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

my true loves gave to me

This has been a powerful Christmas for me.

I have experienced a togetherness with my multi-tiered family that is fuller than I dared hope. The geographical distances and relational landscapes of family often create a blur of uncertainty that eludes focus and tranquility. Yet this year it's as if an adept photographer (perhaps toting a Panasonic Lumix LX 5, as I will be from here on out) took aim and snapped a shot of the bunch of us laughing and gifting and feasting; singing and playing; remembering and anticipating; expressing our gratitude and holding each other tight.

The careful composition of that image is what I will be carrying with me (tucked in my back pocket next to my new plaid handkerchief) into the year ahead. The way that the light gambols from face to face will be a graphic promise that in times of uncertainty and flux, peace is resoundingly possible.

Perhaps over the next twelve days of Christmas, at some point, you may find a chance to listen in to this sermon preached in anticipation of the advent of one who graced the world with his presence of equanimity in the midst of an often harsh reality; of calm and hope that tends to displace the harshness of the wintry moments in life with the warmth of conscientious connection to one another.

Laurence: at CommonGround, on the Advent

what i'm reading along with everything else i'm reading:

http://neweyeseachyear.wordpress.com/

and you should read it too. it's the sort of writing that touches that secret spot in you. in such a way that you think some combination of 'weird' and 'wow' is going on between you and the writer, or at least you and the text. it makes you curious about whether or not, just maybe, the world isn't out to get you so much as it's out to invite you.

invite you to what? read it, and keep reading it throughout december (*think advent*), and it will probably become clear. maybe not crystal clear. that's not the point. but clear enough to take your next step with confidence.

seminary semester #1

I’ve learned that there has never been a single orthodox Christian theology. There have been dominant imperial theologies and less influential brands of liberation theology. There have been theologies that have engendered violence and theologies that have engendered compassion. There have been theologies that create fear and manifest themselves in frightful ways; there have been theologies that foster mutuality, which take shape in cooperative relationships. But there has never been a conclusive theology, no final articulation of the divine, no one portrayal of God that has any “right” to trump another. Theology is a mess of exerted attempts to calculate and/or incarnate God. It’s a mess of options that render themselves inspired and/or inspirational. It’s a mess that isn’t (and has never been) sorted by one sort of authoritative declaration or another. Church councils have tried, but there’s always someone who eventually pushes back. Empires and nations do their best but don’t manage. Scripture – even if it were agreed upon what’s in and what’s out, what is and what isn’t sacred text – as it turns out is too slick to nail to the door of dogma in any final rendition.

I don’t think this is a problem. Have you ever cleaned out rain gutters? Your fingernails get all grimy. Accomplishing the task requires a certain disregard for cleanliness (as well as an affinity for perching at the edge of dangerous heights). You have to dig in with both hands and scoop out the decomposing mess (and risk a fall) to get the flow back.

That’s what I’ve learned about theology too. Both hands. Risky business.

Some theologians – professional and lay alike – would sooner not process the mess of theology. I’m not sure what motivates them to maintain that God is a tidy subject and that God-talk ought to be a sterile practice. Acknowledging the mess is helpful for me because it frees me from the paranoia that comes with trying to keep clean. Theology isn’t a practice of propriety. It never has been.

A lot of contemporary concepts of God are clogging the outlets of creativity in people’s lives. It's kind of pointless to be dainty with the God-clot when what you’re after is God-flow. Carefully pinching away twigs and soggy leaves won’t cut it. Instead: one handful of the mess after another, freeing the gutter from guarded doctrines that have proven themselves to be obstacles to the vital, fluid, forceful flow of a refreshing God.

And yeah, we'll have to clean it out again later. Theological job security I suppose.

reading: Beyond Monotheism

Naomi Shihab Nye:

Some start out
with a big story
that shrinks.
Some stories accumulate power
like a sky gathering clouds,
quietly, quietly,
till the story rains around you.

Laurel Schneider:
When did the stories of God become a story of totality, of a closed system, of a One? To what corner of human longing does the story of the One belong? As the motors of fundamentalism in all of the religions of One God race on the fuel of battered bodies and broken hearts, the logic of the One chokes on itself like a stone in the mouth. The story of the One denies fleshiness and the stubborn shiftiness of bodies; it cannot abide ambiguities and unfinished business; it cannot speak syllables of earth. But in its failures are openings, for there are always gaps in the story of the One, fissures that widen and crumble at the edges... The story of the One cannot, finally, achieve the still point that it pretends to crave; the very stones cry out.

John Rajchman:
the whole is not given, and things are always starting up again in the middle, falling together in another, looser way... one thus has nothing of the sense of a well-planned itinerary; on the contrary, one is taken on a sort of conceptual trip for which there pre-exists no map.

compassion

moving meaning

Kristin, Keith, Ashley, Jeffrey, and Kari thank you for your help! I turned the paper in last night and I feel great about it. I was delighted with the thoroughness, openness, and depth of your responses. It's an honor to consider each of you a peer and a colleague in this whirly, twirly pursuit of meaning.

I won't bother to confound you with my brilliant analysis of the distinctions and similarities between Structuralist Criticism and Deconstructive Criticism, which more or less comprised the first bits of my paper (let me know if you want a copy and I can email one to you). But I would like to share the conclusion of my paper. Hopefully it will make some sense, even though it's out of context:

It is a dangerous reality that a text, which is considered to be sacred and authoritative by a community, may be used to harm people inside and outside of that community. The selective deafness of a community to particular members, usually the marginalized minorities, will result in a perceived consensus that fails to recognize the concerns of those whose voices are silenced. This is a difficult reality to grapple with. The Christian community has continuously participated in this reality when engaging the biblical text. This is made apparent and contended with by many necessary disciplines, such as Feminist and Post-colonial studies, Queer theory, and Liberation theology (amongst others). Many people from the margins of the Church are pushing their way to the pulpit, demanding the movement of the Bible’s meaning in ways that will alleviate them from inaccurate stigmas. Others scrap the text or leave one community for another that has reached a more welcoming consensus. And there are others who continue to be subjected to the harsh reality of harmful readings of the Bible. It is a responsible thing to do, because of this last group, to challenge not only the specific meanings that those communities are adhering to but also the absolutism that allows them to hold their stance.

This does not require that all religious conviction regarding a sacred text be discarded or that critical rhetoric needs to be adopted. There are other ways to articulate the complex relationship between a community and its sacred text that remain honest about the possibility of the movement of meaning. For instance, Christians embracing the Bible as their sacred text may perceive it as “unchangeable but alive”. The paradox of that statement honors the mysterious nature of religious sensibilities while also acknowledging that the Bible, with its relatively unchanging script, can be engaged as an interactive force in the community. A Christian may find it challenging to be exposed to the suggestion that the meaning of the Bible, even one portion of the Bible, is not fixed. But there are options of adaptation for that Christian. There are ways that they may become open to a flexible understanding of the structure of meaning in the Bible without having to relinquish their religious identity. The situation of marginalized members of a Christian community who wish to remain part of that community as holistically engaged individuals is more sober. Without a communal flexibility of understanding, marginalized members of that community must choose to remain truly themselves – unorthodox, homosexual, female, dark-skinned – and release their religious identity. Or they must choose to suppress their selfhood in order to retain a sense of religious belonging. This need not be the case. Trustworthy structures are built to flex for the safety of those who find sanctuary in them.

needed: comments from the faithful

Calling all people of faith. Specifically people of faith in the Bible. It doesn't much matter to me what sort of faith in the Bible you have, but I need people who consider it a special text, in one way or another. (Some of you may think it's inspired, others that it's inspiring. If you think it's completely archaic and entirely dull then tune out for this post... but tune back in for all subsequent posts. You are still welcome here.)

I have an assignment for one of my Bible classes coming up, and I need your help. This is your chance to contribute to graduate level work in the field of religious studies. Do not pass this up! Whether you know me personally or not, whether you do it anonymously or not, respond to this post with a comment. Okay? Okay!

Here's what I need, it's simple: I'm reading a book (it's called Judges and Method, if you're interested) that contains a sampling of several relatively new approaches to biblical study and interpretation. One of the things that the content and the structure of the book implies is that there are in fact several different ways that a person can approach the biblical text. That there is not just one way to read or interpret the Bible.

I'll be writing a paper on the book and one of the questions I'm dealing with is this: Given the fact that so many readers of the Bible are people of faith who come to it expecting a single, clear "word" or message; and given the fact that many people expect scholars to tell them what the biblical text "really meant," how do you think most people of faith would respond to the exposure of such a range of approaches?

So what do you think? I need you to be honest, and I want a broad range of opinions... so lay it on think. How/what do you feel about the concept that there might be a range of approaches to the Bible? that there may not be one fixed meaning to any given biblical text?

(PS - If any of you who think that the Bible is entirely dull ended up disregarding my initial caveat and you're still reading this post - you should read the book of Judges and see if that doesn't cause you to reconsider... it's totally wild, not for the faint of heart.)

whirling

Just finished watching Occupation 101, a documentary that engages the Israeli/Palestinian conflict from an angle not typically covered by popular media. It opens with a quote by Stephen Hawking, "The greatest enemy of knowledge is not ignorance, it is the illusion of knowledge." And it proceeds from there to recount the layers of complex tragedy that have steadily accrued in Israel/Palestine within the past several decades.

I will be traveling to Israel/Palestine with a group of students, professors, and peace activists in January. The trip for me will be an attempt to continue to dispel personal ignorance regarding the complex religious, social, and political issues that pervade the pocket of the globe commonly referred to as The Holy Land. I also hope to contribute to a more accurate (less delusional) understanding of what has and is contributing to the conflict. In my sphere of influence, my conversations and interactions, the extension of my voice, I want to be honest and hopeful.

Honesty and hope don't always go hand in hand on our whirling twirling globe. But let's try.

pro-carnal

Albert Mohler wrote an article about whether or not [his type of] Christians should practice yoga. His conclusion was not surprising, since [his style of] Christianity is radically challenged by the pluralistic ethos of the global culture today. As a representative of sequestered Christianity he concluded that yoga is not an appropriate practice for those wishing to maintain [his particular brand of] a Christian identity.

Again, no big surprise. And I'm doubtful that his article will do much to dissuade committed yoga practitioners, even Christian ones. Most practitioners are convinced of the sanctity of yoga because it functions. They don't need approval from the Christian aristocracy. Yoga is fine, and Mohler is fighting a losing battle (against a bunch of fit pacifists) to suggest otherwise.

I'm more concerned with implications that Mohler made about core Christian teaching and his apparent ignorance of traditional Christian practices. His audience has shallow roots in the world of yoga, but plenty of Christians would have heeded his words that:

"Christians are not called to empty the mind or to see the human body as a means of connecting to and coming to know the divine. Believers are called to meditate upon the Word of God — an external Word that comes to us by divine revelation — not to meditate by means of incomprehensible syllables."

Mohler's limited and noxious understanding of yoga aside, he's denying something key to Christianity here. And as a current student of the early church fathers I can be quite certain that, though they may concur that yoga is eccentric, they would rip Mohler's anti-body sentiments into tiny shreds and scatter them over a Docetistic grave. Christianity is all about the body.

As a progressive Christian who is fully confident that he's got nothing on yoga I'm willing to sidestep his offensive and untoward attitude about it. But don't mess with the incarnation.

be kind

Gregory & Jesus

Last week I wrote a paper summarizing Gregory of Nyssa's work: The Great Catechism. In it I found a striking quote, one of my favorite Christian exclamations to date:

"The labyrinth of this our life cannot be threaded by the faculties of human nature unless a [human] pursues that same path as he did who, though once in it, yet got beyond the difficulties which hemmed him in."

This was Gregory's argument. This was Gregory's perception of the necessity of God's having been incarnate in Jesus at a crucial point in history. It is a perception, an argument, an exclamation that I find engage-able.

The labyrinth of this our life cannot be threaded by the faculties of human nature unless...

Unless we follow in the way, the style of life, of one who limns the crux in reality where divinity and humanity intermingle.