softapocalypse

Driving up Lake Shore Drive last night en route to a reunion with some dear friends whom we haven't seen for several (too many) weeks I proclaimed to Lauren: I know what I'm going to write my thesis on!

Now, understand that this is not the first time I've made the claim out loud to her (she's totally an amazing sounding-board, the best a grad student could ever ask for). And for each time I've claimed it out load there have been a handful of other similar inner-claims that I've kept to myself.

Also, this is not a terribly urgent matter. I've decided to go to CTS part-time beginning in the Fall, which means I'll be kicking around the CTS community for another couple years, and won't be writing my thesis until next year, Fall 2012-Spring 2013. I'm rather ecstatic about spreading my grad experience out. I consider it an opportunity to delve deeper into the subject matter I'm exploring and to work up a more solid foundation for that penultimate plunge into thesis writing.

The realization that I had while on LSD (Lake Shore Drive) was boosted a bit by this video, an animated companion to a Slavoj Zizek lecture. It's worth a watch (or two or three if that's what it takes to track with it). The bit that I'm ruminating on doesn't come in until the end when he suggests a sort of soft-apocalypticism. What might it look like, from an ecological standpoint, to critique the hard-core apocalypticism found both in popular media and fundamentalist Christianity while arguing for the necessity of a soft-apocalypticism in our scientific, social, and theological language? It needs refining I know. And is subject to change, but what do you think? I welcome any of your offerings of insight.

Zizek is exploring a different question and domain. But, like I said, it's good stuff - as are some of the other RSA Animate videos I've perused. Enjoy...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpAMbpQ8J7g&NR=1

What kind of real is heaven for?

As I suggested in the previous post, I am rather obsessed with my own story. I am taken with the intricacies of my cultural and religious heritage. That being the case my ears pique when I here a story that is in anyway similar to mine, even if ultimately it is radically different. So I was tickled to discover that Colton Burpo, the protagonist of the bestseller “Heaven is for Real”, is a Wesleyan pastor’s kid. I am, or was at one time, a Wesleyan pastor’s kid. I thought this was ironic because the Wesleyan Church is not a big entity in the Christian empire. Wesley himself had a strong and lasting effect on Christendom, but the Wesleyan Church (not to be confused with mainline Methodism) is more of a mousy presence. But Colton’s father, Todd Burbo (who collaborated with Lynn Vincent, Sarah Palin’s ghost writer), managed to raise quite a ruckus when he published the story of his son’s near-death experience and brief visit to heaven.

There are plenty of reviews online that discuss the book’s claims. According to the record of sales those claims have a lot of clout in the readership of the American public. There are plenty of discordant reviews that rough house with the book’s implications, providing not an ounce of credulity to Todd Burpo’s claims. Perhaps the American public is credulous, or perhaps merely curious. But there’s something that tugs at the heart when people get more than speculative and start offering narratives of eyewitness certitude about postmortem reality.

As a fellow Wesleyan PK I can’t help but side with young Colton. (There is an oath that we all take, and it can’t be broken regardless of whether or not our pastor parent remains in good standing with the Wesleyan denomination.) The boy, quite apparently, had an incredible experience. One that I hope, despite the patronage of publicity, he is able to continue to claim as his own. But I can’t bite my tongue (without considerable pain) on one point that I find problematic.

Does the boy’s testimony of his experience amount to empirical proof that the popular evangelical images of heaven are really for real? Is this it – the proof that the public has been waiting for? The book concludes that the boy reported things he couldn’t possibly of known without actually visiting heaven. Can you argue with this evidence?

Between the two options of credulity and curiosity, I would suggest siding with the latter. Near the middle of the book the author describes the occasion that his son told him about meeting Jesus in heaven. Colton’s father is careful not to ask leading questions. With methodical devotion he is careful not to mar the evidence of the innocence of his son’s testimony. Colton described his encounter with Jesus, providing details about Jesus’ eyes and dress and “markers”. Todd Burpo puzzled over what his son meant by “markers” until it dawned on him… stigmata. He coaxed his son to describe Jesus’ markers and the boy stood pointing to the centers of his palms and the tops of his feet to show where the red markers were located on Jesus’ body.

This episode frames what could be considered the crux of the book, from chapter 12 “Eyewitness to Heaven”. Todd Burpo resolves from this incident that the evidence pointed to the fact that his son had visited the real heaven and, unprovoked and uninformed, Colton was describing his first hand encounter with Jesus. Colton’s encounter secured the traditional images of heaven as conclusively true, and it confirmed the reality of heaven as dauntingly irrefutable.

Again, I insist that I have no qualms with Colton’s powerful experience and vivid visions. I think of the potentially traumatic incident of emergency surgery that the boy (and family) went through, and of the healing and consoling effect that his vision of heaven had for him. I think this is beautiful. I think of the inspiring nature of the young Colton’s testimony, and the way that it must have moved his family and community to tears and celebration. I am thrilled by these happenings.

But why take this occasion and be so emphatic that it is incontestable proof that the piecemeal conglomeration of heavenly images used in most American evangelical churches is the absolute truth about the nature of the afterlife? And why insist that it is an undeniable indication of the complete, unadulterated, inerrant and consummate truth of the exceptionality of a very particular branch of Christian teaching about the gospel of Jesus? Is that necessary? Is it honest?

I learned in my 9th grade physiology class at a conservative Christian high school from a devout Christian teacher about the physiology of crucifixion. I remember this lesson more vividly than I do the lecture on the movement of blood through the heart or the synaptic leaps that occur in brain activity. It was detailed and disgusting. And one of the details I learned was this: Had Jesus been nailed to the cross through the centers of his palms as is portrayed in popular art the weight of his body would have pitched him down off the cross. The nails in his hands would not have been sufficient to support his body on a cross. His fleshy hands, lacking adequate bone support, would have ripped apart and he’d have fallen forward to the ground. Victims of crucifixion were not nailed to the cross through the palms of their hands but in their forearms, between the ulna and the radius, providing adequate structure to support the weight of their bodies and the duration of their torment.*

Colton pointed to the centers of his palms in recollecting his vision of Jesus’ “markers”. Does that inconsistent detail negate the value of his transcendent experience? No, I genuinely don’t think it does. Does it discredit Todd Burpo’s and Lynn Vincent’s use of Colton’s experience as forensic proof that the evangelical Christian gospel is universally and empirically a closed case? I think so.

It’s unfortunate that some lackluster adults used the images described by a playful and insightful child to narrow the expanse of truth to a very closed vision of reality. It’s problematic that they’re ending the conversation – about life and God and truth – by insisting on the final word. Perhaps by favoring our impulse for curiosity and resisting the temptation of uncritical credulity we can hear Colton’s story and keep the conversation alive.

*(Note: A scientist with an alternative conclusion regarding nail placement, but who also concludes with "It's never finished... It's always open.")

two influences

While conversing with friends the other night, over a flight of local whiskeys at Chicago’s Watershed, something became apparent to me. I spend a fair amount of time pondering my religious heritage, sifting through my memories with the same care I use when I sip from a tumbler of nuanced rye. I isolate the traditions and encounters that have informed my convictions about religion. I conjure the occasions, adventures, predispositions and relationships that have composed my sense of spirituality. I let this variety play on my tongue then I feel it meld together and slide down my throat, warming my heart on the way by.

The piece that caught my attention the other night was how distinct yet similar my two most recent religious influences are. The first influence is comprised of the voices and ideas I’ve encountered in the evangelical emergent movement since reading A New Kind of Christian almost ten years ago. The second has included the academic forays of the CTS portion of my journey. The thoughts and thinkers that I have encountered while at CTS and those engaged in the emergent conversation are don’t really cross paths. These two primary influential pools have very little to do with one another. Nominally at least. For I find them to be intimately connected, if only in my own faith, seeking, and understanding.

In each there is a commitment to openness, dialogue, difference, engagement. Each pulls from a multiplicity of voices, traditions, and opinions. And both are committed in a firm and flexible way (yes, I said firm AND flexible) to Christian exploration and relation with the divine.

It isn’t a big deal that these two forces come at much of the same material in much the same spirit. It’s not profound. But it has been a formative and pleasant inner-dialogue for me. It is a dynamic interaction that I have been engaging ponderously, and it is one that I thought worth sharing.

If you want a general idea of what this intersection sounds like in words not my own, there’s a decent interview on one of the podcasts I listen to regularly – Homebrew Christianity. The interview captures elements of each force – CTS and emergence - quite well. (It does not address CTS explicitly, but rather the academic and political elements of theology that I have encountered at CTS.) Tripp Fuller of Homebrew interviews Gareth Higgins and they discuss an event going on later this month that will likewise incorporate this CTS-esque element with the momentum of the emergent conversation.

I am going to be involved that weekend with a different event here in Chicago, one that is sure to change the world, or at least this Midwestern fringe. So I recommend that if you’re in my hood, come check out the intersection of art, justice, and spirituality being hosted by my personal muse and guru. If you’re anywhere near North Carolina then gander off for a Wild Goose chase.

tomorrow?

Apparently it's time. How are you feeling about that? (Oh yeah, by the way...)

easter

I shared a moment of mystique last night when my friend shared his reflections on holy week. While holding 2oz of Glenlivet 18 and receiving the magnitude of his generous gesture the clock scrolled from yesterday to today. And like that, it was Easter.

I do not have polished reflections to share today. But I have been half-mindful of the sanctity of this week as it has played out in the lives and faith of so many. And I have been heartily lungeing toward the hint of new-life that this season portends. In this process I've scooped together bits of poetry and pieces of thought that I've salvaged from various encounters in the last handful-or-so of years. These are my meditations as I keep stride with the buds that are emerging on the trees in the neighborhood. They may seem random, but for me they're quite connected with one another.

~I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it. (Alice Walker)~

~For me being a Christian is a romance, a pilgrimage into the unknown, a process of continual conversion. (Alan Jones)~

~And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair. (Kahlil Gibran)~

~It is a modern folly to alter a corrupt ethical system, its constitutions and legislation, without changing the religion, to have a revolution without a reformation. (Hegel)~

~You are in love with me, I shall make you perplexed. Do not build much, for I intend to have you in ruins. (Rumi)~

~A Christian is one who is on the way, though not necessarily very far along it, and who has at least some dim and half-baked idea of whom to thank. (Frederick Buechner)~

~This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affections glow again and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen magically along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn. (Bernard DeVoto)~

~...That we may exist to honor God and enable questioning open minded people to discover for themselves the significance of Jesus Christ. (On the front placard at St. Martin in the Fields)~

~And this. (Lauren Znachko)~

own it

Religious ideas are sticky for a lot of people. As in: People get stuck in them. Since I posted "hells bells" a couple of weeks ago I've been wanting to toss something at you to consider the sticky nature of religious ideas, and to prompt some thought about the danger that is inherent in getting stuck in a particular religious idea in an absolute way.

One of the ways to explore a religious idea is to track the history of the idea. It's important to track the history of (religious) ideas, because we fool ourselves when we think that they are static and fixed. Like any idea, religious ideas have a past. Religious ideas did not emerge ex nihilo, and if you hold a religious idea as true in one way or another, and use that idea to inform your understanding of the world and your interactions with others then you owe it to yourself, your religion, and your relationships to do your homework and consider the evolution of religious ideas.

I'm going to offer a brief example, just something to provide some momentum in case you feel so inclined to heed my suggestion. While it's still fresh, let's take a look at Hell. And after this I'll lay off of the morbid topics for a while. Promise.

I anticipate feedback similar to some of the comments on the "biblical" post - and that's okay, I understand that this is a controversial and intimidating topic, I understand that for some people a literal interpretation of the idea of Hell is a lynch pin in their worldview. It is my opinion that Hell is an idea that has built on other ideas and that has developed and shifted in Christian thought. I recognize that by not asserting that Hell is an absolute reality that has always meant the same thing (namely, postmortem everlasting torment for unsaved individuals) I am challenging something that is central to some Christian theologies. I understand that and I am okay with it.

We're going to do this bullet-point style, try to keep it brief. I'm hoping that this is more catalystic than conclusive. Proverbial food for thought. Something to chew on; but by no means anything worth gnashing your teeth over. Here it goes...

A bit on Heaven first

• There are 7 or 8 different words that are translated as "heaven" in the Christian Bible - a few in Hebrew, the rest in Greek
• They all have to do with the sky, with the air, with the celestial heights, loftiness, the horizon
• Basically "heaven" functions as a point of reference - Where is God? Up there. Heaven.

A bit on Copernicus

• Before him, the universe revolved around us - the "up there" swirled and twirled around us. We were the fixed point of reference.
• (His ideas weren't precisely new, these ideas were floating around before him, but for one reason or another he gets credit in the West)
• After Copernicus, "up there" got traded in for "out there"
• In other words, a change in worldview resulted in a change in meaning. Heaven no longer means the high up, lofty place (because thanks to Copernicus "up" is kind of arbitrary).
• Heaven isn't "up there" (its biblical use) but is "out there" (like a different dimension or realm). The idea of Heaven shifts. Ideas do that.

Hell the concept

• Just like Heaven, the idea of Hell (the one that is likely in your head right now, though no doubt it varies amongst my readers) was a long time in the making
• Complex and poignant images from the Bible
• + Various imaginative cultural portrayals (Dante, Milton, Blake)
• + Personal imagination and disposition
• = Crystallization of contemporary concept of Hell

Hell the word

• Hell is an English word. (Remember, the Bible was not written in English. So "Hell" is not, strictly speaking, in the Bible.)
• The English word Hell derived from its Germanic parent around 725 CE
• "Halja" = to conceal, hide, cover - (As in the now outdated use: "helling potatoes")

Hell in the Bible

(These are words that get translated into English as "Hell" - obviously different translations will vary. I think these numbers are from the NRSV. Not a precise or complete word study, but should be informative. Feel free to look into it for yourself!)

• Sheol (Hebrew, 31x) - grave, pit, retreat, subterranean place of the dead, leveling place
• Abbadon (Hebrew, ??x) - destruction, perish
• Gehenna (Greek, 12x) - literally "Valley of Hinnom", garbage dump outside of ancient Jerusalem, site of ancient pagan sacrifices
• Hades (Greek, 10x) - grave, place of the departed, (god of the) underworld
• Tartarus (Greek, 1x) - deepest abyss, (actually a verb in the NT, tartaroo)

Mix it all up

• So behind the word "Hell", depending on the text it is used in, there are a variety of meanings
• death, pit, destroying fire, afterlife, etc
• (Only about 20% of the usages are associated with fire)
• Hell in the English New Testament is always connected with the judgement of right and wrong actions.
• Pauline texts deal with judgement as well, but they have no mention of Gehenna or Hades.

What do we make of all of this? Do we read "Hell" in the Bible and assume that every occurrence of the word is referring to a lake of fire (as in Rev. 20) or that every occurrence is referring to the afterlife or that every occurrence is referring to punishment? It doesn't seem that that would be an honest way to honor the complexity of the use of the term in the Bible. I suppose it's an option, but it's not the only biblical option.

If you opt to interpret Hell as a literal fiery abyss, or if you opt to interpret Hell as a figurative annihilation, or if you opt to interpret the idea figuratively in Hellish manifestations on earth - regardless of what you think Hell is or means, own up to it. There are a lot of options. Do your homework, and chose well.

responsibility

I have been wanting to throw a quote your way that functions as a satisfying summary of the thoughts I was trying to convey in my "biblical" post (note the stream of comments as well), but I can not remember which article or book or blog I snagged it from. So know that this is not mine, and if it is yours then feel free to claim it and thanks for letting me borrow it:

"The Bible is a complex, multi-voiced document. It's teachings can be harmonized only by imposing onto the Bible a uniformity that is not in the text itself... We have to accept responsibility for our interpretations."

Along with these thoughts regarding sacred text, consider some of the current controversy regarding sacred law: Is Religious Law Dangerous? It likely depends on the way that law is interpreted and imposed.

stirrings of change

Go: here. Join in. Beautify the world. It's fun.

hells bells

The eternal-fate-of-everyone-who-is-and-ever-has-been is big news these days. I suppose eternal fate is a topic that has tended to stay near the top of the list of human concerns for quite some time now. But Rob Bell’s new book on the topic (I hesitate to say new take on the topic, as would he I’m sure) has ruffled some conservative evangelical feathers while igniting vogue-esque anticipation amongst some of the Christo-chic.

I doubt that I’ll get to “Love Wins” anytime soon – my book shelf is already sagging with the weight of enough intellectual stimulation to drive me orgasmically into the next eon. But I tell you what, the video-peak got me excited; excited that an articulate voice is entering the fray of the public sphere with a nuanced message about God and love and the dilemma/delight of being human.

As with any God/human themed message, this one has been quick to incur comments and critique. Rob Bell is not a Christian! Rob Bell is the coolest Christian! It is not biblical! It is so timely!

I don’t think the point is whether Bell’s message is Christian, quasi-Christian or unchristian. The point is: Can you join the conversation from wherever you are (as a Christian, quasi-Christian or unchristian) and offer (and receive) an edifying insight?

I found it interesting last night at the start of class - before launching into Paul Tillich’s Systematic Theology volume II (wherein Tillich himself offers a bit of a nuanced message about God and love and the dilemma/delight of being human) – my professor mentioned seeing “some evangelical TV preacher on Good Morning America the other day.” She didn’t know who, but there was “a bunch of hype around this new book of his coming out because he stopped believing in hell or something; and,” she said, “I couldn’t really figure out what all the hype was about because to me it just sounded like he was someone with a seminary education.”

Now, I don’t share that to laud seminary (cause Laud knows that that there is plenty about seminary and seminarians that deserves no praise). Or to suggest that only the opinions of those with official theological educations should be valued. I thought it was interesting because it clued me in to the wider sphere of Christian conversation – wherein there are plenty of thoughtful, committed Christians (right here in America even, and in Chicago, just across the lake from Grand Rapids) who have no idea who Rob Bell is.

I know who he is. I like him; I like the way he postures himself – secure in his identity as a Christian and a seeker, and therefore capable of extending a solid embrace to the diverse spectrum of humanity around him. But a lot of people don’t know him. And as far reaching as the social media bullhorn is, and as adept as Bell and his crew may be at using it, his voice can’t and won’t reach everyone.

Which is to say: 1) To those of you who are so vehemently intimidated by Bell’s message, relax, calm down, he isn’t taking over the world or (gasp, even worse) Christianity – he has a voice and he’s using it. Use yours. Don’t squander your voice on rash, pithy polemics. Honor the conversation, and try to be constructive. 2) To those of you who think Nooma videos are sufficient sources for all of life’s decisions, maybe you should also loosen your fixation a bit. They are really cool and creative. But so are you – so hop up, off your ass, be inspired for sure, but get out there and engage the world with an expression of love and truth that is rooted firmly in the ground on which you stand.

biblical

"I don't believe that. It's not biblical."

You've likely heard it said. Or perhaps a variation...

"It's true. I know it's true because it's biblical."

You've heard it said. Possibly you've even said it yourself. For many Christians it is common to acknowledge something (e.g. a belief, a social issue or behavior) as biblical or non-biblical. It is a functional point of reference. It effectively communicates that a person considers something to be either valid or invalid; condonable or condemnable.

The term is handy. It's a pocket-sized-explanation that can be pulled out and applied to a number of situations. It is abundantly useful. But maybe a bit too useful. And maybe, if we're not careful, the overuse might slink toward abuse.

I think it's time to consider taking a closer look at this particular piece of Christian parlance.

I don't want to suggest that you or anyone else cease using the term. But if you use it, consider also unpacking what you mean by it. Don't assume that what you mean by "biblical" is self-evident. Try not to use "biblical" as a win-all trump card.

For example, perhaps your belief about afterlife is shaped by certain texts in the Bible. Does that mean that your belief about afterlife is biblical? It might. But why not explain yourself a bit more. Which texts? And why do you read them the way you do? Do you know anyone who interprets them differently? How do you respond to them?

If you answered the final question with - "Their beliefs are not biblical" - then scroll up, start over, try again.

By all means, believe what you believe. But take responsibility for it. Don't prop your beliefs up next to the Bible without considering the implications. The Bible is loaded. If you push it, it's going to push back.

ash

Have you read about the Homeland Security Council's hearings scheduled to begin tomorrow? Or did you see the front page article in the New York Times yesterday about the crowds gathering around one woman's anti-Muslim message?

It's discouraging to be working so hard on understanding the religious traditions, symbols, and discourse that intersect in today's global context - to have my nose in books aiming me at being better able to advocate for religious understanding - and then to come across such rampant, unbridled instances of religious misunderstanding (and ignorance!) being amplified by pundits and political figures.

I say "unbridled", but that's not true. Both articles that I linked to above effectively bridle the mis-placed slant that is being unambiguously applied to American Muslims. And there is plenty more critique, thank God. I say "unbridled" because I haven't done anything to rein it back. Unbridled, as of yet, by me.

So consider this my contribution to the pursuit of religious understanding. (It is a thing that we pursue, by the way, regardless of how impossible it may be to ultimately attain.) Today is Ash Wednesday. It is a day more or less designed to humble us (the Christian population of the world) and remind us of our finitude; remind us that we are not and do not possess, in any conclusive form, the answer to the human situation.

Today I have an ashen cross on my forehead. I have tear stains on my cheeks. I have a heavy heart. I heard this poem (by a Muslim mystic), and it helped:

Troubled?

Then stay with me, for I am not.

Lonely?

A thousand naked amorous ones dwell in ancient caves beneath my eyelids.

Riches?

Here’s a pick,

my whole body is an emerald that begs,

“Take me.”

Write all that worries you on a piece of parchment;

offer it to God.

Even from the distance of a millennium

I can lean the flame in my heart

into your life

and turn

all that frightens you

into holy

incense

ash.

my vote on election

In my Dangerous Religious Ideas class we've been discussing, for several weeks, the religious teachings of election/chosenness as manifest in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Next week we've got to take a bit of a stance by drawing up a conclusion. I'm not big into conclusive conclusions. But here's what I'm working on... hopefully it'll serve to keep the discussion going:

The doctrine of election is not consistent in religious consciousness. Historically the inconsistent understanding of election, taken from the multivalent sources of religious traditions and texts, functioned at least partly as a check. It prevented any one, absolutist stance from being ultimately imposed. This accountability inherent in diversity, however, does not absolve the doctrine of election from its inherent dangers. While it has the potential to protect the self-concept of a vulnerable group, it does so to the detriment of that group’s potential for influence and longevity in the modern context.

The doctrine of election has, at times, functioned as a crutch to get vulnerable groups on their feet and advancing in solidarity with one another. Once a group is up and walking, no longer limping under the load of other groups’ despotic ideals, the crutch becomes useless except as a bludgeon with which to subjugate yet other more vulnerable groups. Even in the hands of a vulnerable group the crutch doubles as a weapon, and the contemporary crutch is far too explosive to ignore, let alone condone. We must seek other ways to ensure each group its particular stride in the global walk of life.

A commitment to the struggle against oppression and injustice today has to deal with the present context of heightened global awareness and multiplicity. Dealing with the present context requires that we be able to distance ourselves – if not entirely, at least episodically – from the exclusive and supersessionist claims of our traditions and sacred texts.

This necessitates a mature acknowledgment of the capacity for humans to be more than one thing at a time, i.e. the capacity for humans to be at the same time individuals and participants. The doctrine of election does not foster this confidence but caters to the incoherent fear that in cooperating one loses one’s identity, and in participating one becomes negligible. Only by moving beyond the doctrine of election can we authentically engage the differences between others and ourselves without absolutely dismissing their faith-perspectives as antiquated or errant. There is not a fixed solution to today’s situation in any faith tradition. Therefore none of us have been elected to share the solution. Though we may all have a part in sharing in the solution. Each faith tradition, if alive and lively, does have the capacity to actively engage the contemporary context. We must collectively commit ourselves to the continual process of nurturing identities that are both secure and pliable.

getting personal, going political

I was jarred and confused with myself a couple of days ago when a professor at the seminary, who I was meeting for the first time, asked me about my focus of study. Confused because at this point in the game I feel strongly as if I should have a ready answer to such an inquiry, but instead I strolled along beside him asserting that, “I don’t really know, it’s hard to say.”

And that’s true. It is hard to say. And not least of all difficult to toss my convictions, my concerns, and my ambitions into the condensed setting of a thirty second encounter. But I think I do know really. And hard as it may be I think I need to take opportunities like that to try and say something of what I am doing here.

There are two re-emerging themes in my ever-active mind. [Correction: I shut it down for a few rounds of Angry Birds every couple of days. But aside from then, the themes continually surface in my thoughts.]
1) Advocating an ecological consciousness and mindfulness of our connection to the earth.
2) The pluralistic dynamics (especially pertaining to religious diversity) inherent in contemporary society.

Neither of these subjects of contemplation makes me particularly remarkable, especially as one who calls CTS home. At CTS social-mindedness is the norm, and social action is foremost on the agenda. That’s why I’m here. Not to refine my ipseity, but to be one amongst a group of thoughtful and committed humans intent on spiffing up the world.

But I do believe that I have something specific, even particular, to contribute to the mosaic of history. And part of being here is to risk putting words to what that contribution might be.

So the next time I get a chance to toss my ambitions into a sound byte I might say something like: I am here to amp up the call of the wild; to nurture eco-mindfulness; to treat the earth (in all its grit) as metaphor and context for mutli-faith encounter and (inter)action.

And if I have the time I might risk saying that I am an aspiring political-theologian with a taste for wild places. Which would require some parsing of the title; and would lead to me pulling this gem out of my pocket:

“What is at stake in theological thinking today is not tinkering with the religious self-understanding of religious institutions and still less with providing nostrums for a narcissistic spirituality, but rather of trying to think resolutely and lucidly about a future for humanity and for life itself in the face of the menace of self-inflicted biocide. Real theological thinking is directed toward the question of the deliverance of the earth and the earthling from the empire of avarice, arrogance and violence.”

I’m here rehearsing the various ways that the symbol of God functions in the world (past and present). I’m using the classroom as a tuning fork, finding my pitch, so that I can join the chorus of the community. And staying on my toes in case I get a chance to chant a solo.


[Several voices contributed to this post: Margaret Mead’s “Never doubt…” quote, Theodore Jennings’ quote above, and Elizabeth Johnson’s “The symbol of God functions.”]

snow day flirtations

The early Valentine I received today:

My heart is strangely warmed. Thanks babe. Love you too.

Narratives

I had intended to write more blogable entries while schlepping about these holy plots of land. I have been plodding through my experiences with the discipline of daily journal writing, doing my best to set one word next to another in an attempt to find some sense of cohesion and meaning in the situation on the ground in Palestine/Israel. But – and this is really no surprise – my entries have taken shape as rambles and disjointed thoughts, pulling from a hundred moments a day and as many emotions, sifting through layer after layer of narrative only to arrive at the end of an entry (and the end of each day) exhausted, frustrated, resigned, and all too ready to slap my head down on a flat pillow and stretch my legs to the edge of the narrow bed that cradles me.

In broad strokes we have gone from historic Jerusalem, through the sacred spots of the three monotheistic traditions, into a Bethlehem that is diced up by the ominous presence of a twenty foot wall, and for days now we have been hopping from one living room or lounge to the next hearing from residents and grass-roots leaders, lawyers and clergy and students and activists, farmers and veterans about the their pieces of this complex tapestry. They have shared their space, their values and perspectives, their initiatives, and when at all possible they have extended what little hope for peace and coexistence there is in their hearts.

I have learned a lot about Judaism. A lot about the state of Israel. And a lot about the conflicting claims placed on plots of land, not to mention a bit about the dilemma that those claims pose to the land itself. Yesterday, for instance, we learned about the politics of water in the Golan Heights, which for a boy who grew up flipping faucets on and off without a second thought as to its source of origin, was an illuminating discussion. We began today with a clip from Life of Brian that ironically and comically shed significant light on the complexity of any situation (which to date has been every situation, at least in this place) where there is an imbalance of power. One would think it would be quite simple to diagnose the goods from the evils. But one would be wrong. One would only need to sit in the living room of a Palestinian family on one side of the wall, feeding their gold fish and talking about the latest Pixar movie one day, and then sit down in a dining room on the other side of the wall to share Shabbat dinner with a young family of five the next to know that they are wrong about the ease of diagnosing any situation of conflicting interests.

One needs to encounter the other, to hear their narrative, their angle, to be afforded the opportunity to ask questions and push into their story to understand that claiming a monopoly on truth or a monopoly on what makes sense or claiming to know what solution is the right solution is rooted in immaturity and ignorance.

From what I’ve seen and heard it strikes me that those who are most honest about life in the midst of conflict (and what life isn’t in one conflict or another?) accept, even embrace, the need to release the simplistic notion that an ideal is possible. Ideals clash. Absolutes collide. It takes courage and grace and a ridiculous amount of hope, but it seems necessary to consider the other’s presence as essential to one’s own wholeness. Love your neighbor. Love your enemy. Love your next-door enemy. It is not the proximity of conflicting narratives to one another that causes violent conflict; it is the fear of the other and hyper-insecurity about oneself that escalates our natural differences into occasions of hostility and brutality – whether verbal or physical. It’s not okay anymore, if it ever was, to shun diversity. The fear of multiplicity arises from a craven heart or an ignorant one. It is not okay to pretend like human homogeneity is an option. It is okay to be yourself, embodying your narrative, while accepting the other and honoring a plurality of voices.

Coexistence is possible. I’ve seen it. Peace is more elusive – both in reality and in any definable form. Perhaps the elusive nature of peace is a practical trait. If peace was static and could be enshrined in one place or fixed into some society, it would be missing elsewhere – another human community or the ecological neighborhood we are a part of. Our actions, habits, happiness, and security impact the lives and presence of others. Perhaps the best peace is an elusive peace, one that is always being hoped toward but never quite reached. For if I am at peace then my neighbor may be suffering, and that is not just. But if we both attempt harmony, while not neglecting the reality of our differences, perhaps we may transcend inert coexistence and participate, as broad conduits, in the dynamic and enduring flow of peace.

Beyond Jerusalem

We arrived at the pinnacle of a month of green in a land typically adorned with hues of brown. As I gazed out the window at this rare verdancy, the narrative of the land began to bud, awaiting the careful cultivation of stories and further experiences.

The geography here impacts. It is politically and tactically vital. Religiously packed. Commercially vulnerable. On our ascent to Jerusalem our bus climbed the road from flat coastal lands to the mountainous places that have captured generations of attention and held memories that span millennia. It is a climb that has been manifest in spirits seeking God, in people claiming patrimony, and in farmers tending to tangled fruit.

Yesterday we sat on the stone with our backs to the Temple Mount, seated where many have climbed. From whichever angle and whatever distances it is really a singular ascent. A singular ascent with multiple accents.

A stroll through the streets just under the mountain’s gaze testifies to the many who have set their eyes on Yeru-shalem, coming to explore and express their roots. Coming to have a go at life – real life. Coming with their hopes set on what the place promises – a Yireh of Shalem, a vision of peace.

From fertile lands, desert lands, coastal lands, and foreign lands people have traipsed the heights. Alighting from afar they (and now we are amongst them) set step after step toward this collection of contours that have upheld countless pilgrims and pushed back against the friction of traditions that attempt to tame the wildness of this place with a collection of absolutes.

With my eyes closed I can see the wilderness, as it was long ago, an arm’s length from the wall. The wall that suggested the parameters of safety. Amongst other myths that we may or may not choose to question, the myth of safety is one that begs our questions without our permission. The current feel inside the walls is tense at best – a situation that can and should and, dare we hope, is, in some corners at least, being calmed and relaxed with the hard relational work of seeking understanding and mutuality in the edgy elements of confusion and plurality. We like the idea of safe. We do our best to approach and promote safe. But that’s a functional safe, it’s a bodily and emotional safe. It is not an absolute safe. Try as we may, we cannot fend off the realities of encounter no matter how firmly we construct our absolutes.

But that’s not what our structures are for any way. Our structures invite divine presence; they don’t contain it. At best our structures facilitate encounter. They are a place to wrestle out the logistics of sacred experience.

Jerusalem is not a place that panders to absolutes. It deals in truths, not certainties. In a sense we know why we’re here, our memories and the stories of this place make us secure in this space. But our knowledge ends with question marks and security is fragile.

God will show. God will be seen. God has shown. God has been seen. Stories build on each experience of divinity like the levels of the city, the strata of stone, and the layers of wall.

These walls were built to adorn God with a place to come. Not stay. These are the walls that pilgrims flock to for sanctuary from the mundane and the profane. But they are breach-able. The Jerusalem walls have been overflowed by neighborhoods. The neighborhoods have built more walls; walls and neighborhoods that mythically keep God in and neighboring neighbors out.

We are all afraid of the wild places – the unsafe spots – outside the walls we construct. But what are we really afraid of? Do we have the courage to risk contact with the unkown?

I can imagine intrepid pilgrims moving in reverse, guided by a hunch – as if their question marks were strapped to their foreheads like phylacteries pulling them into the curious possibility that maybe God isn’t stuck in the sacred and the secure. Maybe God is out there too, beyond the walls in the wilderness. Maybe God is in them too, breaching my prejudice. Maybe God is inexplicably tangled up at the root of the mountain in thousands of years of memories.

There is no need to destroy our structures. Let us keep them in tact. Let Christians flee to the Eucharist. Let Jews cling to the Torah. Let Muslims turn toward Mecca. But let us all risk the wilderness, because God is feral. And as we go today let us not stop looking, because outside the city walls a wild God wanders the desert.

born again and always growing

A friend of mine sent me an email the other day after reading some of my posts and posed a question: What do you believe about being born-again?

For some of my readers that question makes a lot of sense, because "being born-again" is central to your identity and a key means of articulating your self-understanding. It is a phrase, and perhaps an experience, lifted from Jesus' conversation with Nicodemus (and other biblical points of reference) that contains a whole lot of thrust for you. To be born again is key.

For others of my readers the significance of the question and the force of the phrase "born-again" is not apparent. You've heard certain Christians apply the label to themselves or each other. But it seems vague and rather cliche due to overuse. It's one of those phrases that has stopped meaning what it may have once poetically meant.

I took my friend's question seriously, mostly because I take this particular friend seriously. But also because I appreciated the opportunity to toss back some of my thoughts pertaining to my understanding of the phrase/phenomenon. I touched on my Wesleyan (and western) background and my appreciation for moment(s) of conversion. And I offered my understanding of and appreciation for the eastern Christian concept of theosis as an alternate means of understanding salvation and regeneration.

But really it would have been sufficient for me to have sent my friend a link to this video:

(thanks to the prettiest of human beings for exposure this beautiful bit of media)

pitter-patter

I wrote my final paper last semester on doing theology from an ecological foundation. We tend to do well at remembering that when it comes to God the sky is the limit, but I think more often than not we forget that the earth is our springboard. It is easy to imagine the bearded old man in the sky, the Our Father (who art in heaven), fielding our prayers. It is not as easy to remember that it is Mother earth who props us up and provides the substance for those prayers. It is she who cases our spirits with matter. Mother/Mater pittering our prayers to Pater/Father. The breaths we breathe, the flesh we bear, the relationships that sustain us and give us purpose – she accounts for them all. And while there is no telling whether or not our abstract image of the God out there is accurate, there is plenty of God right here to hold on to.

But hopefully our theology breaks through these simplistic dualisms of spirit and matter, female and male, earth and elsewhere. What if our theology did not thrive on static absolutes that fix God untouchably in the center of our lives? God is not an entity for us to gawk at. What if instead our theology thrived on the dynamism of possibilities? God is not a point of focus or a fixation. God is a blur of activity that occurs always in the peripheral. God happens at the margins of our vision.

I heard recently that the classic translation of Exodus 3:14’s Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh, “I am who I am”, is not the most accurate translation on the market. The translation fits well into a western mentality where the best things are established things, things that are fixed and secured and absolute. But whether or not we westerners like it Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh implies motion and becoming more than it does completion or a conclusive entity. It means something closer to “I will be what I will be” or the even more counterintuitive, “I will be that which I am”. This story of God’s intimate moment with the prophet Moses teaches us that God is something other than fixed reality. God is reality in flux.

A contingency of being open to God as reality in flux is that it requires one to foster a hyper-awareness. I have to be alert and attentive to what is happening around me and within me, and I must do my best to attend to what is happening around and within others (and not just other humans). The comfort of fixing God to an absolute standard of stability (God as unchanging, unmoving, the same yesterday today and forever) is that I can close my eyes to the others around me and neglect the dynamics that swirl within me. I can take comfort in the certainty that even if the world gets tumultuous I will be secure, barnacled to my monolithic God. This metaphor for God – my rock and shelter in the storm – has a profound function. It can be used as devotional assurance in turbulent times. It is especially available to those who are dispossessed – the homeless, the refugee, threatened and abandoned populations.

But it is not an absolute description of reality. There are equally profound metaphors that suggest that God is more akin to the storm itself. God is not primarily a being to latch onto for comfort – especially for we who are already excessively comfortable. God is a forceful occasion to participate in. Contemplation and devotion are not excuses for inaction. We reflect on God in order to engage divine momentum. Our meditation functions to sharpen an intuitive responsiveness to the moment, every moment, wherein God occurs.

urban landscapes by night

urban landscapes by day