You may recall last week’s gospel reading, in which Mary and Mary (Mary Magdalene and Mary, the mother of James and Joseph; Matthew 27:61n) came across the open tomb. They encountered Jesus on the road after that, and he told them, “Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.” You might then imagine the apostles’ reactions to what Mary and Mary would have told them. It’s not in Matthew’s gospel, but John spells it out in the verse just before this week’s gospel reading. Mary Magdelene announces to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord” (John 20:18). With this, John foreshadows them telling Thomas, but even John doesn’t write the disciples’ response to Mary. Do we really believe they accepted Mary’s statement without question? Or do we believe they needed Jesus to appear to them—because that’s exactly what happens next.
While Episcopalians rarely, if ever, go through the process in which Roman Catholics select a patron saint, I suspect that--after a fashion--my patron saint might have been the apostle Thomas. Orthodox Christians call the second Sunday of Pascha, “Thomas Sunday,” in remembrance of the main supporting actor in this gospel episode, and they understand Thomas’ doubt as a blessing, since it leads to the truth which Jesus brings. Thomas is as close as we see in the Holy Scriptures to a scientist, and it’s easy to see him as the eternal skeptic. Nearly every time Thomas is mentioned in the gospels, he is the person who says he does not understand or who questions Jesus so that Jesus can explain some cosmic truth. This is a scientist--always asking, always questioning—and this is why I like him. But there is something deeper at stake here in Thomas’ actions today.
Thomas gets a bad rap when we call him--as we often call him--"Doubting Thomas". Thomas questions and admits his lack of understanding. Here, though, we find what I believe to be the core reason why we call him Doubting Thomas. Jesus appears to the rest of the disciples the first time, and Thomas is not with them. What would you say if you had missed church last Sunday, came back this Sunday, and people started telling you that Jesus Christ had appeared bodily last week in church? Madness, you'd say. You would dismiss these claims as decisively as Thomas did when the other disciples told him that Jesus had appeared to them. That Thomas asks to see the wounds of Christ tells us how decisive his dismissal was. But we have the benefit of two thousand years of hindsight!
It's also interesting that in this passage Thomas does not believe, while in earlier passages we find the other apostles failed to believe when Mary and Mary tell them that Christ is risen. It is only when Jesus appears to the apostles and shows them his wounds that they truly believe Mary’s account. Susan Hylan, a New Testament scholar at Vanderbilt University, suggests that the other disciples were similarly untransformed by their first experience with the risen Lord. She writes that the disciples’ proclamation to Thomas that they have seen the Lord “suggest[s] their belief in the resurrection. However, a week later they are still hidden away in the same house and with the doors locked. Whatever belief the disciples have found does not appear to be immediately transformative.” Whatever the case, the disciples are not terribly convincing, and their actions betray their fear.
Here we have quite a few things going on in this passage near the end of John's gospel account. The first appearance of Jesus parallels his appearance in the other gospels. In particular, we see John's version of the great commissioning, in which Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit upon his disciples, in the same way that God breathed the Spirit to grant life to Adam. At the end of Matthew's gospel, the apostles are given the Holy Spirit and sent forth, as Jesus says, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Here, John boils the commissioning down to what he probably saw as its mystical core--after all, John's gospel has the reputation of being the most mystical of the gospels, and it is the most different from the other gospels. Here, John finds two things of primary concern in the commissioning: the granting of the Holy Spirit, or the breathing of life into the disciples, and the "keys to the kingdom" (v. 23) that in other gospels Jesus gives to Peter. This is the statement about forgiving or retaining sins.
But why doesn’t Thomas believe the disciples’ testimony? Why would any of us believe or disbelieve? Thomas probably wasn’t afraid in the way we might think, since John gives us an account of Thomas as one of the braver apostles. When Lazarus died in John 11, it was Thomas who spoke up: “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” In that passage, Thomas’ rallying call is almost a stand-alone statement in the middle of the tale of Lazarus, but it speaks of Thomas’ character that he is not afraid to die for the right reasons. Orthodox scholar Lawrence Farley gives us another possible answer: Like the other disciples, Thomas had been so close to Jesus that he was emotionally scarred by Jesus’ death on the cross. Like the other disciples, Thomas really didn’t know what to do next, or what to believe, since the gospel to this point tells us that none of the disciples really understood Jesus at the time. And like the other disciples, Thomas didn’t want to believe so deeply again without seeing for himself the risen Lord. Thomas was not afraid to die. But he was hurt, and he was afraid to believe.
We see in this passage, as we often see with Thomas, that Thomas questions at first, but once he gets an answer he follows wholeheartedly. He doesn't believe it when the other disciples tell him, "We have seen the Lord." Madness, he probably says, though John finds it sufficient to say that Thomas doesn't buy it. Then Jesus appears the second time and offers Thomas an answer. Once he gets his answer, what does Thomas say? Not madness, but "My Lord and my God!" Even Jesus' appearance is enough of an answer to convince Thomas, and then he is so fully on board that he issues perhaps the strongest statement of faith about Jesus. And as usual, Thomas’ questioning of Jesus provides the window through which we see Jesus once again revealing cosmic truth.
We also have near the end of this passage the last of the Beatitudes. You probably know of the famous Beatitudes we find in the Sermon on the Mount, early in Matthew's gospel. These are the famous "Blessed are they that..." statements. Well, in this passage we find Jesus issuing one final Beatitude, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." This Beatitude is unlike those we find in the other gospels in that, as biblical scholar Michael Coogan points out, this is a blessing of belief rather than of suffering or action. Here John gives us the mystical approach; for him, belief is what’s important.
I'd like to think that this Beatitude is aimed at us. I don't want to speak for anyone else in the room, but I have not seen Jesus manifest, or appear bodily, in front of me and offer to let me stick my finger in his wound. But I have come to believe, as I am sure all of you have come--or are coming--to believe. Part of this is about the journey with our belief, but blessed are we who take this journey with the risen Lord, for as John writes, through believing we have life in Jesus’ name.
Amen.
11 July 2010
An Inconvenient Sacrifice: A Sermon on Luke 10:25-37 (Proper 10C)
Nearly every person who has heard about Christianity—and perhaps even every person who hasn’t—has heard the parable of the Good Samaritan in one form or another. We know the familiar story of the victim beset by bandits and left for dead, the religious authorities of the time passing by without helping him, and finally the outcast, the Samaritan, reaching forth his arms in love for the victim—just as Jesus Christ reached out his arms on the cross to save each of us. The catch, however, is that Jesus not only saves each of us, but he also calls each of us to help complete his work in the world. Likewise, Paul reminds the Colossians in today’s epistle that they are called by God, who has enabled them to “share in the inheritance of the saints in the light.” As with Jesus’ call to all of us, this inheritance is both a great gift and a great responsibility, just as the saints were called to duty, and just as many of the saints were called to sacrifice their lives for their faith and for other people.
In today’s readings we see examples of people who betray their vocations to satisfy their own needs. The priest Amaziah lives out a life of luxury as King Jeroboam’s priest by telling him what he wants to hear rather than what he needs to hear, that God intends for his kingdom to fall. In Luke’s gospel, the priest and the Levite look at the waylaid victim but barely acknowledge his existence as they cross the road to pass by him.
On the flip side of the coin, we see examples of people who are called by God and who step up to live out their calls, despite great personal risk. The prophet Amos is sent by God to call the priest Amaziah to account for his failings as a priest, and Amos receives only death threats for his trouble. The Samaritan stops to help the victim, despite being alone in a bandit-infested land. He then goes the greater step of paying for the stranger’s housing at an inn, handing over two denarii to the innkeeper. So that we can understand what this must have cost the Samaritan, the Oxford Study Bible tells us that, “two denarii would provide approximately two months of lodging at an ancient inn.” So let’s do the math: At today’s prices, even a very modest inn would cost about $50 per night so, for 60 days, this good Samaritan would be handing over about $3,000, not including meals! How many of us would be willing to throw down $3,000 in cash for a stranger? This is definitely a financial sacrifice for the Samaritan.
Now, on the coin’s edge, we find the lawyer, likely a Scribe or someone well-versed in the Torah. We often forget the lawyer in Luke’s gospel because we are so caught up in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but the lawyer provides an intriguing perspective which for many of us probably hits close to home. Here, we have an educated person, able to articulate the letter of the law to Jesus. After all, in Luke’s account, it is the lawyer who recites the great commandments. But this lawyer seems intent on circumventing the spirit of the law to suit his own agenda, as we read that he tries to weasel his way out of responsibility by asking Jesus to specify who his neighbor is.
Here, the lawyer sheds light on our own preference to make things convenient for ourselves, sometimes even at the expense of other people. The self-preservation instinct is very strong in all of us, so it can be difficult to execute a conscious decision to hurt ourselves to help someone else. Jesus refuses to accept this, though, and he tells a parable whose moral is that the vocations to which we are called are often inconvenient. At our core, we are called to vocations which include self-sacrifice, and sacrifice is not sacrifice at all if it’s convenient or pleasant. Jesus’ answer is that the lawyer’s neighbor is not the priest or the Levite but rather, as the lawyer grudgingly admits, “the one who showed him mercy.”
Jesus tells the lawyer to “Go and do likewise.” But Jesus also says this for our benefit, since we have all received the great commandments: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” We have already seen that love requires great sacrifice, given the personal risk and expense to which the Samaritan goes. But more than that, it requires that we make inconvenient choices on a regular basis.
At the 1993 Commencement Address at The Citadel, President Ronald Reagan remarked:
In our Baptismal Covenant, we vow that, with God’s help, we will seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves. The core of our vocation, then, is that we are called to sacrifice for others, but it’s the kind of sacrifice which must be practiced. Like professional athletes, we have to train regularly—and painfully—to make ourselves capable of doing that to which we are called. Those day-to-day decisions prepare us and make us who we are. In turn, who we are determines not only how we will perform when called to sacrifice, but also whether or not we’ll be willing to sacrifice at all for someone else.
Luke portrays the lawyer as wanting to justify himself. This lawyer claimed to be righteous because he believed the letter of the law to be everything. But righteousness is not about the letter of the law. It’s not about who we claim to be. It’s not about who we become on camera. Righteousness is about who we are when the words go away and what we do when we don’t have time to think about it. It’s about who we are when no one else is watching. It’s about what theologian Douglas John Hall calls an “impulse to kindness” which every human being shares—even if we sometimes choose to ignore it. It’s about the universal call of love that is God’s call to us. Being Christian is just that: not just believing Christian or confessing Christian—though this is asked of us as well—but being Christian, being an instrument of God’s love in this world.
Amen.
In today’s readings we see examples of people who betray their vocations to satisfy their own needs. The priest Amaziah lives out a life of luxury as King Jeroboam’s priest by telling him what he wants to hear rather than what he needs to hear, that God intends for his kingdom to fall. In Luke’s gospel, the priest and the Levite look at the waylaid victim but barely acknowledge his existence as they cross the road to pass by him.
On the flip side of the coin, we see examples of people who are called by God and who step up to live out their calls, despite great personal risk. The prophet Amos is sent by God to call the priest Amaziah to account for his failings as a priest, and Amos receives only death threats for his trouble. The Samaritan stops to help the victim, despite being alone in a bandit-infested land. He then goes the greater step of paying for the stranger’s housing at an inn, handing over two denarii to the innkeeper. So that we can understand what this must have cost the Samaritan, the Oxford Study Bible tells us that, “two denarii would provide approximately two months of lodging at an ancient inn.” So let’s do the math: At today’s prices, even a very modest inn would cost about $50 per night so, for 60 days, this good Samaritan would be handing over about $3,000, not including meals! How many of us would be willing to throw down $3,000 in cash for a stranger? This is definitely a financial sacrifice for the Samaritan.
Now, on the coin’s edge, we find the lawyer, likely a Scribe or someone well-versed in the Torah. We often forget the lawyer in Luke’s gospel because we are so caught up in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but the lawyer provides an intriguing perspective which for many of us probably hits close to home. Here, we have an educated person, able to articulate the letter of the law to Jesus. After all, in Luke’s account, it is the lawyer who recites the great commandments. But this lawyer seems intent on circumventing the spirit of the law to suit his own agenda, as we read that he tries to weasel his way out of responsibility by asking Jesus to specify who his neighbor is.
Here, the lawyer sheds light on our own preference to make things convenient for ourselves, sometimes even at the expense of other people. The self-preservation instinct is very strong in all of us, so it can be difficult to execute a conscious decision to hurt ourselves to help someone else. Jesus refuses to accept this, though, and he tells a parable whose moral is that the vocations to which we are called are often inconvenient. At our core, we are called to vocations which include self-sacrifice, and sacrifice is not sacrifice at all if it’s convenient or pleasant. Jesus’ answer is that the lawyer’s neighbor is not the priest or the Levite but rather, as the lawyer grudgingly admits, “the one who showed him mercy.”
Jesus tells the lawyer to “Go and do likewise.” But Jesus also says this for our benefit, since we have all received the great commandments: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” We have already seen that love requires great sacrifice, given the personal risk and expense to which the Samaritan goes. But more than that, it requires that we make inconvenient choices on a regular basis.
At the 1993 Commencement Address at The Citadel, President Ronald Reagan remarked:
“The character that takes command in moments of crucial choices has already been determined. It has been determined by a thousand other choices made earlier in seemingly unimportant moments. It has been determined by all the little choices of years past—by all those times when the voice of conscience was at war with the voice of temptation—whispering the lie that it really doesn’t matter. It has been determined by all the day-to-day decisions made when life seemed easy and crises seemed far away—the decisions that, piece by piece, bit by bit, developed habits of discipline or of laziness, habits of self-sacrifice or of self-indulgence, habits of duty and honor and integrity—or dishonor and shame.”
In our Baptismal Covenant, we vow that, with God’s help, we will seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves. The core of our vocation, then, is that we are called to sacrifice for others, but it’s the kind of sacrifice which must be practiced. Like professional athletes, we have to train regularly—and painfully—to make ourselves capable of doing that to which we are called. Those day-to-day decisions prepare us and make us who we are. In turn, who we are determines not only how we will perform when called to sacrifice, but also whether or not we’ll be willing to sacrifice at all for someone else.
Luke portrays the lawyer as wanting to justify himself. This lawyer claimed to be righteous because he believed the letter of the law to be everything. But righteousness is not about the letter of the law. It’s not about who we claim to be. It’s not about who we become on camera. Righteousness is about who we are when the words go away and what we do when we don’t have time to think about it. It’s about who we are when no one else is watching. It’s about what theologian Douglas John Hall calls an “impulse to kindness” which every human being shares—even if we sometimes choose to ignore it. It’s about the universal call of love that is God’s call to us. Being Christian is just that: not just believing Christian or confessing Christian—though this is asked of us as well—but being Christian, being an instrument of God’s love in this world.
Amen.
11 October 2009
Eucharist and coffee hour?
In the early church, the Eucharist took place as part of a common meal. The early model for the Eucharistic feast was shaped to follow the example, in anamnesis of the Last Supper. While the Greek word anamnesis translates (weakly) as 'remembrance,' and that's the word used in English translations of the words of institution during the Eucharistic prayer, the word means so much more than that. Anamnesis also means 'reliving' an event, and can include an expectation of something that is to come. In a full Eucharistic experience, we remember Christ, we live in the life of Christ, and we live in the expectation that Christ will come again. In the Book of Common Prayer, we proclaim this when we recite, as a congregation, "We remember his death, we proclaim his resurrection, we await his coming in glory." However, the contemporary church--at least, the denominations who still celebrate the Eucharist--has dropped the meal in favor of a wafer and a sip of wine, or even less, given the current panic about H1N1.
One purpose of the Eucharist in the early church was to feed the congregation, not only spiritually (through the Eucharist) but also physically through the food that was served at the Eucharist. While it has become expedient for the contemporary church to serve only the bread and wine (or wafers, grape juice, nothing at all, or whatever) as the Eucharistic meal, such has not always been the case. The Last Supper was indeed a supper; "While they were eating [emphasis mine], Jesus took a loaf of bread" (Matthew 26:26).
I find it intriguing that most contemporary churches that celebrate the Eucharist use only bread and wine (or permutations thereof), and many of those will go to great trouble to have coffee hour or a lunch afterward. I can see perhaps a desire to shorten the service, or preserve the cleanliness of the church building, as a reason for this. I think, though, that one response to our current economic problems--and an attempt to connect with God and with our community--might be a return to this part of early church practice. As much as we may not admit, some in our congregations could do with a good meal and good community. Encouraging a regular common meal in the form of Eucharist, in which congregants contribute food as they are able, might help ensure that all in the congregation are fed, it might serve to deepen spiritual practice as we connect with God throughout the meal, and it might deepen the relationship of the church community.
One purpose of the Eucharist in the early church was to feed the congregation, not only spiritually (through the Eucharist) but also physically through the food that was served at the Eucharist. While it has become expedient for the contemporary church to serve only the bread and wine (or wafers, grape juice, nothing at all, or whatever) as the Eucharistic meal, such has not always been the case. The Last Supper was indeed a supper; "While they were eating [emphasis mine], Jesus took a loaf of bread" (Matthew 26:26).
I find it intriguing that most contemporary churches that celebrate the Eucharist use only bread and wine (or permutations thereof), and many of those will go to great trouble to have coffee hour or a lunch afterward. I can see perhaps a desire to shorten the service, or preserve the cleanliness of the church building, as a reason for this. I think, though, that one response to our current economic problems--and an attempt to connect with God and with our community--might be a return to this part of early church practice. As much as we may not admit, some in our congregations could do with a good meal and good community. Encouraging a regular common meal in the form of Eucharist, in which congregants contribute food as they are able, might help ensure that all in the congregation are fed, it might serve to deepen spiritual practice as we connect with God throughout the meal, and it might deepen the relationship of the church community.
07 July 2009
Drowning in living water?
My last post might read like the flailing of a drowning man. I'd been testing the waters for many years in my early spiritual life, then I jumped into the pool a few years ago. Soon--and some might argue too soon--after I joined my church here in Dayton, I began exploring a call to the priesthood. Being dismissed from that call, I struggled and finally was led toward the vocation of theologian. But I still felt like I didn't belong, and it was exactly like the first time I tried to swim. Only today did I realize that--my spiritual director has always been helpful!
When I was about ten years old (I think), I went to the pool at Bomberger Park, near downtown Dayton. I went up on the slide, and slid into the pool. I had never really learned to swim, but I went down the slide anyway. Into the water I went. Under the water I went. I flailed about, surfaced, and went under again. Finally I came up a second time, and I was able to relax and stop flailing.
So it has been with my spiritual vocation. Over the last year, I've been flailing about in a pool of living water (or the Holy Spirit). I've been trying to grasp for anything I could reach, to support me spiritually. All the while, the water has been there, waiting for me to stop flailing about, to stop resisting and just allow the water to support me. In learning to swim spiritually, I have to let go of whatever I've been trying to grasp, let myself float in the Spirit, and then finally take the first tiny stroke of swimming.
What does this mean for me? Well, I've been grasping for the ordination process for a while, first in trying to become a priest and later in arguing with my bishop about the process. While I think there is still something seriously wrong with the process, it is the nature of an institution. I really feel through this vision that it's time to let go, to stop flailing about, and to allow myself to be supported by the Holy Spirit.
I am being called to the vocation of theologian. That means I'll sometimes be at odds with my church--but if a voice speaks in the wilderness and no one hears, does the voice really speak? So yes, that may mean I'm called to be the outsider voice that reminds the church what it means to be the church.
If you're swimming by holding onto the bricks in the side of the pool, are you really swimming? The bricks form a home for the water, but they are not the water. Likewise, the church buildings and hierarchies form a home for the Holy Spirit, but they are not the Holy Spirit. Like the mystics of the early church, I am called toward the spiritual core of my faith, not to the hierarchy that forms its boundaries.
Realizing that, I also realize that in the father's house of many dwelling places (John 14), my ministry takes me far more often outside into the fog than even in the foyer. What a perfectly vicious little circle I brought myself into when I titled this blog... :)
When I was about ten years old (I think), I went to the pool at Bomberger Park, near downtown Dayton. I went up on the slide, and slid into the pool. I had never really learned to swim, but I went down the slide anyway. Into the water I went. Under the water I went. I flailed about, surfaced, and went under again. Finally I came up a second time, and I was able to relax and stop flailing.
So it has been with my spiritual vocation. Over the last year, I've been flailing about in a pool of living water (or the Holy Spirit). I've been trying to grasp for anything I could reach, to support me spiritually. All the while, the water has been there, waiting for me to stop flailing about, to stop resisting and just allow the water to support me. In learning to swim spiritually, I have to let go of whatever I've been trying to grasp, let myself float in the Spirit, and then finally take the first tiny stroke of swimming.
What does this mean for me? Well, I've been grasping for the ordination process for a while, first in trying to become a priest and later in arguing with my bishop about the process. While I think there is still something seriously wrong with the process, it is the nature of an institution. I really feel through this vision that it's time to let go, to stop flailing about, and to allow myself to be supported by the Holy Spirit.
I am being called to the vocation of theologian. That means I'll sometimes be at odds with my church--but if a voice speaks in the wilderness and no one hears, does the voice really speak? So yes, that may mean I'm called to be the outsider voice that reminds the church what it means to be the church.
If you're swimming by holding onto the bricks in the side of the pool, are you really swimming? The bricks form a home for the water, but they are not the water. Likewise, the church buildings and hierarchies form a home for the Holy Spirit, but they are not the Holy Spirit. Like the mystics of the early church, I am called toward the spiritual core of my faith, not to the hierarchy that forms its boundaries.
Realizing that, I also realize that in the father's house of many dwelling places (John 14), my ministry takes me far more often outside into the fog than even in the foyer. What a perfectly vicious little circle I brought myself into when I titled this blog... :)
01 July 2009
A theologian, a centurion, and a voice in the wilderness
It’s almost like one of those jokes: “A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar…” Such has been my ecclesiastical life, if not my spiritual life, of late.
It’s bad enough that I haven’t found the motivation to blog in the last couple of months. But I’ve felt a distinct sense of being an outsider, of not quite belonging, in my church since I returned from Iraq.
My spiritual director makes a point that perhaps my greatest fear is abandonment, since it’s something that has happened to me a number of times in my life, from the breakup of my family (though at a very early age), to being without a spiritual home for many years, to living alone, to my current situation.
I feel abandoned by my church. There, it’s on the web now, it’s out there. I feel betrayed by a church that does not seem to care for its military ministry, denies that there is even a problem, and seeks to deflect all discussion of the issue entirely.
A little background:
Those who really know me also know that I once sought to become a chaplain. You will also recall that that particular dream died rather suddenly just before I deployed to Iraq last year. Finally, you’ll recall that my vocation morphed into that of a theologian. What you may or may not know as well is that my dismissal from the ordination process broke my heart, and I’ve been struggling to pick up the pieces since I returned to Dayton.
The letter from the Commission on Ministry (COM), from about a year ago, makes only two statements regarding discernment of my call:
1. “Our discernment focused on a possible call to ordained ministry in general, rather than a call to a specific context in which one might serve as an ordained person.”
2. “After careful and prayerful deliberation, we do not believe that further exploration of the ordained ministry is called for, but want to be certain that you have an opportunity to receive the church’s blessing and affirmation of your baptismal ministry, and to explore additional resources to enrich that ministry.”
And that’s it. After two years of discernment, pain, and work, that’s the response, essentially saying, “We don’t want to bother with you.” Not even any sort of dialogue or serious spiritual guidance, just a slap in the face after a round-robin interview session that took less than half a day.
I’ve since learned to be wary of any statement which begins with anything like “prayerful deliberation.” I’ve seen and heard it far more frequently in connection with bad things than with good things—and that in itself is a very bad thing. I see the phrase as something of a cop out; to put it bluntly, a turn of ecclesiastical doublespeak meant to distance oneself from the harmful decision one has made.
I have two major theological issues that still have not been sufficiently addressed:
1. I believe that a call to ordination ought to be linked to its purpose. What is a call without its associated context? We are not called to stand at the altar and look pretty in robes but rather to perform some particular facet of God's work. I have felt called to ordained ministry, not ultimately in the context of parish ministry but to the congregation of the military. Without considering the context to which we are called, the COM--by its very nature and design--is necessarily biased toward the typical parish context and biased not only against ordained ministry to the military but also against all other particular contexts.
2. The tone—and words—of the response indicate that the COM is not interested in further discernment on this matter at all. Without further feedback, and in combination with my first point, this indicates to me an outright refusal in this diocese to explore a calling to military ministry. As a military member, I saw this even a year ago as a frightening turn of events. The outright refusal to take seriously a new call to military chaplaincy (as it is a “specific context in which one might serve as an ordained person,” as the COM’s response states) makes me feel like the diocese has taken a stance to turn its back on those parishioners who have answered the call to wear the military uniform.
What only a few of you might know until now is that I’ve been emailing about this to my bishop, and I’m no closer to any serious attempt to do anything other than sidestep each issue. So in addition to a theologian and military officer (centurion), I feel a little like John the Baptist, the voice in the wilderness who challenged the hierarchy of his day and lost his head for his trouble.
So now I’m left with some hard choices to make:
· Where does my ministry fit into the church?
· Am I called to live in the fog outside the “father’s house,” or is there a room where I can once again find a place to lay my head?
· Can I continue attending a church in which I feel like an outsider?
Well, it’s not much of a joke, but it does have a punch line…
12 April 2009
Alleluia, Christ is risen!
This year, my Lenten experience has been...interesting. Of course, by 'interesting,' I don't necessarily mean in a good way--I mean both terrifying and exhausting.
I struggled during this Lent with a host of time management issues that have arisen from a perfect storm of my own desire to study theology (in my spare time, mind you), reintegration from deployment, everyone wanting to spend time with me, and my difficulty saying "no." While each is a good thing on its own, I've been swamped by what has become "too much of a good thing."
It all came to a head during Holy Week, when I was getting up at about 2 or 3 in the morning to write papers for school, then heading out to get to work by 7, then doing other stuff after work. By Maundy Thursday, I was exhausted, crushed, and ready to just drop everything and walk away.
I stayed in the church after the Maundy Thursday service. I watched and prayed for an hour--something that I'd done once during my first Holy Week, when my church had organized a rotating watch for the night, in remembrance of the disciples at the garden at Gethsemane, whom Jesus chided, "Could you not keep awake one hour?" (Mark 14:37). The activity died down gradually, and after about twenty or thirty minutes I found myself alone in the church. I prayed as Jesus revealed his vulnerable humanity, "Let this cup pass from me; yet not my will but your will be done" (paraphrase from Luke 22:42).
I "slept in" on Friday morning, until 6am. I returned to the church to pray for an hour before the Good Friday service. The Good Friday service was more to my mood at the time--very somber and solemn. Then I was jarred when Father Jim slammed a wooden cross onto the stripped altar. It was as though I was struck by something. It was a reminder--or perhaps anamnesis (a Greek word that translates weakly as 'remembrance' but also includes a reliving and a present experience)--of the nails being driven through Jesus and into the cross.
Incidentally, this is also a special time for all those who have served in the military. It was a centurion who, at the foot of the cross of a condemned rabblerouser, confessed, "Truly this man was God's Son!" (Matthew 27:54). And the guards posted by Pilate have their own empty tomb experience, albeit in a very different way (Matthew 27:65-28:4). (A good novel that deals with the aftermath is The Centurion's Wife, by Davis Bunn and Janette Oke. The centurion of this story is the one whose faith is praised by Jesus (Matthew 8:5-13) and who (in this novel) is assigned by Pilate to investigate the disappearance of Jesus' body from the tomb.)
I thought Easter Vigil was a bit early in the day this year, since the sun was still up after the service, but that's not important. What's important is the anamnesis of Christ's incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection, all done for us in accordance with God's will.
Alleluia, Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
I struggled during this Lent with a host of time management issues that have arisen from a perfect storm of my own desire to study theology (in my spare time, mind you), reintegration from deployment, everyone wanting to spend time with me, and my difficulty saying "no." While each is a good thing on its own, I've been swamped by what has become "too much of a good thing."
It all came to a head during Holy Week, when I was getting up at about 2 or 3 in the morning to write papers for school, then heading out to get to work by 7, then doing other stuff after work. By Maundy Thursday, I was exhausted, crushed, and ready to just drop everything and walk away.
I stayed in the church after the Maundy Thursday service. I watched and prayed for an hour--something that I'd done once during my first Holy Week, when my church had organized a rotating watch for the night, in remembrance of the disciples at the garden at Gethsemane, whom Jesus chided, "Could you not keep awake one hour?" (Mark 14:37). The activity died down gradually, and after about twenty or thirty minutes I found myself alone in the church. I prayed as Jesus revealed his vulnerable humanity, "Let this cup pass from me; yet not my will but your will be done" (paraphrase from Luke 22:42).
I "slept in" on Friday morning, until 6am. I returned to the church to pray for an hour before the Good Friday service. The Good Friday service was more to my mood at the time--very somber and solemn. Then I was jarred when Father Jim slammed a wooden cross onto the stripped altar. It was as though I was struck by something. It was a reminder--or perhaps anamnesis (a Greek word that translates weakly as 'remembrance' but also includes a reliving and a present experience)--of the nails being driven through Jesus and into the cross.
Incidentally, this is also a special time for all those who have served in the military. It was a centurion who, at the foot of the cross of a condemned rabblerouser, confessed, "Truly this man was God's Son!" (Matthew 27:54). And the guards posted by Pilate have their own empty tomb experience, albeit in a very different way (Matthew 27:65-28:4). (A good novel that deals with the aftermath is The Centurion's Wife, by Davis Bunn and Janette Oke. The centurion of this story is the one whose faith is praised by Jesus (Matthew 8:5-13) and who (in this novel) is assigned by Pilate to investigate the disappearance of Jesus' body from the tomb.)
I thought Easter Vigil was a bit early in the day this year, since the sun was still up after the service, but that's not important. What's important is the anamnesis of Christ's incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection, all done for us in accordance with God's will.
Alleluia, Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
09 February 2009
Fear of God? Or fear of our friends?
Last week, I attended a meeting at church (and those who were present will remember this). At the beginning of the meeting, it was appropriate that we would have a prayer. There was one problem: no one would volunteer to lead the prayer. I'm as guilty of this as anyone else; after all, I was there, and I failed to step up, at least for the opening prayer. But something occurred to me later during the meeting: This is not the first such instance I've witnessed (and thus, been a part of).
So why is it that we don't step up to lead a prayer? Now, I'm not asking why we all don't enter ordained ministry and lead a congregation, since ordination is a different issue entirely. Why don't we want to be the person to pray in public, or not even in a small group of close friends?
Now, clearly I was multitasking during this meeting, since I was taking notes at the same time as I was examining myself about this. Here's what I came up with, at least for my own experiences:
Ultimately, though, there is hope. There is room in the introvert for change, and there is room for the acknowledgement that no matter how much our friends love us, God loves us more.
So why is it that we don't step up to lead a prayer? Now, I'm not asking why we all don't enter ordained ministry and lead a congregation, since ordination is a different issue entirely. Why don't we want to be the person to pray in public, or not even in a small group of close friends?
Now, clearly I was multitasking during this meeting, since I was taking notes at the same time as I was examining myself about this. Here's what I came up with, at least for my own experiences:
- I'm an introvert. Say what you will about small group vs. large group, but being put on the spot for extemporaneous prayer is a tough one for an introvert, regardless of group size.
- I'm not accustomed to extemporaneous prayer. As an Episcopalian (even a non-cradle one), I've grown into the Book of Common Prayer and away from the prayer for the moment (or further so). While I can pray from memory a number of the prayers in the BCP, I'm not as good at letting the Spirit move me in prayer. It's certainly a failing, because, to some extent, I'm not surrendering myself to God in prayer.
- To some extent, I'm more afraid of people than of God. A scary thought, and certainly a failing, but it's not to say I'm not a 'God-fearer.' What it does say is that I have always feared the judgment of other people.
Ultimately, though, there is hope. There is room in the introvert for change, and there is room for the acknowledgement that no matter how much our friends love us, God loves us more.
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