, by which time either I’ll be a Major or I’ll be out of the Air Force. (My first look at Major should happen in 2013, and Fall 2017 would put me at 12 years of service.) Once I pin on Major, I’m committed to my career field and can’t switch to the chaplaincy.

Here are some possibilities:

First, the Air Force is experimenting with a new career transition program to switch from overstaffed career fields to understaffed ones. Although it’s too early to tell, this might allow the switch.

Second, there’s an interservice transfer, with the possibility of becoming a chaplain in another military service. The Air Force is more stringent with age requirements than other services, and I’ll be 44 years old in 2017.

Now, there are issues with either of these. For example, it’s pretty clear that I’ll have to drop out of active duty at some point to get the two years of ministry experience that will be required for me to become a chaplain.

Another possibility is the first idea I’d had when I began discernment, to seek ordination after finishing my military career. I’ve had some spiritual tugs toward chaplaincy, but I have to face the possibility that God was just calling me to the road toward some other vocation. To discount that possibility does an injustice against the vocation and against God. If I refuse to think about it, I’ve made a decision already.

I still intend to pursue theological education, at least to a Master of Divinity. There’s also the possibility of a Doctor of Theology degree, depending on where I’m stationed (if I’m to continue part-time study). I want to keep up and expand on what I’ve learned so far.

There are still outlets for my ministry along that path. I’ve been very happy serving as a verger in my church. I’ve been very happy devoting what little voice I have to the choir. There’s also room for my ministry to grow, especially with the recent announcement in the Episcopal Diocese of Southern Ohio of licensure processes for Lay Preaching and Lay Catechesis, in which I’m very interested.

What I’m left with is a mess of—as I talked about before—chains of my own making. So the road to ordained ministry will be somewhat longer than I’d anticipated. Here, perhaps God is making some strides toward helping me develop patience, humility, and vigilance. Unless I’m overlooking something, which is entirely possible given my life...

Faith manages...

In the beginning…

First, a bit of background on the beginning of my spiritual life. Those who have seen it will recognize a portion of the most recent version of my spiritual autobiography:

I grew up in the Dayton area, but I moved around a lot. My parents divorced when I was very young, three or four years old, so I have no clear recollection of my parents being together. I lived with my father during the week and spent weekends with my mother. My parents didn’t go to church and weren’t religious at all. However, sending the children to Sunday school was a way for my mother to get us out of the house for a few hours. Given this background, I didn’t have much of a concept of God when I was a child, not even as some “out there” entity. I’d been taught about Jesus, but only through Sunday school activities that emphasized the memorization of Bible verses rather than seeing any meaning in them. Ultimately, I had no real sense of what faith was at that time, so trying to overlay a religion didn’t do anything within me.

When I was about ten years old, the tiniest mustard seed of faith sprouted within me, and I felt the need to express it. Without understanding it, though, I couldn’t really do much with it. Since I had no foundation in the faith, there was nothing there to nourish the mustard seed. Finally, since it was all I’d known about, I told my Sunday school teacher that I wanted to be saved. She passed my request on, and one of the pastors came to see me that very day. While the rest of the class was doing their activity for that Sunday, the pastor and I sat on the steps at the side entrance to the church. I was shy, especially near this authority figure, so I spoke very little. I let him go on about what being saved meant: that I’d let Jesus into my heart, and that I’d go to Heaven when I died. He talked for probably fifteen or twenty minutes and then asked me if I agreed and wanted Jesus in my heart. When I agreed, we bowed our heads and he led us in a short prayer, maybe fifteen seconds.

Then I felt nothing. I noticed no difference in my heart, mind, or soul, which struck me as painfully inadequate given the theological buildup. Maybe it was because I wasn’t ready for my particular relationship with God. Maybe I was being saved for the wrong reason: I was concerned with fitting in with the rest of the class, most of whom had been saved, and I felt pressure to become part of the accepted community of the church. Maybe I was standing at the wrong door in C. S. Lewis’ “hall” of Christian faiths, about to open the door to a faith that wouldn’t fit my soul. Maybe I was too young to be expected to fully comprehend what was being asked of me. Maybe it was that I didn’t have a clear concept of God at that time, and part of the free will that God gave us is the requirement that we understand at least a little of what we’re getting ourselves into. In any case, I took it on the word of that pastor that something had happened, even though I hadn’t perceived it myself. Incidentally, “being saved” was emphasized at that church more than was the sacrament of Baptism, so even though I’d gone to Sunday school, I had no clear understanding of baptism, other than it being some ceremony that adults went through.

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Now, I’ve recently started reading Total Ministry: A Practical Approach, by CI Jones (Helena, MN: Archegos Publishing Co., 1993) – thanks to Father Jim Larsen, my priest, for sending a copy to me!

In the second chapter, “The Foundation for Ministry,” Jones writes about his experience at Young Life Camp in Colorado. After hearing the conversion stories of others, Jones says to himself, “Although you’ve been an Episcopalian all of your life, you have never given your life over to Christ” (p. 21). He then decides that the next morning he would do just that.

The next morning, Jones goes out on his own to pray, and says, “Okay, God, here I am” (Ibid). Nothing.

Then he says it louder. “I give my life over to you, Jesus” (Ibid). Again, nothing.

As Jones says, “I was expecting a lightning bolt such as Paul encountered on the road to Damascus—or at least some feeling for the presence of God changing me. What I didn’t realize at the time was that my conversion had taken place the night before when I made the decision to commit myself to Christ—to give myself over to him” (p. 22).

In some way, Jones and I had similar spiritual experiences. At age ten, I asked to be saved, and then the pastor and I prayed about it. But the pastor’s prayer didn’t have anything to do with being saved.

Committing my free will to God was the critical act.

As with Jones’ experience, I had already committed myself to God in the initial act of asking to be saved.

The duality of good and evil

What was created was good. But God created in us (and, apparently, in the serpent) something that was very dangerous: choice. Did sin enter the world because the serpent chose to influence humanity's choice, or because humanity chose to turn against God? Or does the serpent speak to us only in demonstrating how sneaky our own ego can be?

I think we are basically good (for we are created in the image of God), but we are terminally flawed because the sin of human ego--whether the original sin, passing through the generations, or our own, or something in between--has impaired our connection with God. So one could paraphrase the quantum physics concept of duality: we are both basically good with the ability to do evil AND basically evil with the ability to do good.

It's strange (or maybe not), but with my physics background, I find frequent opportunities to use the language of science--and quantum physics in particular--in discussions of Christian theology.

Eleventh-Hour Workers: A Sermon on Matthew 20:1-16 (Proper 20A)

This is about a week early, but Proper 20A happens to coincide with the 61st birthday of the US Air Force. I thought I should at least attempt a response…

The primary text is the gospel reading (Matthew 20:1-16), though there is a small piece of the alternate Old Testament reading from Jonah (3:10-4:11).

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When I was getting ready to deploy to Iraq, I was told that the area where I’d be was about as safe as Dayton, Ohio.

You’ve probably heard the recent news stories that tell of a much-changed Iraq, very different from the Iraq of 2004.

As we’ve all no doubt read and heard about the Iraq of 2004, that was a place in which it seemed—at least from the media coverage—that helicopters were shot down every few days, and bombs exploded hourly.

In the Iraq of 2008, we hear talk of a new government, and of a country becoming secure enough for 60,000 people to attend a soccer match without incident.

In the language of Matthew’s gospel account, I have gone into the field late in the day, perhaps close to the eleventh hour. I didn’t come in at the beginning, when violence waited around every corner and under every rock. I didn’t come in even at the third, sixth, or ninth hour, when the Iraqi government was reforming, the Iraqi people were rebuilding, and our people were regrouping.

In Matthew’s gospel, the hours were counted from sunrise toward sunset, much like the hours of our Daily Office. Jesus’ parable almost certainly refers to the time of the harvest, since there are so many laborers needed for the vineyard. And, if we recall, Jesus often uses the metaphor of the harvest in his parables. The harvest would have occurred near the time of the autumn equinox, when the day would have twelve hours of sunlight. So the first workers would have come in the early morning, and the landowner went out to hire more as the day rolled on, hiring the last at the eleventh hour—only an hour before sunset.

The eleventh hour is an especially appropriate metaphor for my arrival in Iraq, given the talk of our presidential candidates, that the work in Iraq is nearing completion, with so many workers in the field. As with myself, and the latecomers to the vineyard in Matthew’s gospel, we all sometimes find ourselves coming to work at the eleventh hour. Indeed, if we think of our own spiritual journeys, many of us have come to work for God at what might feel like the eleventh hour.

Do we deserve the full rewards for the work that all have done, given the lateness of our call?

The easy answer to Matthew’s account is to agree with the laborers who have been there all day, who have borne the heat and the burden of the day.

But the easy answer isn’t always the right one. God warned Jonah about worrying about that for which he did not labor and which he did not grow. Likewise, in the vineyard, both the eleventh-hour workers and the all-day workers reap what they did not sow.

We come to God’s church, and we find that it is already built. We have only to find our place in the church, to do the work we have been given to do, just as the eleventh-hour workers came to the vineyard to find that much of the work was already done. The challenge for those eleventh-hour workers probably would have been to find the work that still needed to be done.

Even though we come to the church at the eleventh hour, there is still work to do, not only in the church, but in the world as well. Among other places, we find our work laid out for us in our Baptismal Covenant, as well as the two great commandments of our Lord Jesus Christ:

First, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.”

Second, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

Even though we come to the church at the eleventh hour, God’s grace still waits for us.

Just as with the workers in the vineyard, we all receive rewards for working. But those rewards, those payments for working, whether for just the eleventh hour or all day long, are given by the grace of God, not for any particular thing we’ve done. God does not have to pay us. God is not required to give us anything.

Rather, God has given us our gifts out of divine love, through the breath of the Holy Spirit, and the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. As with a parent and a child, God gives us love, God provides for us, and God teaches us, not for anything we have done, but because we are God’s children and God loves us.

In a sense, we are all eleventh-hour workers. But there is still work to do in the eleventh hour. Otherwise, the harvest about which Jesus teaches would be complete.

As in the vineyard, it’s not too late for us to begin working, nor is it too late for us to receive the fruits of labor. Until the last great harvest, it’s not too late to work for God’s kingdom, nor is it too late for us to receive God’s grace and love.

Do we deserve the full rewards for the work that all have done, given the lateness of our call?

There are two ways to answer that question.

First, we realize that there is nothing we can do that earns God’s love, for God is not an object that can be bought or sold.

Second, we realize the value of community, that together we accomplish what separately we could not.

Those who came to work before us built the church, in structure, in doctrine, and in community. We who have come after them have additional duties. We maintain what they have built, we carry the church community into the world, we bring the world into the church community, and we continue to prepare.

For the kingdom of heaven has come near.

Amen.