This is the first Sunday in I don't remember how long that I haven't spent most of the day working on something that needed doing right then. The book went to the printer (hopefully for the last time) on Thursday, the laundry got done, I got the cat food on Friday, and yesterday I mowed and mopped the floors, did the dishes and several other domestic duties that I'd put off because I had to get something done on Ginger's book. Not that I minded, really; it was fun for the most part but still a stressor that may or may not be completely finished, depending on whether the proof copy looks good. Anyway, there not being much to do in that direction I took today off from just about everything.
I got up today at the usual time of 5:30. My alarm goes off Monday - Friday at that hour but the fur-footers seem to think on any day of the week any time after about 4:30 am is borrowed time and they are going to starve to death if they can't get me rousted from the bed as early as possible. Today I refused to be cajoled, bullied, or forced into rising before i was ready (and the boys have some pretty definite ways of getting me out of bed). I got up anyway, fed them, got my first glass of iced tea, read my email and suddenly was so tired I was having trouble staying awake. I gave in. I went back to bed and slept until nearly 9.
I got up for about 3 hours and darned if I didn't feel the need of another nap, this time only a 2-hour one. I did get up and get enough energy to cook up a pot of squash (they were on sale this week, thank you, God!) with bacon and onions for my meal and read the online manual for the Kindle which hopefully will appear tomorrow. Other than that, I've done just about nothing.
I guess I was a lot more tired and stressed than I knew. Sure, I take a nap every possible day but there's been a lot of stress in my life lately and even with the naps there have been strings of nights when I haven't slept well, wakened early and didn't do more than lightly doze until the alarm clock went off -- or a cat had a hairball.
It brought to mind a discussion we had at our mentor's training session last weekend, namely how to actually observe a sabbath. Sure, most folks go to church on Sunday (some on Saturday night) and that is what they consider their Sabbath "duty". The rest of the day is spent in recreation -- picnics, playing in the pool with the kids, watching the Cubs lose yet again (Lord, how have they offended thee to cause so many losses over so many years?) or hoping the Redskins or anybody who plays Dallas wins. We also do the chores we didn't have time for on Saturday because Susie had to go to gymnastics or Bobby had soccer, if he didn't have to play on Sunday morning. By Monday we're still tired and not really ready to head back to the office for another week of work before repeating the process again and again.
Genesis tells us that on the seventh day God rested. I wonder what God did on that day since the Cubs, soccer, swimming pools, trips to visit Grandma and playing golf hadn't been invented yet? I'm sure it wasn't laundry, getting groceries, cleaning the bathroom, or even spending time answering emails and trying to figure out what needs to be done on Monday much less ordering the flowers to bloom, ensuring the lions were playing nicely with the lambs, the natural laws set in place were working and everything was being fruitful and multiplying like they were supposed to do.
Jesus told us that "the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath" (Mark 2:27). The synagogue officials we heard in the Gospel last week certainly didn't dig that; after all, no less than God Almighty had written it in stone that people were to "Remember the Sabbath day" (Genesis 20:8) and, by the Eternal, they were going to make sure people did, even the upstart teacher who presumed to heal a bent-over old woman ON THE SABBATH IN THE SYNAGOGUE ITSELF!!
Which brings my thoughts back to the discussion. It was easy to think of places were we "do" ministry of various types --- at church, with the scouts or civic groups, etc. We even do ministry at the office, the golf course, even at times in the grocery line (including the 15-item-or-less lane where someone is bound to have at least 22 items to check out). The one place we forget to observe the Sabbath is within ourselves. We forget that we are duty-bound to minister to ourselves if we are to be able to minister to others in whatever manner we are called to do so. We have to take time for ourselves, even if the world says that's horribly selfish of us.
Today has seemed like a pretty long day, truth be told. Still, I feel a bit more rested than usual, a little more ready to face the slog tomorrow -- and the day after, and the day after that, etc. In fact, I think I will turn off the tv, the computer and hopefully the cats and go to bed early. And I may try that a little more often in days to come. I've found that if I don't minister to me, it won't get done. I'm worth it and God sort of expects it.
Whether the Sabbath is Saturday, Sunday or even ten minutes in the middle of a busy Tuesday, the Sabbath was made for me, not me for it. So long as I thank God for giving me the day, the hour, the minutes to take a breather, recharge my batteries a bit, then I am obeying the 4th Commandment and doing what Jesus said.
Now off to observe some Sabbath time. Goodnight and God bless.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
The woman with the Bent Back
And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, "Woman, you are set free from your ailment." When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.--Luke 13:11-13
The story begins with Jesus teaching in the synagogue. That's cool; that was a job that was permitted on the sabbath, unlike things like cooking, cleaning, doing farm work and what have you. You could be kind and move your livestock to water and feed them so long as you didn't have to light a fire and cook the food.
Enter a woman, most likely an older woman, one who most probably had no husband, son, brother, father or other male relative to look after and escort her out in public. There isn't even a mention of a slave accompanying her. We don't even get to know her name other than the description "woman with the bent back." Of course, there are many other stories of unnamed women -- Jarius' daughter, the woman with the hemorrhage, the Syrophoenician woman, the woman with the alabaster jar, the woman at the well, the unnamed followers of Jesus who along with Mary Magdalene supported Jesus and his ministry. The woman with the bent back is another in the cast around whom pivotal deeds and teachings swirled and appeared.
If you saw this woman walking around you would see that it wasn't easy to move when bent over like a human question mark. She had been bent this way for eighteen years, a number that is represented by the letters of the word chai, Hebrew for "life." It must have been a hard life but she coped as best she could even to walking to the synagogue to worship on the sabbath as the law commanded.
I wonder what she thought when Jesus summoned her to him in the synagogue. To be summoned by a male stranger, even a teacher, was almost as unheard-of as a Jewish woman with male relatives or even male servants walking around in public. Was she startled? Afraid of what the teacher might say or denounce? Anxious that she would be singled out even more than her deformity already did? Curious to hear what he wanted? Wanting badly to run away but being totally unable to do so? In think perhaps all these ran through her mind in the space of a heartbeat or two. Still, she did as Jesus asked and approached him, probably with fear and trembling and perhaps resignation because I doubt seriously that she had any hope of anything in her life changing substantially.
What a surprise she got. For the first time in eighteen years she could stand erect. Muscles that had been cramped and bones that had been twisted straightened in a flash. For the first time in eighteen years she could see not just people's feet but their faces and eyes. perhaps it was a mercy not to have seen them when she was in her former shape; it might have caused more grief had she known of the glares of distaste for a handicapped person to dare to be seen in public, the quick glances of pity and the upraised looks of "Thank God I am not like that one!" At any rate, here she was, standing tall and proud, cane or staff tossed aside and hands raised in thank giving to God as the officials turned their backs and berated the one who, through the power and mercy of God, did the deed that set the woman free. The synagogue officials overlooked that entirely; they were too busy pointing fingers and proclaiming the unrighteousness and sabbath-dishonoring of someone who dared do a healing on the sabbath instead of waiting decently until the next day. They left God out of the equation in their attempt to protect God and the laws God had given on Sinai.
Jesus cured the woman's bent body, restored it to health and functionality. People with disabilities and deformities are still present in society yet many of us avert our eyes or move slightly away as if it were some kind of contagion we must avoid. In that way we're not really much different than the people on the street the woman with the bent back passed so many centuries ago. To the ancients, and even to some modern people, such illnesses and deformities are manifestations of sinfulness and unclean-ness. If only they believed, if only they acknowledged their sins, if only they said the right words everything would be made right and all would be well. Jesus didn't ask for her conversion first before healing her, though. He didn't ask for her acknowledgment of sin before she could be cured. Instead he put love of God and love of neighbor ahead of purity laws and even the literal reading of the commandment to "Remember the sabbath day to keep it holy."
Sometimes doing good is a more important -- and more holy -- sabbath act than sitting in church and listening to sermons about how to obey the law. Somehow an act that appears to be work on a day dedicated to rest, re-creation, restoration and reverence can be a response that enables another to experience the mercy and grace of God. Perhaps something done with kindness and attentiveness to a need can change another's whole life, even if done on the sabbath.
Just ask the woman with the formerly-bent back.
The story begins with Jesus teaching in the synagogue. That's cool; that was a job that was permitted on the sabbath, unlike things like cooking, cleaning, doing farm work and what have you. You could be kind and move your livestock to water and feed them so long as you didn't have to light a fire and cook the food.
Enter a woman, most likely an older woman, one who most probably had no husband, son, brother, father or other male relative to look after and escort her out in public. There isn't even a mention of a slave accompanying her. We don't even get to know her name other than the description "woman with the bent back." Of course, there are many other stories of unnamed women -- Jarius' daughter, the woman with the hemorrhage, the Syrophoenician woman, the woman with the alabaster jar, the woman at the well, the unnamed followers of Jesus who along with Mary Magdalene supported Jesus and his ministry. The woman with the bent back is another in the cast around whom pivotal deeds and teachings swirled and appeared.
If you saw this woman walking around you would see that it wasn't easy to move when bent over like a human question mark. She had been bent this way for eighteen years, a number that is represented by the letters of the word chai, Hebrew for "life." It must have been a hard life but she coped as best she could even to walking to the synagogue to worship on the sabbath as the law commanded.
I wonder what she thought when Jesus summoned her to him in the synagogue. To be summoned by a male stranger, even a teacher, was almost as unheard-of as a Jewish woman with male relatives or even male servants walking around in public. Was she startled? Afraid of what the teacher might say or denounce? Anxious that she would be singled out even more than her deformity already did? Curious to hear what he wanted? Wanting badly to run away but being totally unable to do so? In think perhaps all these ran through her mind in the space of a heartbeat or two. Still, she did as Jesus asked and approached him, probably with fear and trembling and perhaps resignation because I doubt seriously that she had any hope of anything in her life changing substantially.
What a surprise she got. For the first time in eighteen years she could stand erect. Muscles that had been cramped and bones that had been twisted straightened in a flash. For the first time in eighteen years she could see not just people's feet but their faces and eyes. perhaps it was a mercy not to have seen them when she was in her former shape; it might have caused more grief had she known of the glares of distaste for a handicapped person to dare to be seen in public, the quick glances of pity and the upraised looks of "Thank God I am not like that one!" At any rate, here she was, standing tall and proud, cane or staff tossed aside and hands raised in thank giving to God as the officials turned their backs and berated the one who, through the power and mercy of God, did the deed that set the woman free. The synagogue officials overlooked that entirely; they were too busy pointing fingers and proclaiming the unrighteousness and sabbath-dishonoring of someone who dared do a healing on the sabbath instead of waiting decently until the next day. They left God out of the equation in their attempt to protect God and the laws God had given on Sinai.
Jesus cured the woman's bent body, restored it to health and functionality. People with disabilities and deformities are still present in society yet many of us avert our eyes or move slightly away as if it were some kind of contagion we must avoid. In that way we're not really much different than the people on the street the woman with the bent back passed so many centuries ago. To the ancients, and even to some modern people, such illnesses and deformities are manifestations of sinfulness and unclean-ness. If only they believed, if only they acknowledged their sins, if only they said the right words everything would be made right and all would be well. Jesus didn't ask for her conversion first before healing her, though. He didn't ask for her acknowledgment of sin before she could be cured. Instead he put love of God and love of neighbor ahead of purity laws and even the literal reading of the commandment to "Remember the sabbath day to keep it holy."
Sometimes doing good is a more important -- and more holy -- sabbath act than sitting in church and listening to sermons about how to obey the law. Somehow an act that appears to be work on a day dedicated to rest, re-creation, restoration and reverence can be a response that enables another to experience the mercy and grace of God. Perhaps something done with kindness and attentiveness to a need can change another's whole life, even if done on the sabbath.
Just ask the woman with the formerly-bent back.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Coming down from the mountain
I've been home a little less than three hours from a training session for EfM mentors that started on Thursday at 2pm and wound up today (Saturday) at 2pm. we spent 18 hours in class, learning how to do administrative stuff, figuring out how to do theological reflections and common lessons so that we as mentors are not teachers but guides, practicing new skills and even familiar ones in new applications and situations, and in general talking about God, theology, and service. not a bad way to spend time over three consecutive days.
Now comes another phase of the work --- processing what I have learned, organizing and filing all the handouts and materials and notes, and starting to get ready for the next year's sessions. There's always an excitement about beginning a new year of EfM, visiting a different set of common lessons, preparing materials and formats for reflections, preparing the mind to switch gears from student in training to mentor in class.
Still, the aura of the training sessions haven't worn off yet. People I didn't know from Adam's puppy dog Thursday at 2pm are people I have things in common with, people I've shared meals and activities with, people with whom I've shared worship in various forms including a Eucharist. We may never be bosom buddies and, in fact, I may never see most of them again (although I've learned never to say "never") but the hugs, the laughs, the sharing of stuff that really matters to all of us brought us together and bound us together with ties as fine as spider silk but as strong as our commitment to the program.
So now to work. Well, maybe not right this minute or even this evening. I still want to mentally process being home again after coming down from the mountain (ok, maybe only a hundred or so feet higher in altitude but you know what I mean) and think about what I've learned, experienced and received.
And I can't wait to begin to work through some of the stuff that seemed so incomprehensible just a day or two ago. First, though, I need some Sabbath time.
Thank you, God, for this program, those who work with it, those who train the workers, the students who are embarking on a period of serious study, and for the chance to be part of it all.
Now comes another phase of the work --- processing what I have learned, organizing and filing all the handouts and materials and notes, and starting to get ready for the next year's sessions. There's always an excitement about beginning a new year of EfM, visiting a different set of common lessons, preparing materials and formats for reflections, preparing the mind to switch gears from student in training to mentor in class.
Still, the aura of the training sessions haven't worn off yet. People I didn't know from Adam's puppy dog Thursday at 2pm are people I have things in common with, people I've shared meals and activities with, people with whom I've shared worship in various forms including a Eucharist. We may never be bosom buddies and, in fact, I may never see most of them again (although I've learned never to say "never") but the hugs, the laughs, the sharing of stuff that really matters to all of us brought us together and bound us together with ties as fine as spider silk but as strong as our commitment to the program.
So now to work. Well, maybe not right this minute or even this evening. I still want to mentally process being home again after coming down from the mountain (ok, maybe only a hundred or so feet higher in altitude but you know what I mean) and think about what I've learned, experienced and received.
And I can't wait to begin to work through some of the stuff that seemed so incomprehensible just a day or two ago. First, though, I need some Sabbath time.
Thank you, God, for this program, those who work with it, those who train the workers, the students who are embarking on a period of serious study, and for the chance to be part of it all.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
When I say "I believe..."
This afternoon I spent some time studying, something I haven't had a lot of time to do lately. It felt good to put that particular harness back on, even for a little while. It will be good to get EfM started again this fall because that will give me a focus and impetus to spend more time doing something I dearly love doing -- studying. Too bad I didn't find studying in college as much fun and as interesting but better late than never, I guess.
This year there's a very challenging common lesson on "Mapping Your Theology." It asks the student to examine various categories and to think about their beliefs, how they came by those beliefs, what the beliefs mean and a whole bunch of other stuff. It can be fairly daunting but it's also enlightening. I'm glad I've got my previous work to fall back on but also glad I have more experience under my belt as I tackle it yet again. It won't be on the class radar screen for months but I believe in getting things done early (except for housework, that is).
At church we recite the creeds, the "I believe" and "we believe" statements of faith that form a framework of our faith. It's kind of easy to use the words as a guide without really stopping to think what it is exactly we mean when we say "I believe in God," etc.
"I believe" is the result of a lot of factors: what my culture thinks and how it presents me with options, my tradition (yes, the "faith once delivered to the saints", whatever that may mean in a given situation or faith community) gives me what our common history has contributed to what I believe and how; what my experience and reason tells me about what I think, perceive, understand; and where I stand in relation to all these and how it all comes together in how I think and practice my faith.
This isn't one of the easier exercises. If anything, it's an experience in frustration and head-banging, sort of like going through labor pains. It hurts like hell at times, there are periods of relative calm in between but at the end there's a feeling of accomplishment, satisfaction and, yes, insight. Working through this is like the difference between babysitting your brother or neighbor's kids and actually going through a birth process and having your own child put in your arms for the first time. And with the "I believe" exercises, the process repeats with each topic -- God, Jesus, the Spirit, the Trinity, the Church, Evil, etc.,
I can recite both the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds by memory but now I'm learning what it is precisely I'm "giving my assent to", as "believe" is often translated. For every head-whack there's also a corresponding "Aha!" Oy, what a journey! But you know, I can't think of a better journey to be on right now.
This year there's a very challenging common lesson on "Mapping Your Theology." It asks the student to examine various categories and to think about their beliefs, how they came by those beliefs, what the beliefs mean and a whole bunch of other stuff. It can be fairly daunting but it's also enlightening. I'm glad I've got my previous work to fall back on but also glad I have more experience under my belt as I tackle it yet again. It won't be on the class radar screen for months but I believe in getting things done early (except for housework, that is).
At church we recite the creeds, the "I believe" and "we believe" statements of faith that form a framework of our faith. It's kind of easy to use the words as a guide without really stopping to think what it is exactly we mean when we say "I believe in God," etc.
"I believe" is the result of a lot of factors: what my culture thinks and how it presents me with options, my tradition (yes, the "faith once delivered to the saints", whatever that may mean in a given situation or faith community) gives me what our common history has contributed to what I believe and how; what my experience and reason tells me about what I think, perceive, understand; and where I stand in relation to all these and how it all comes together in how I think and practice my faith.
This isn't one of the easier exercises. If anything, it's an experience in frustration and head-banging, sort of like going through labor pains. It hurts like hell at times, there are periods of relative calm in between but at the end there's a feeling of accomplishment, satisfaction and, yes, insight. Working through this is like the difference between babysitting your brother or neighbor's kids and actually going through a birth process and having your own child put in your arms for the first time. And with the "I believe" exercises, the process repeats with each topic -- God, Jesus, the Spirit, the Trinity, the Church, Evil, etc.,
I can recite both the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds by memory but now I'm learning what it is precisely I'm "giving my assent to", as "believe" is often translated. For every head-whack there's also a corresponding "Aha!" Oy, what a journey! But you know, I can't think of a better journey to be on right now.
Monday, August 2, 2010
When Church Hurts
There is a lot of talk this week about author Anne Rice quitting Christianity because of all its hostility, backward-looking and anti- any number of stances on issues she believes are not only important but integral to the true practice of Christianity. All the disputes, hypocrisy, the stubbornly clinging to the status quo which might have been appropriate in previous centuries (or even milennia), the negativity towards those who do not practice the kind of Christianity that restricts women, GLBT folk, Democrats, secular humanists, those who believe in science, etc., have been the wedges between her and the church although not, as she says, between her and God and Christ. In short, the Church has become a club of like-minded folk rather than a place where one is met where one is rather than the place where someone else thinks they should be.
It's hard not to be disillusioned with the church sometimes. For every story about individual churches, parishes and congregations reaching out to the communities in which they live, move and have their being, there's usually one about how Christianity is being lost to non-believers who don't accept "the faith once delivered," who believe in science instead of just scripture and who are so certain who and what it is that God hates --- which usually looks very much like the people that group find so distasteful. God can be so convenient sometimes.
But churches can hurt in other ways. I remember my adoptive mother and the Babdist (as we pronounce it) church back home. She'd been a member of the women's Sunday school class, one of the flower ladies and took her turn chopping up the white bread cubes and filling the little glasses with grape juice for communion once a month, not to mention making countless angel appurtenances like robes, wings and halos for the Christmas pageant and countless cookies and gallons of fruit punch for the Vacation Bible School students every summer. That is, until she got so ill she could no longer get to church much less contribute in her usual and accustomed manner. I went into her room one afternoon and found her crying, something I seldom if ever saw her do no matter how much her pain and frustration with her situation caused her. When I asked what was wrong, she told me several women from her Sunday School class had come to visit and had asked if she minded having her name removed from the rolls because her continued absence was bringing down the average attendance! Even my middle school-aged self could hear, see and understand that numbers were more important to the group than the cord that bound a sick and homebound (or, increasingly hospital-bound) soul to her faith community. Sure, the preacher visited. After all, he'd been an unofficial member of our family for longer than I'd been around but the hurt never left. I saw those same women every Sunday and they were present at her funeral a few years later. I knew them to be decent, kindly women but I also saw the hypocrisy and hurtfulness they caused.
My adoptive father too was very active in the church -- as a deacon (the elected kind, elected to a specific period of service), church Treasurer, taking his turn at maintenance and cleanup, etc., etc., etc. I don't remember so much the specific incident that caused him to leave the church but it hurt that he didn't feel he could even come to hear me sing solos or participate in the Christmas play. What hurt even more was that from my place in the choir I could look out the window and see the front of my house and knew that Daddy was in the kitchen reading the paper while I sang about God's grace and glory. He reconciled with the church at some point but for years he spent Sundays doing other things because he just couldn't face the church that had hurt him and hurt his beloved wife.
I too have left a church I loved and which i still believe in. Oh, not the Church but rather the congregation in which I no longer feel a part. I've felt the hurt that a church can lay on someone and I've seen it happen to others as well. Church has often become more about money contributed and numbers rather than the virtues expounded from the pulpit and to solemn nods in the pews but laid aside in the sacristy and the narthex. Looking at the news of ecclesiastical misbehavior, abuse of and even encouragement of abuse of children, women, GLBT folk, even other Christians, it's not hard to lose heart and lose faith in the institutional church at the parish level as well as the Communion and Papal levels.
I have no doubt of my faith in God, in Christ, in the Holy Spirit, but most days I struggle with doubt when it comes to the Church. I can't divorce the Church as Anne Rice has. All I can do is pray that this is just a temporary separation and that one day I can have faith and trust in it again. I'll keep struggling until then.
It's hard not to be disillusioned with the church sometimes. For every story about individual churches, parishes and congregations reaching out to the communities in which they live, move and have their being, there's usually one about how Christianity is being lost to non-believers who don't accept "the faith once delivered," who believe in science instead of just scripture and who are so certain who and what it is that God hates --- which usually looks very much like the people that group find so distasteful. God can be so convenient sometimes.
But churches can hurt in other ways. I remember my adoptive mother and the Babdist (as we pronounce it) church back home. She'd been a member of the women's Sunday school class, one of the flower ladies and took her turn chopping up the white bread cubes and filling the little glasses with grape juice for communion once a month, not to mention making countless angel appurtenances like robes, wings and halos for the Christmas pageant and countless cookies and gallons of fruit punch for the Vacation Bible School students every summer. That is, until she got so ill she could no longer get to church much less contribute in her usual and accustomed manner. I went into her room one afternoon and found her crying, something I seldom if ever saw her do no matter how much her pain and frustration with her situation caused her. When I asked what was wrong, she told me several women from her Sunday School class had come to visit and had asked if she minded having her name removed from the rolls because her continued absence was bringing down the average attendance! Even my middle school-aged self could hear, see and understand that numbers were more important to the group than the cord that bound a sick and homebound (or, increasingly hospital-bound) soul to her faith community. Sure, the preacher visited. After all, he'd been an unofficial member of our family for longer than I'd been around but the hurt never left. I saw those same women every Sunday and they were present at her funeral a few years later. I knew them to be decent, kindly women but I also saw the hypocrisy and hurtfulness they caused.
My adoptive father too was very active in the church -- as a deacon (the elected kind, elected to a specific period of service), church Treasurer, taking his turn at maintenance and cleanup, etc., etc., etc. I don't remember so much the specific incident that caused him to leave the church but it hurt that he didn't feel he could even come to hear me sing solos or participate in the Christmas play. What hurt even more was that from my place in the choir I could look out the window and see the front of my house and knew that Daddy was in the kitchen reading the paper while I sang about God's grace and glory. He reconciled with the church at some point but for years he spent Sundays doing other things because he just couldn't face the church that had hurt him and hurt his beloved wife.
I too have left a church I loved and which i still believe in. Oh, not the Church but rather the congregation in which I no longer feel a part. I've felt the hurt that a church can lay on someone and I've seen it happen to others as well. Church has often become more about money contributed and numbers rather than the virtues expounded from the pulpit and to solemn nods in the pews but laid aside in the sacristy and the narthex. Looking at the news of ecclesiastical misbehavior, abuse of and even encouragement of abuse of children, women, GLBT folk, even other Christians, it's not hard to lose heart and lose faith in the institutional church at the parish level as well as the Communion and Papal levels.
I have no doubt of my faith in God, in Christ, in the Holy Spirit, but most days I struggle with doubt when it comes to the Church. I can't divorce the Church as Anne Rice has. All I can do is pray that this is just a temporary separation and that one day I can have faith and trust in it again. I'll keep struggling until then.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
A New Word
I have coined a new word. I think it's rather lovely.
Enstiflement.
Enstiflement is being in a place where original thought or questioning is unwelcome. It is also the process of blanketing people with enough b***s*** that they are incapable of original thought, independent action or, in the most severe cases, even caring to do either.
The enstifle-r feels entitled to do so; they believe it is it is their right as employers, heads of families or groups, clergy or government officials. Their reasoning is that they are doing what is best for the family, group, church, country, constituents, students, employees, even homeless people and immigrants.
The enstifle-e is the person trying to get by, to make a living, to take care of the family, follow the rules, do the best job possible and trust in God and those entrusted with overseeing the health, safety and well-being of others physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. The enstifle-e may see something wrong and try to fix it but is met with rebuffs and stone walls.
now the big question to consider -- in what ways and places am I an enstifle-r and in which ones an enstifle-e? What do I need to change? How do I change it? What are the positives and negatives of such changes for me, for those around me, for the world?
Something to think about this hot, muggy morning.
Enstiflement.
Enstiflement is being in a place where original thought or questioning is unwelcome. It is also the process of blanketing people with enough b***s*** that they are incapable of original thought, independent action or, in the most severe cases, even caring to do either.
The enstifle-r feels entitled to do so; they believe it is it is their right as employers, heads of families or groups, clergy or government officials. Their reasoning is that they are doing what is best for the family, group, church, country, constituents, students, employees, even homeless people and immigrants.
The enstifle-e is the person trying to get by, to make a living, to take care of the family, follow the rules, do the best job possible and trust in God and those entrusted with overseeing the health, safety and well-being of others physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. The enstifle-e may see something wrong and try to fix it but is met with rebuffs and stone walls.
now the big question to consider -- in what ways and places am I an enstifle-r and in which ones an enstifle-e? What do I need to change? How do I change it? What are the positives and negatives of such changes for me, for those around me, for the world?
Something to think about this hot, muggy morning.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Hmmmm....
h/t to Mark Harris. now to find out who this person is and what he/she writes like (I confess, I never heard Cory Doctorow nor read any of his/her books.) At least it didn't say Elizabeth Schussler-Fiorenza or Augustine of Hippo!
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Thoughts on the Death Penalty, DNA and Faith
I was sorting through papers the other day, looking for something or other when I ran into two pieces of paper with an essay on it. there was no title, no date. I looked through my computer files but couldn't find it. I have also been unable to locate the source of the report although I can find references to the subject.
If it's yours, please claim it. I'm posting it becuase it feels like something I'd want to put here on my blog. It's a good essay. I hope I wrote it.
There has been report in the recent past that the rate of utilization of the death penalty by various states has reduced over the past few years because there as a decrease in the number of violent crime. I can’t believe that is so; I would hope that the use of the death penalty was due to people realizing that having the state take a human life is a form of revenge and removes the responsibility from us for taking that life, even though what that person might have done might be heinous, depraved and almost impossible to contemplate much less understand.
The EfM lesson this week dealt with science, particularly physics, and what the changes in many of the sciences have meant to humanity over the past 100-150 years. The Human Genome Project has worked to classify the genes that make up our DNA with the ultimate goal being to find diseases that are genetically related and by which gene manipulation could cure. It is a far cry from that of our grandparents and their parents who frequently lost children to diseases and genetic abnormalities and whose only comfort were the words, “Well, I must be God’s will.” Perhaps God’s will has a place in it but I don’t know that that sentiment is much comfort go grieving parents or even really the whole truth.
With the discovery that DNA not only exists but can be used as an identifier not just of disease but of the existence of a specific individual has been phenomenal. I believe that one of the main reasons that the death penalty referred to above has been less enacted of late is that DNA has proven that some on Death Row are innocent of the crimes for which the inmate was given the death penalty. Some will say that it is better to execute one innocent person rather than abolish the death penalty and allow murderers, rapists and the like to live out their lives and possibly achieve parole somewhere down the road. It is better to kill one innocent person than to let a guilty one escape.
Oddly, most of the states where the death penalty is not only given but actually carried out with some regularity (more than, say, once a year) are states known for their very conservative, Republican, Protestant, Evangelical majorities. States like Texas, Florida, Virginia, Georgia and South Carolina accounted for the overwhelming majority of executions in 2008.
Science has even played a part in how the death penalty is carried out. Firing squads and hanging used to be major means of executing convicted and sentenced felons until science and medicine revealed the effects of gunshot and botched hangings on individuals and proved them to be “cruel and inhuman punishment.” The gas chamber was a later attempt to execute the convicted but in a more humane method as was the still-later electric chair. Both have proven to be less than 100% humane and sometimes less than effective. The current favored method, lethal injection, is held up as humane and relatively painless, much as it would be for your aged dog or sick cat, but yet I am sure that not all people witnessing such an execution of a human being would find it “just like watching them go to sleep” with no emotional reaction beyond “ok, that’s done.”
Science has given us a number of new ways of seeking and finding truth and alleviating pain and death just as it has created a false sense of human control of life and new ways of causing both pain and death when used as weapons of war or terrorism. It is no wonder that sin in the latter years of the 19th and throughout the 20th century Christians pondered whether all this scientific mumbo jumbo was nothing but a veiled attempt to discredit and remove Christianity from the mixture of science, civic duty and public welfare. This is still the belief in some areas and denominations, and the cries of especially the evangelical and conservative Christians grow louder and more strident as they attempt to defend a world view that has changed within their lifetimes and which all their beliefs into question at times. In a world where science and religion cannot coexist and have both be seen as valid, viable and even complimentary theses and antitheses which are working to create new syntheses, the question remains one of how much is enough and how much is too much? If a butterfly’s wing flaps in Brazil, will the Arctic icecap melt as a result? If Christians accept the theories and discoveries of science and medicine, does that mean that they cannot hold that the Bible and the faith are true and even enriched by deeper understanding, deeper than the superficial “What it says is what it means and that’s all there is to it.”
Science has changed the world, of that there is no doubt. Science has changed religion. We can’t point vaguely to the sky and say that heaven is “Up there somewhere” because pictures produced by science, via the Hubbell Telescope and a number of adventurous little satellites have shown us a universe infinitely large and complex – and beautiful. We can’t say that Adam was created by God out of mud and breath, not literally anyway, although many can and do. We can’t even say with 100% surety that an accused person is guilty of a crime simply because it seems most reasonable to see and prosecute that person based on circumstantial evidence and gut feelings. DNA and the myriad disciplines involved in forensic science have created new levels of test which can confirm guilt – or exonerate the accused.
All this is to say that the world is a place where the perceptions have been shifted because of the advances of science. Religion has had to make a decision: does it accept the findings of science and seek to form a new synthesis from its previous view in light of the new theses or does it reject science and attempt to remain static in a sort of time warp where things were simpler and certain? Different denominations and individuals have pondered this and each has responded as it felt necessary, some rejected much of the science outright and some embraced it wholeheartedly. Ultimately, however, each person must make that decision, as with the death penalty, when they contemplate what it means to be a Christian in the 21st century and how that Christianity can be lived authentically, faithfully, honestly and yet stay true to the gospel imperatives as that person understands them.
There is black, there is white and, for most, there are shades of gray. How all people, including Christians, react to those shades of gray, be they scientific, moral, religious or philosophical, are a test of where their faith and belief lies and how it is practiced.
If it's yours, please claim it. I'm posting it becuase it feels like something I'd want to put here on my blog. It's a good essay. I hope I wrote it.
There has been report in the recent past that the rate of utilization of the death penalty by various states has reduced over the past few years because there as a decrease in the number of violent crime. I can’t believe that is so; I would hope that the use of the death penalty was due to people realizing that having the state take a human life is a form of revenge and removes the responsibility from us for taking that life, even though what that person might have done might be heinous, depraved and almost impossible to contemplate much less understand.
The EfM lesson this week dealt with science, particularly physics, and what the changes in many of the sciences have meant to humanity over the past 100-150 years. The Human Genome Project has worked to classify the genes that make up our DNA with the ultimate goal being to find diseases that are genetically related and by which gene manipulation could cure. It is a far cry from that of our grandparents and their parents who frequently lost children to diseases and genetic abnormalities and whose only comfort were the words, “Well, I must be God’s will.” Perhaps God’s will has a place in it but I don’t know that that sentiment is much comfort go grieving parents or even really the whole truth.
With the discovery that DNA not only exists but can be used as an identifier not just of disease but of the existence of a specific individual has been phenomenal. I believe that one of the main reasons that the death penalty referred to above has been less enacted of late is that DNA has proven that some on Death Row are innocent of the crimes for which the inmate was given the death penalty. Some will say that it is better to execute one innocent person rather than abolish the death penalty and allow murderers, rapists and the like to live out their lives and possibly achieve parole somewhere down the road. It is better to kill one innocent person than to let a guilty one escape.
Oddly, most of the states where the death penalty is not only given but actually carried out with some regularity (more than, say, once a year) are states known for their very conservative, Republican, Protestant, Evangelical majorities. States like Texas, Florida, Virginia, Georgia and South Carolina accounted for the overwhelming majority of executions in 2008.
Science has even played a part in how the death penalty is carried out. Firing squads and hanging used to be major means of executing convicted and sentenced felons until science and medicine revealed the effects of gunshot and botched hangings on individuals and proved them to be “cruel and inhuman punishment.” The gas chamber was a later attempt to execute the convicted but in a more humane method as was the still-later electric chair. Both have proven to be less than 100% humane and sometimes less than effective. The current favored method, lethal injection, is held up as humane and relatively painless, much as it would be for your aged dog or sick cat, but yet I am sure that not all people witnessing such an execution of a human being would find it “just like watching them go to sleep” with no emotional reaction beyond “ok, that’s done.”
Science has given us a number of new ways of seeking and finding truth and alleviating pain and death just as it has created a false sense of human control of life and new ways of causing both pain and death when used as weapons of war or terrorism. It is no wonder that sin in the latter years of the 19th and throughout the 20th century Christians pondered whether all this scientific mumbo jumbo was nothing but a veiled attempt to discredit and remove Christianity from the mixture of science, civic duty and public welfare. This is still the belief in some areas and denominations, and the cries of especially the evangelical and conservative Christians grow louder and more strident as they attempt to defend a world view that has changed within their lifetimes and which all their beliefs into question at times. In a world where science and religion cannot coexist and have both be seen as valid, viable and even complimentary theses and antitheses which are working to create new syntheses, the question remains one of how much is enough and how much is too much? If a butterfly’s wing flaps in Brazil, will the Arctic icecap melt as a result? If Christians accept the theories and discoveries of science and medicine, does that mean that they cannot hold that the Bible and the faith are true and even enriched by deeper understanding, deeper than the superficial “What it says is what it means and that’s all there is to it.”
Science has changed the world, of that there is no doubt. Science has changed religion. We can’t point vaguely to the sky and say that heaven is “Up there somewhere” because pictures produced by science, via the Hubbell Telescope and a number of adventurous little satellites have shown us a universe infinitely large and complex – and beautiful. We can’t say that Adam was created by God out of mud and breath, not literally anyway, although many can and do. We can’t even say with 100% surety that an accused person is guilty of a crime simply because it seems most reasonable to see and prosecute that person based on circumstantial evidence and gut feelings. DNA and the myriad disciplines involved in forensic science have created new levels of test which can confirm guilt – or exonerate the accused.
All this is to say that the world is a place where the perceptions have been shifted because of the advances of science. Religion has had to make a decision: does it accept the findings of science and seek to form a new synthesis from its previous view in light of the new theses or does it reject science and attempt to remain static in a sort of time warp where things were simpler and certain? Different denominations and individuals have pondered this and each has responded as it felt necessary, some rejected much of the science outright and some embraced it wholeheartedly. Ultimately, however, each person must make that decision, as with the death penalty, when they contemplate what it means to be a Christian in the 21st century and how that Christianity can be lived authentically, faithfully, honestly and yet stay true to the gospel imperatives as that person understands them.
There is black, there is white and, for most, there are shades of gray. How all people, including Christians, react to those shades of gray, be they scientific, moral, religious or philosophical, are a test of where their faith and belief lies and how it is practiced.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Unspoken Stories
I don't know who it was who pointed out Marina Abramovic's performance piece at the Museum of Modern Art, but I certainly have to thank them for the link. I keep revisiting the website and see something different each time. Abramovic invited people to come and sit with her, one-on-one, for as long as they chose to stay. And people took her up on it, lots of people. Some stayed a few seconds, some stayed for hours, but all were recorded in a moment of sharing with the artist. And all without saying a word.
Each person had a story, each had a life that they brought to the (nonexistent in this installation) table. Each face was captured and it is left to us to read the stories that are being shared. Some had tears, some smiles, one or two almost laughing, some with what looked like agony in their eyes. Some came back several times while most were just there the one time. At least one woman brought her baby cuddled against her chest but almost all were there alone and vulnerable. All sorts and conditions of people: old, young, sophisticate, punk, from myriad races, probably myriad religious faiths (and no faith), serene, agonized, joy-filled to the point of brimming over, tearful past the point of brimming over. I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the faces, the eyes, the stories written there drawing me in and inviting me to be virtually present to them, their tales, their needs, their sharings.
I'd like to have had the opportunity to experience this installation in the real world. I wonder -- could I have borne to spend more than a few seconds looking into the face of someone who wasn't judging me but rather offering a moment -- or an hour-- of silent conversation, quiet acceptance and patient listening? It is so hard for me to meet someone else's eyes; it feels like I am invading their space, however briefly, and, worse yet, they are invading mine. I force myself to do it from time to time, but it's a rare thing for me.
I am fascinated by those who can look into the face and eyes of another with such candor - and even sometimes with such apparent fear. I wonder, of those who asked Jesus for help, how many of them were afraid to meet him eye-to-eye, fearing judgment in those eyes and possibly rejection of them not just as petitioners but as people because of who or what they are or had been. I wonder if Jesus met the eyes of God as he raised his eyes to heaven and prayed. Surely he didn't fear rejection but perhaps asking something that God couldn't or wouldn't do for him, much as the woman with the hemorrhage, Jarius, the man who was lowered through the roof by his friends and countless others must have felt they were risking. It's all about risk, taking a chance, gambling that what we ask for will be received, weighed and then given.
Each person had a story, each had a life that they brought to the (nonexistent in this installation) table. Each face was captured and it is left to us to read the stories that are being shared. Some had tears, some smiles, one or two almost laughing, some with what looked like agony in their eyes. Some came back several times while most were just there the one time. At least one woman brought her baby cuddled against her chest but almost all were there alone and vulnerable. All sorts and conditions of people: old, young, sophisticate, punk, from myriad races, probably myriad religious faiths (and no faith), serene, agonized, joy-filled to the point of brimming over, tearful past the point of brimming over. I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the faces, the eyes, the stories written there drawing me in and inviting me to be virtually present to them, their tales, their needs, their sharings.
I'd like to have had the opportunity to experience this installation in the real world. I wonder -- could I have borne to spend more than a few seconds looking into the face of someone who wasn't judging me but rather offering a moment -- or an hour-- of silent conversation, quiet acceptance and patient listening? It is so hard for me to meet someone else's eyes; it feels like I am invading their space, however briefly, and, worse yet, they are invading mine. I force myself to do it from time to time, but it's a rare thing for me.
I am fascinated by those who can look into the face and eyes of another with such candor - and even sometimes with such apparent fear. I wonder, of those who asked Jesus for help, how many of them were afraid to meet him eye-to-eye, fearing judgment in those eyes and possibly rejection of them not just as petitioners but as people because of who or what they are or had been. I wonder if Jesus met the eyes of God as he raised his eyes to heaven and prayed. Surely he didn't fear rejection but perhaps asking something that God couldn't or wouldn't do for him, much as the woman with the hemorrhage, Jarius, the man who was lowered through the roof by his friends and countless others must have felt they were risking. It's all about risk, taking a chance, gambling that what we ask for will be received, weighed and then given.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Art, Science and Theology of Cat Herding
There's a YouTube video that simply has me in stitches even after having seen it a few dozen times. It's about cat herding and it hits me on so many different levels.
"Cat herding" is a metaphor, something that uses an image to convey something else that is much broader in scope. The image of the cowboy is that of a rugged, tough individual, riding for hours at the southbound end of a northbound herd of cattle, eating the dust they kick up, rounding up the strays so the group stays together and much safer than they would be on their own. The dusty clothing, the scars, the wide-brimmed hat and gloves, everything has a purpose and enables the herder to focus more on the herd than on himself. And yes, himself -- the traditional role of cowboy is a male. Women were to stay home, keep the household going, raise the children and wait for the cowboy to come home with money and groceries at the end of the drive.
The art of the cat herder is the ability to take an animal (or group of animals) that are basically independent as well as alternately playful and fierce and coaxing, cajoling or luring the critters in a given direction in a realtively cohesive group without fights or distractions. It takes a whole different set of skills to herd cats rather than cattle. Cattle will be driven; cats must be convinced. Getting them to stay on a trail and not scatter to the four winds is an exercise in patience and at times frustration. In short, it's a lot like life, when you come to think about it.
The science of cat herding is the exercise of psychology -- how do you convince a cat to do something it might not want to do? You could lead it along with a toy on a string that gets pulled along the ground. You could lure it with the scent of catnip (although I've only had one cat out of the 10 or so housecats I've shared my domiciles with over the years who reacted to it). Feeding a herd of cats requires extensive care and planning -- you can't just plop them down in a pasture and let them feed themselves on grass. But put them in the middle of a prairie dog colony and that's something else again. Come to think of it, a lot of the same stimuli that get a cat going -- treats, mild inebriants, curiosity, even an offer to play or be silly at times -- are the same ones that can move me in one direction or another.
Theologically there are a lot of stories in the Bible that very possibly could be said to represent the theological version of cat herding. I'm sure Moses must have thought his bunch of Israelites were at times unruly, wanting to go their own ways, not willing to follow directions and getting themselves into troubles from which they had to be extricated. Did the prophets feel they were possibly herding cats in the sense of being ignored, even when they spoke for the good of the very people who, in essence, turned their backs and cleaned their fur as if to say that there were more important things to be considered? I wonder if Jesus ever felt like he was herding cats when, no matter how clearly he tried to make the lessons, the disciples kept missing the point and wanting to hare off in all the wrong directions. Frankly, the story that cat herding brings to my mind is that of the good shepherd who goes to find the stray, probably the ugliest, nastiest, dirtiest and meanest one of the bunch, and brings it back safely to the safety and shelter of the group and fold.
In EfM the mentors sometimes have to act as cat herders. They can present a thought, an idea, a picture, a text, a video, but after that all bets are usually off. The mentor might have some wish for the conversation to move in a predictable direction but once the topic has been introduced, it can take on a life of its own, often like a herd of cats, going off in all directions. I find that as a mentor I can't be so in love with what I think is a perfect and predictable direction for the conversation to move that I try to force it into a place the cats, er, class members, don't want it to go. They want to follow THIS idea, not THAT one. And it's funny -- some of the greatest insights come from the very unpredictableness I never thought of but somebody else did. I can still love my own conclusions but I find I'm often very much richer from having cats in my class who don't passively follow a baited trail.
In contemplating the cat herders in the video, I come to one simple conclusion: in the cat-tle drive of my life where I am a cat, I need a herder to watch over me and occasionally come rescue me from a tree, a stream or my own wilfullness. I need somebody to put me on the front of the saddle and give me a ride when my paws get sore and who will make sure that I am safe and cared-for.
In the cat herding video of my life, God may wear a cowboy hat and use a lint roller to clean the cat hair off a sling. He may wear leather gloves because I can scratch and gnaw even on hands that are kind and loving. Maybe I will make him sneeze with allergies but he won't give up on me and will love me in spite of myself sometimes. Seeing God that way gives me a sense of hope and a sense of comfort. If God can love a mangy, opinionated, independent-minded cat like me, then what do I have to worry about? God will get me where I need to go, with or without my total cooperation or sometimes even my own cognition. Oh, I will have a choice, but God will use the art, science and theology of cat herding to gently nudge me almost imperceptibly, I hope, in the right direction. After all, God made the cat; there's nothing about a cat that God doesn't know, including how to herd a stubborn cat.
"Cat herding" is a metaphor, something that uses an image to convey something else that is much broader in scope. The image of the cowboy is that of a rugged, tough individual, riding for hours at the southbound end of a northbound herd of cattle, eating the dust they kick up, rounding up the strays so the group stays together and much safer than they would be on their own. The dusty clothing, the scars, the wide-brimmed hat and gloves, everything has a purpose and enables the herder to focus more on the herd than on himself. And yes, himself -- the traditional role of cowboy is a male. Women were to stay home, keep the household going, raise the children and wait for the cowboy to come home with money and groceries at the end of the drive.
The art of the cat herder is the ability to take an animal (or group of animals) that are basically independent as well as alternately playful and fierce and coaxing, cajoling or luring the critters in a given direction in a realtively cohesive group without fights or distractions. It takes a whole different set of skills to herd cats rather than cattle. Cattle will be driven; cats must be convinced. Getting them to stay on a trail and not scatter to the four winds is an exercise in patience and at times frustration. In short, it's a lot like life, when you come to think about it.
The science of cat herding is the exercise of psychology -- how do you convince a cat to do something it might not want to do? You could lead it along with a toy on a string that gets pulled along the ground. You could lure it with the scent of catnip (although I've only had one cat out of the 10 or so housecats I've shared my domiciles with over the years who reacted to it). Feeding a herd of cats requires extensive care and planning -- you can't just plop them down in a pasture and let them feed themselves on grass. But put them in the middle of a prairie dog colony and that's something else again. Come to think of it, a lot of the same stimuli that get a cat going -- treats, mild inebriants, curiosity, even an offer to play or be silly at times -- are the same ones that can move me in one direction or another.
Theologically there are a lot of stories in the Bible that very possibly could be said to represent the theological version of cat herding. I'm sure Moses must have thought his bunch of Israelites were at times unruly, wanting to go their own ways, not willing to follow directions and getting themselves into troubles from which they had to be extricated. Did the prophets feel they were possibly herding cats in the sense of being ignored, even when they spoke for the good of the very people who, in essence, turned their backs and cleaned their fur as if to say that there were more important things to be considered? I wonder if Jesus ever felt like he was herding cats when, no matter how clearly he tried to make the lessons, the disciples kept missing the point and wanting to hare off in all the wrong directions. Frankly, the story that cat herding brings to my mind is that of the good shepherd who goes to find the stray, probably the ugliest, nastiest, dirtiest and meanest one of the bunch, and brings it back safely to the safety and shelter of the group and fold.
In EfM the mentors sometimes have to act as cat herders. They can present a thought, an idea, a picture, a text, a video, but after that all bets are usually off. The mentor might have some wish for the conversation to move in a predictable direction but once the topic has been introduced, it can take on a life of its own, often like a herd of cats, going off in all directions. I find that as a mentor I can't be so in love with what I think is a perfect and predictable direction for the conversation to move that I try to force it into a place the cats, er, class members, don't want it to go. They want to follow THIS idea, not THAT one. And it's funny -- some of the greatest insights come from the very unpredictableness I never thought of but somebody else did. I can still love my own conclusions but I find I'm often very much richer from having cats in my class who don't passively follow a baited trail.
In contemplating the cat herders in the video, I come to one simple conclusion: in the cat-tle drive of my life where I am a cat, I need a herder to watch over me and occasionally come rescue me from a tree, a stream or my own wilfullness. I need somebody to put me on the front of the saddle and give me a ride when my paws get sore and who will make sure that I am safe and cared-for.
In the cat herding video of my life, God may wear a cowboy hat and use a lint roller to clean the cat hair off a sling. He may wear leather gloves because I can scratch and gnaw even on hands that are kind and loving. Maybe I will make him sneeze with allergies but he won't give up on me and will love me in spite of myself sometimes. Seeing God that way gives me a sense of hope and a sense of comfort. If God can love a mangy, opinionated, independent-minded cat like me, then what do I have to worry about? God will get me where I need to go, with or without my total cooperation or sometimes even my own cognition. Oh, I will have a choice, but God will use the art, science and theology of cat herding to gently nudge me almost imperceptibly, I hope, in the right direction. After all, God made the cat; there's nothing about a cat that God doesn't know, including how to herd a stubborn cat.
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