He is Risen

I have set the LORD always before me.
Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken.
Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
my body also will rest secure,
because you will not abandon me to the grave,
nor will you let your Holy One see decay.
You have made known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

Holy Saturday

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
My tears have been my food day and night,
while men say to me all day long,
"Where is your God?"
These things I remember as I pour out my soul:
how I used to go with the multitude,
leading the procession
to the house of God,
with shouts of joy and thanksgiving
among the festive throng.
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.

The Audacity of Belief

I'll confess that I had high hopes for Christmas this year. I intended to blog through Advent; I had wanted to set aside more time for deliberate reflection and prayer. I had even explored the possibility of working with some folks at our church to plan a reflective evening for the early part of the season so that we could deliberately focus on the coming of Christ through the whole season.

All of my hopes vanished like so much smoke when the realities of the season asserted themselves. Competing priorities at work and home left me without even the normal rhythms to which I am accustomed, and for me the Christmas season seemed to never arrive. Or, to be more precise, its arrival seemed to pass me by, and I have no sense that anything is different as a result.

Which does, actually, make me wonder a bit about that momentous birth so long ago and the celebration and fanfare that preceded and accompanied it. I wonder about the promise of a newborn King and the threat to the empires du jour. I wonder about the lofty language of the Magnificat and the hopes and dreams for freedom and liberation that Mary expressed - for justice and mercy and the downfall of oppressors. I wonder about the angelic visitation and the shepherds' amazement and wonder. Mostly, I wonder about these things in light of the realities after that momentous birth.

I wonder what Mary was singing as she dealt with the struggles of a newborn who, no matter what the carols might tell us, crying certainly did make. I wonder what the shepherds were thinking as they accompanied their flocks on the next night, and the next, and the next, watching sheep munch on vegetation. Outwardly, nothing had changed - Herod still ruled in the stead of his Roman masters, the corrupt temple regime still oppressed the people in the name of God, and the exile continued. At what point did the songs and the jubilation and the memories begin to fade, to be questioned, to be stifled?

I wonder about these things because we live, as Rollins has stated, in the aftermath of God. God arrives and withdraws, leaving us to wonder what, exactly, just happened. Belief is born in the attempt to struggle with God's revelation and, often, we believe in spite of ourselves. Belief is inconvenient, frustrating, painful, and often dangerous. The gospel that we bear is an affront to the Powers and, while the presence of the King sometimes seems far from us, the Powers are painfully near.

At Christmas, we celebrate the audacity of belief - the reality that what we believe is unlikely, inconvenient, and dangerous, and yet we cling to it tenaciously. We believe that a virgin conceived and gave birth to a babe that toppled empires and conquered the Powers, defeating even sin and death. What could be more audacious? What could be more improbable? What could be more beautiful and true?

Removing the Label

Tonight I'm enjoying something that I've neglected for far too long. I'm sitting on my deck enjoying a little something that I picked up in London to commemorate my graduation - a new pipe, specifically a Butz Choquin Cybele, if you're interested in such things, a horn-shaped pipe with some really stunning hardwood inlay in front of the stem. This is my maiden voyage with this particular piece of briar, and it's doing quite admirably. It's smoking a bit hot, though, because I'm trying some Rattray's Hal o' the Wynd that's a bit too dry for my liking. It's an older tin that I should just pitch, but I can't seem to bring myself to do so. The problem, though, is that if I don't, I might damage the pipe - it's too dry to smoke at a safe temperature, instead burning hot which carries the risk of damaging the briar in the pipe.

 I've simultaneously been catching up on my blogosphere reading. I'm woefully behind thanks to my recent blog fast - I think I need to just hit reset on the reader and start fresh. But I'm glad I caught a post from James tonight, because it echoes a lot of what I've been thinking of late. James writes this:

It was one of those moments like the first time you look in the mirror and realize that you are no longer 18 years old and in shape. Your mind may try to convince you that you are still in your prime but the mirror reveals that uncomfortable reality. Similarly, I have always seen myself as somewhat "conservative." But during the conversation with Balmer I realized that I have convictions and beliefs that are firmly outside the conservative label. It was like scales fell off my eyes and I began to see for the first time that there is a large group of self identified Christians who would exclude me from their camp because of the views I have of the Christian faith. In fact, there are some who would not even think my views are Christian at all.

This, I think, describes exactly how I've begun to feel over the past year or so. I've come a long way, in my opinion, in my understanding of many things - the gospel, the nature of scripture, the nature of the church, and the way in which my theology informs my politics. And, on so many of these items, I find myself in an awkward position. Because of my commitment to some quite conservative positions, such as the authority of scripture and the confession of Christ as Lord, I can no longer hold to many of the conclusions that conservative theology advances. I take seriously, for example, that Jesus actually intends for us to love our enemies and, consequently, I've become convinced that I can no longer support conservative positions on war. I take seriously, likewise, the authority of scripture and, consequently, I'm left dissatisfied with many conservative articulations of what I take to be extra-biblical statements about those same scriptures. I could go on - my point, however, is less the particular doctrines and more that a commitment to certain conservative positions results in undermining much of the remaining structure. This, at the end of the day, is what troubles me the most.

I mentioned in my previous post that I was reading a book by Peter Enns called Inspiration and Incarnation: Evangelicals and the Problem of the Old Testament. My initial thought was that I was surprised that it hasn't garnered more attention in the blogosphere - it's a fantastic read thus far that I think many who identify with the emerging church would profit from reading. However, as I began to dig a bit, I found that I'm simply not reading the blogs that have discussed it. There's actually been a fair amount of interaction with it, and not all of it supportive, to put things mildly. Mark, a fellow contributor to meremission.org (where I need to actually contribute, I've been thinking ;) has interacted with some of the criticism, much of which has been rather disappointing, to say the least. But I mention this because one thing that I keep reading is that Enns's proposals are not "conservative" - which, I suppose, is to label him as one of those evil "liberals" and thus avoid interacting with what he actually says. Ironically, his book is based on premises with which no conservative would ever argue - the authority and inspiration of scripture. But because the conclusions that he reaches based precisely on those premises are not in keeping with what the gatekeepers of orthodoxy have deemed acceptable, his book is maligned and condemned.

So I find myself in a position where I've been trying to wear a label that really has begun to chafe. I can't stand having to apologize for it or nuance it enough that it fits who I find that I've become. My friend Scott wrote some time ago about something similar - I find that, like him, like James, perhaps it's time to remove the label.

I've put my pipe down for this evening. The pipe performed excellently; however, if I continue, the bad tobacco will ruin it. I'm reminded of an old adage about old tobacco and new pipes - or was that old wine and new wineskins? I think either serves to make the point. Perhaps it's time to move on.

Raising Ebenezers

I spent the weekend on retreat with my cohort from Biblical. This was our last retreat together - we've been on the same journey for nearly three years, and soon it will be time to part ways. We graduated a few weeks ago. I didn't mention it at the time because it's something of a formality - we have another class or two to complete and a missions trip that we'll be taking together next month, so we haven't actually received our degrees yet. Still, in roughly six weeks or so this chapter of my life will have written its conclusion. I'm not, honestly, certain of what that means. I have a lot of stuff floating around in my head at the moment, and little in the way of outlets for it.

It's an odd sort of a thing, I think, to be granted a Master of Divinity. I don't know if the person who came up with the label was intentionally trying to be humorous. If not, it was an extraordinary case of naiveté or hubris, or perhaps some combination of the two. I suspect that, if your approach to theology is largely through definitions and categories, then the label is perhaps tragically appropriate, although I wonder what exactly it will be that you've mastered. Personally, I think it's a poor label. In the time I've been in school, I've realized two things: first, I will never master the Divine; and second, what I actually need is to be mastered by the Divine instead. And, third, I suppose I've come to realize, at least in part, how far I am from either.

Still, it's been a worthwhile pursuit. I've grown immensely in some ways, been stretched nearly as far as I was able to be stretched, and kept my faith intact - no mean feat given some of what has taken place over the past few years, but that's another tale. I've rethought nearly everything that's been available to rethink. In fact, this blog itself was itself a result of seminary; I began blogging two and a half years ago at the promptings of a fellow cohort member. It's served me well - my own collection of Ebenezers, in some sense, bearing witness to the work of the Spirit in my life. Now, I raise another, marking the passage between the chapter that has been and one that is yet to be written.

The LORD bless you
and keep you;
the LORD make his face shine upon you
and be gracious to you;
the LORD turn his face toward you
and give you peace.

Taking Things Personally

I'm in the habit of taking small breaks from the blogosphere. It helps me to keep perspective on the whole thing. This time was different than most, though - I had a lot to say on a particular topic, none of which I would have been proud to have written. Practicing a discipline of silence for a few days hasn't really cooled my emotions much on the subject but has, perhaps, brought something of temperance to my thoughts. I'm frustrated as ever, but perhaps I've found a way to discuss it - we shall see, I suppose, if that proves to be true.

So here's the deal:
Brian wrote something. People didn't like it. Mark stepped into the mix.

And at that point things got ugly. You should be able to follow the links from there, if you missed it.

Here's what bothers me about the whole affair: at what point did sin cease to be personal and simply become a discussion of issues? Say what you will about Brian's initial post - one thing he absolutely nails is that sin is never abstract. Pause and think about that for a second - there is no such thing as an abstract sin. It is always, always, always personal and embodied. It's never a discussion of ideas held in isolation - it is always a discussion of people and their struggles and hurts and fears and anger and rebellion and failing to live up to the standards of a God who is beyond the reach of any of us.

At some point, we decided that we can talk about sin without discussing those who suffer from it.

I'm deliberately avoiding discussion of the particular topic in question. I realize that at least part of the tension is some questions about ethics, about whether a particular way of being is appropriate or not, about whether it pleases God or not. And I realize that some folks might want to have that conversation, and it absolutely needs to happen. But it can't happen in the abstract, because no matter what you believe about this particular topic or about any topic where the question of sin is raised, it involves people. People with names and faces who are loved by God and who, therefore, deserve to be treated with dignity and respect by those of us who claim to follow Him. Witness Jamie's series of posts on the topic for an example of how this could be handled differently.

We have a saying in the evangelical world. It's trite, really, and doesn't solve anything, but it's frequently trotted out as though it answers all of the problems of approaching this sort of thing appropriately. "Hate the sin, love the sinner," we say. Only - let's be honest - this is what we mean:
Hate the sin, love the sinner.
Is it possible to hate something in the abstract? I'm not sure. I can say that I've never really seen it happen. Or, let's be more specific - even if it is possible, if our energy is spent on hating sin which, by its very nature, is embodied and personal, it's going to be extremely hard to convince anyone of the love that we claim to hold.

I'm reminded of Jesus' words in Luke 11:46: "And you experts in the law, woe to you, because you load people down with burdens they can hardly carry, and you yourselves will not lift one finger to help them." What if we were to become known as burden-bearers, as those who come alongside those who are weighed down and offer to help lighten the load? To walk with them in their struggles and offer encouragement, support, prayer, and yes, when appropriate, correction? But most importantly, perhaps we can point them to the One who carries our burdens for us, instead of being those who make the load even more unbearable.

Technorati Tags: sin, grace

Scripture, Answers, and Alex Trebek

A few days ago I read this post over at Dan Kimball's blog, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. I thought it was profoundly disturbing, particularly when I read the part about "some issues are just black and white". It's disturbing particularly because it's an approach to scripture that's so common among Christians today - God's Answer Book, or some such. But is that really what this is all about? I have to be honest with you - I can't make it work for me. Saying, "The Bible has all the answers," defines a rather odd relationship between a person and scripture. Besides the fact that reducing the Story of God to an encyclopedia of historic facts and theological statements, it clearly begs the question. Nobody who utters such a statement ever intends for it to be taken literally. There are any number of questions on which the Bible is completely and unabashedly silent. "How do I change the oil in my car?" "What kind of wine goes well with beef?" "How many licks does it take to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop?"

The difficulty with approaching scripture from this vantage is that it can't help but turn into something ugly. The reason that I say this is because one can only look for answers once we've defined the questions - and defining the questions is a matter of power and control. There are some questions that are approved: What does the Bible say about justification by faith? Ahhh, they say, and nod their heads. The Bible has the answers. Turn with me to Galatians. There are other questions, though, that are clearly not allowed: Where, exactly, does scripture call itself "inerrant"? How do we deal with the Old Testament picture of God, which seems so different from Jesus? What, exactly, is the gospel anyway? I'm not saying that scripture has no answers to these questions. I am, however, suggesting that merely providing answers may not be the point exactly. What if scripture is at least as much about the questions as it is about the answers? What if the point of much of the stuff that we struggle with is to get us to ask the questions in the first place?

If the Bible is an answer book, then it must, absolutely must, say the same thing all the time about a given subject - hence the focus on things like inerrancy and refuting contradictions and whatnot. But if scripture is a question book, then something changes. Ross wrote something a while back on hermeneutics, about how we need to be able to hold the "It is written," with the "It is also written." Here is a case in point: Deuteronomy, God's authoritative Word, defines the relationship that Israel was to have with Ammon and Moab: "No Ammonite or Moabite or any of his descendants may enter the assembly of the LORD, even down to the tenth generation." It's quite clear, right? No ambiguity there - it is written. But there's a slight problem. Fast forward to Ruth. Ruth, the Moabitess, is granted a place among the people of Israel. The irony isn't lost on the author of Ruth, because this is how the book ends:

This, then, is the family line of Perez: Perez was the father of Hezron, Hezron the father of Ram, Ram the father of Amminadab, Amminadab the father of Nahshon, Nahshon the father of Salmon, Salmon the father of Boaz, Boaz the father of Obed, Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of David.

Back up a second in case you missed it. The point of Ruth isn't that Ruth was a phenomenal woman (although she absolutely was). The point isn't even that God will make an exception if you're really nice to His people. The point of Ruth is that David is a Moabite. David, King of Israel, man after God's own heart, according to Torah should never have been allowed to enter the assembly of Israel. I don't suppose I need to remind you, then, of a certain other descendant of Ruth through the line of David... It is also written.

I suggest that the whole book, the whole collection of writings that we call scripture, is like this. Scripture isn't a song sung in unison. It's a chorus of voices all singing at times in harmony and at times in dissonance - but always beautifully. Does it provide answers? Most certainly. But often, for some strange reason, those answers might be in the form of a question.

Technorati Tags: scripture, hermeneutics, Ruth, questions

Christmas Reflections

I have a confession to make - I love Christmas. More appropriately, I guess, I suppose I should say that I love the holiday season. By this I mean that I love that time from the middle of November to the New Year that's full of celebration and festivity and family and food. There's a certain something in the air, an expectation or excitement or some such that fills the days with a restless energy. I'm one of those people that do their shopping at the last minute. Some people do this because they are slackers. I'll confess that there's a bit of that in me, but mostly I think it's because I love to just walk the mall and drink in the holiday air.

Even so, there's a part of me that hates the whole commercial aspect of the season. I hate feeling less than human because I refuse to run up a huge credit card bill to give my kids more stuff. It's been a busy December for us, and with my wife on leave for a few months, we've had to tighten the belt a few notches, so the tree is a bit more sparse this year. I know in my head that there is more to this whole thing than presents. But something in me, probably something that my male brain connects with vocation and provision, still looks at the somewhat small piles of gifts and, well, notices. That part of the season I despise - the part that says that my worth as a father, husband, and friend is measured in dollars and cents. A person shouldn't have his or her humanity assaulted as part of the celebration of the birth of Christ.

There's some sort of odd tension there, I think. On the one hand, Christmas brings out the best in people, a sense of generosity and selflessness that is somehow rather beautiful. On the other hand, Christmas brings out the worst in people, a sense of greed and gluttony that is ugly and repulsive.

I slipped out to the Christmas Eve service at our church tonight. It was really quite beautiful - a meditative and reflective evening with traditional music and scripture readings. I sat in the service and sang the old songs about little towns and sleeping babes and thought of my own newborn and my feelings as a father during this time of year. And one thing that I realized is that the people who say that there is no room for mystery in the Christian faith, that all things have been revealed to us through the Bible, these people have never reflected on the "stuff" of the story, the plot that I've been discussing here of late. The story tells us that we are both wonderful and terrible, that what we see rise to the surface at times like Christmas is what lies underneath at all other times. What father in his right mind would send his only son to be adopted and raised among people like you and like me? How does one pack all the power and knowledge of the Creator of the universe into a being that is completely vulnerable and helpless, surrounded by these wonderful, terrible people? To place myself in that position and attempt to understand the way in which God's mind must work for that to seem like a good idea is simply beyond me. It's mysterious, and more beautiful for being so.

A wonderful and blessed Christmas to you and yours. May the Christ that we remember be present for you this day.

Symbolic Action and Cheap DVDs

Thursday was Thanksgiving for us in the States, ostensibly a time when we sit down to remember the year with gratitude and thankfulness with food and family. At our home, this year things were fairly modest. We celebrated with my wife's sister, which made five folks including the kids (one of whom won't eat anything, even if coated in sugar). We had a fairly traditional but restrained menu, choosing to prepare a turkey breast instead of a whole bird and foregoing some of the standard fare such as mashed potatoes for smaller courses that we could finish in one or two sittings. It was fun but exhausting - I love to cook, but I don't often take on a meal with more than two or three dishes. But it was well worth it, and the leftovers are nearly gone so I feel fairly responsible as opposed to wasteful.

Friday, of course, was the equally traditional orgy of sales, where people risk being trampled at Wal-Mart in order to get an especially good price on deep fryers and last year's DVD selection. Frankly, I've never really understood the whole affair. I had a conversation with a coworker on Tuesday that went something like this:

Him: "You going out on Black Friday?"
Me: "No, I think it's insane. I'll probably sleep until noon and then spend time with the kids."
Him: "One place has a pack of fifty blank DVD's for three bucks!"
Me: "But I don't burn DVD's..."
Him: "Yeah, but THREE BUCKS!"

I received an email from Sojourners that was discussing Buy Nothing Day, which basically amounted to a boycot of the festivities. It's not a bad idea, frankly - I have no love for the rampant consumerism to which we find ourselves clinging in First World cultures. Taking a day off on the day most oriented around it is probably a good way to go. On the other hand, I get a little nervous around symbolic action. I think often symbolic actions are ways that we convince ourselves that we've done something grand, when actually we've done nothing at all. Let's be honest - Buy Nothing Day is fairly meaningless if we just pick right back up where we left off on Saturday morning.

I had the same sort of ambivalence towards the whole Live 8 thing this past summer. Somehow, I think that we managed to convince ourselves that showing up for a few concerts makes us socially conscious. But where is the value in the symbols when the bands go home and the lights come down? Poverty is still real, and now the trash needs to be picked up.

Thanksgiving is a sort of symbol as well. It's a symbolic act whereby we convince ourselves that we're grateful for what we have. Unfortunately, the reality of Black Friday reveals our thanks and contentment for what they are - mere symbols that hide the deep gluttony that runs to the core of our culture. It's a deeper malady than can be cured with another symbolic action. Instead, we need a sustained reflection on our use of things and a sustained practice in using them wisely and well.

Dreaming Out Loud

I've now reached the point in my degree program where a mere five courses stand between me and graduation. I have mixed feelings about this; on one hand, it's becoming more and more clear to me that I'm running about as close to empty as one can get. I'm looking forward to being able to read for pleasure again instead of trying to sneak in some extra reading on the weekends, not to mention the fact that I'll have a lot more time to give to my family and faith community. On the other hand, I love being a student. I've developed some wonderful friendships with folks in my cohort, and I look forward to spending a couple of hours a week with them. Intellectually speaking, I like being forced to read things I wouldn't otherwise choose - it keeps my studies from becoming some grand echo chamber or something. But the looming question for me is one that gets asked more and more often the closer I get to graduation: so what's next?

I wish I had an answer to that question. My long term goals are to pursue a PhD program in theology and teach on the graduate level. But I also want to keep my feet grounded in the real world, so there's an element of ministry / mission that I think I need to pursue, and I don't know what that looks like yet. In any case, I need a bit of time to prepare for a doctoral program, so I have this mid-range scenario that hasn't begun to take shape yet. At this point, I'm getting somewhat anxious to know what's next, but all I get is this vague sense that something is coming and I'll know when it gets here.

Last night I sat on my deck under the stars and thought about what I'd love to do. It was surprisingly mild for November, so I thought a pipe before bed would be in order. I sat out under the November stars, a bowlful of fine Virginia flake in my pipe, and tried to put all of these thoughts in the hands of God. Here's what I'm wondering as a result of my midnight smoke: what's the space called between the academy and the congregation? I think that's where I belong. I think there's a need for some good applied theology, to borrow a phrase. Something on the order of ethics and missiology and biblical studies and apologetics all rolled into one. Who is it that takes theology and finds the meaning in it, the stuff that matters when I hit the pavement on Monday morning? I read a lot of stuff on either side of that divide, but not much that bridges it.

One of the books that arrived in my goodie box this past week is Models of Contextual Theology by Stephen Bevans. This is one of those that turned up on a syllabus for next semester but that had also been floating around on my wish list for a while, so besides the fact that I'm really jazzed about that class, I get to double up on my pleasure and academic reading. (Am I a geek or what? ;) At any rate, I was flipping through the book and found this definition of praxis - "acting reflectively and reflecting on one's actions". In other words, there should be an interconnectedness to our theology and our practice that results in each influencing, directing, challenging, and critiquing the other. When I started this blog almost two years ago, that's what I had in mind for this space - somewhere I could reflect on the practice of my faith. It's been that and more, I suppose. What I'm wondering now is whether there's something bigger I can do with that.

Of Faith and Food

I've had a weekend that's in some sense revolved around food. On Friday, we took advantage of a free evening and went out as a family to a little Italian restaurant in the area that offers some exceptional food at very reasonable prices. I've also spent a lot of time in the kitchen, something that I love to do but seem to not have the time or energy to pursue as frequently as I'd like. I had a lot of fun, and although the basil-infused lemonade was something of a disappointment, the spicy chipotle apples were fantastic, so in the end I suppose I came out ahead. Cooking is a creative outlet for me; it's what I do because I can't play jazz. It's what I do with my improvisational impulses.

I've been thinking about food lately and how food and spirituality are related. I think it's interesting that scripture in some sense begins and ends with food - a tragic sampling of forbidden fruit and a lavish celebration of re-creation. I don't think there's anything particularly interesting about the food itself, which passes without mention in both cases, but it underscores in some sense how central the whole business of eating is to our very existences. Food sustains life, connects us socially, drives economics, shapes us spiritually. What we eat, how we eat it, with whom we share it - all are subjects that find a home in scripture.

I need to think about this more diligently. Food for me is too frequently about either convenience or enjoyment, when in fact it is much more complex, much more central to who I am as a person. Food is about hospitality when I share my best with my neighbors and friends. Food is about justice when I am full but others are hungry. Food is about stewardship when I waste the abundance that I have been given. Food is about love when I provide for others in my community who are unable to provide for themselves. Food, most of all, is about worship when I receive with a thankful and humble heart.

I wonder how much has been written on a theology of food? I'm sure there has to be some bits floating around somewhere - it might be worth a bit of investigation.

Marking Time

A little over a year ago, I wrote this piece, which, although short, still is one of my favorite bits of creative writing. I've been thinking about it a lot this weekend, because early August is sort of a mile marker in my life. Friday, my wife and I celebrated ten years of marriage. Truth be told, it was a fairly uneventful evening, as we're going away to celebrate this coming weekend, a gift from her sister and mother (including babysitting!!!). Still, the day remains significant - ten years ago we said our vows, and today I can in all honesty say that I am a very happy man.

Today my oldest son turned six years old. We had his party yesterday - fifteen kids running around the local park. It was crazy but a lot of fun. I can't believe my little boy is old enough to have his own friends and that already there's a part of his life that doesn't include me. Sometimes I want to lock the door on time, keep it out, keep him small and funny and sensitive and innocent and full of wonder. I want to find Chronos and wrestle him to the ground, demand that he yield to me and relinquish his hold on my boys. But I can't, and scarcely a day goes by that I don't hear his muted steps pacing mine, just out of sight but near enough to let me know he's still there.

August, in the eastern United States, is when summer begins to feel its age, when it realizes that time is catching up with it. Tonight I'm feeling much the same. I sense the years flying by, like mile markers on the highway, the numbers advancing steadily and inexhorably, ticking off a rhythm by which my journey is ordered. In truth, I have much of my journey ahead, and thirty is no doubt a young age to be feeling this way - but I've loved so much of where I've been that I sometimes wish I could travel more slowly.

Peace to you wherever your journey may find you this day.

Making Space

This was one of those perfect summer nights, when the stars have all come out to play and the air is just cool enough to make you think twice about a jacket. Knowing that it would almost be a sin to let such an evening go to waste, I picked up my laptop and (what else) my pipe and headed outside.

I grew up, as I have no doubt mentioned before, in rural Pennsylvania. I love quite a few things about Philadelphia and my local community in particular, but I will always miss some things about my home. One of those is the night sky - on a clear night, you can see literally thousands of stars, each one flickering and dancing like so many tiny flames, the Milky Way bright and bold, meandering through the sky all stately and majestic. If you lie flat on the grass and look straight up, eventually the sky will "pop" and you'll feel like you're in a vertical position, staring straight ahead into space while clinging to the side of the globe like some frightened insect. You may, if the sky is especially clear, feel the need to dig your fingers into the turf to keep from sliding off.

Another thing about my home that I notice in its absence is the noise. Of course, in the suburban community where I live, we experience no lack of noise - well, actually, that's not quite true. One noise that is sorely lacking in my concrete and plastic community is the sound of the night singers - frogs and crickets, katydids and the occasional owl, all conducted according to some celestial score, weaving a melody both beautiful and haunting that gets into your soul and stays forever. It used to be that I could still catch a hint of the song in the late summer evenings, but the large open space near my home was recently covered with asphalt to make space for the cacophony of Home Depot and Wal-Mart, and the singers have moved on to another stage.

Still, few things can approach a clear summer night for inspiring reflection and wonder, and underneath the light pollution and paving materials, some hint or suggestion of former glories still glimmers faintly. My pipe was lit, and my computer remained dark. A few fireflies still played among the trees, and the Great Bear danced overhead. But most importantly, I think, the One who gave a mere insect beauty enough to make us pause in gratitude came and sat down next to me, and we talked for quite some time about everything and nothing.

"Look at me. I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and open the door, I'll come right in and sit down to supper with you..."

Restless

One thing that I always try to do at work is take a lunch break. No doubt some of you are now waiting for me to finish the sentence, but in fact, in my organization's culture, taking a lunch is at times the mark of distinction between one who has nearly reached the apex of his or her climb up the organizational ladder and one who has some distance left. My lunch break is in some sense a mini-Sabbath, a little resistance if you will, a way of structuring my day so that I remember that I am more than a project lead. It keeps me human; it keeps me sane.

My normal practice is to head to the local Starbucks. It's rather pathetic, really - I've been ordering the same thing several times a week for several years. Venti chai, no water, extra chai. Lunch of champions. During the summer, I'll occasionally head elsewhere; there are a few local parks and at least one Presbyterian church in the area that offer out-of-the-way parking and such. What I am really after is not so much food or a hot beverage but rather solitude. The reason that I keep returning to the Paoli Starbucks is that, if you head towards the back of the shop, past the restrooms and up a small staircase, there is another secluded seating area that is often unoccupied. There are three rather comfortable armchairs and a couch, with ample table space besides. This is where I sit and read, reflect and think and occasionally pray.

I've been feeling somewhat restless lately. I'm not sure how to describe it otherwise - I have this sense of growing unease about my current situation that is difficult to put into words. I feel as though I am mentally pacing, waiting anxiously for some news that I'm not quite sure I can identify except to say that I'll know it when I hear it. I feel like I did during childhood when friends were coming to my house but were running a bit late - I'm somewhat jumpy and nervous, and I keep checking the windows to see if their car has turned the corner.

Last week found me sitting alone in that back room at Starbucks, reflecting on this growing restlessness and wondering if I'm not getting enough sleep or if there's something else going on. What happened next was rather odd, enough so that I'm having difficulty ignoring or dismissing it. Into the mix of thoughts and emotions and history and dreams that was running through my head at the time, I quite distinctly remember two words dropping out of nowhere, as though spoken by Someone Else: Be Ready. I've tried to shake the feeling, but it hasn't resolved - in some sense, I feel more restless now than ever.

Be ready? What does THAT mean?!?!

A Spirituality of Briar

I really wanted to write something on the Emergent response to critics, which I thought was quite well done, but in truth I just spent a bit of time reading through some of the responses to the response and now I'm just tired. (If you haven't read it and care to do so, head to the emergent-us blog. It's well worth a read, if you're interested in the emerging church.) So more on that tomorrow. Instead, I'm going to pick up something I mentioned in an earlier post and talk about pipes for just a minute. Here's a quick disclaimer - I'm not really interested in talking about the dangers of tobacco, or second-hand smoke, or healthy living. Just putting that on the table. If you're interested in that sort of thing, there are many places to discuss it. I'm not trying to be rude; in fact, I've never said this about a post before, and it makes me rather uncomfortable to do so, but there can be particularly strong opinions on this topic, so I'm just setting some boundaries up front for my own sanity. My apologies for the string of independent clauses, but there it is.

I'm not really what you'd call a "smoker" in the true sense of the word. I enjoy a good pipe about once a month or so. It pops in and out of my writing because the two seem to go together, but in truth it's somewhat of a rare indulgence. To me, it's sort of like fine wine - I consider good wine to be privilege, and I keep it as such by enjoying it only occasionally. It's an avoidance of the contempt of the familiar and all that.

Two things come to mind when I pick up my pipe: conversation and contemplation. Some of my closest friends also enjoy pipes, so our occasional gatherings typically include breaking out the briar. On the other hand, I also find a pipe to be the perfect accompaniment to reflection, contemplation, and yes, even prayer.

Here is the one thing you must know about pipes in order to understand what I mean: it is impossible, or at least incredibly difficult, to smoke a pipe quickly. You can do it, but it ruins the smoke and possibly the pipe as the tobacco will burn too hot and char the briar. There is a method to pipe smoking that is in some sense ritual. One doesn't simply light up. First, the proper tobacco must be selected - this alone can be a dizzying matter, because the range is simply staggering. (Myself, I'm partial to McClelland's Blackwoods Flake or St. James Woods, if you were wondering.) Then the pipe must be packed properly and lit carefully. This is critical to a quality smoke - too loose and the pipe will burn hot, too dense and it will not burn at all. As to the smoke itself, well, one does not "puff" a pipe. A pipe is smoked slowly and carefully, maintaining an even burn and allowing the flavors to develop. It's more like sipping than gulping. When done properly, the reward is (assuming a quality tobacco and pipe) a complex, flavorful smoke that puts the finest cigar to shame (imho).

I think the reason that I gravitate towards pipes is perhaps the same reason that they've fallen out of favor. As I said before, one does not simply light up. Smoking a pipe means to slow down, to take care, to pause. This is why I favor it when I am in need of contemplation. Lighting my pipe is a sort of centering process for me, an opportunity to deliberately slow my pace. Smoking it is a sort of metronome, so to speak. It is something that keeps my mind from racing ahead of itself, allowing me to pause to listen and reflect. Some of my best writing comes out of these times, as well as my best prayer.

Caught in the In-Between Places

My main problem as a writer is that I write like a kid with ADD. (You may by all means disagree - I am certain that I have more problems as a writer than just that.) From my perspective, I get these great ideas of things I want to spend some time exploring and then...LOOK! A BIRD! That's sort of how I work. "Hey! You know what would be a great idea? How about blogging through the whole book of Mark! I could do a chapter a week or so!" Yeah, and I really meant it too. I still plan to finish, but it may take a bit longer than I thought. Same with the social justice stuff - I actually have so many ways that I want to think about that, but I'm having trouble focusing on just one. All of that to say that this has been an interesting week for me, one that's derailed my carefully-laid plans for writing. It's been very reflective - I'm not sure why, other than that the weather has been beautiful and I've had a chance to sit outside at night, light up my pipe, and think and pray.

I read a great post this week over at Today at the Mission reflecting on the changing seasons and how in some sense our lives mirror the seasonal cycles. I think that's true and beautiful, and I often think on my life in those terms. For the past five years, there's been somewhat of a dry season in my life, although perhaps it extends farther back than that and I simply wasn't wise enough to identify it as such. I think perhaps the reason I retreat into academics and the sort of thinking that I've been doing a lot of lately is because I try to push the dryness away by turning to theory and abstraction. Not that there is anything necessarily wrong with academics - another part of the reason that I do it is because I think that someday I might possibly become somewhat good at it, at least enough to lend my tiny voice to moving a conversation forward somewhere. On the other side, though, a theoretical God is somewhat diminished for His lack of, well, being there. In truth, it feels as though I'm stuck in between two places, coming from a place where I thought I had a lot of things figured out and going to a place that, in honesty, I'm not really sure where it is, but I have a vague sense that He's said that He'll show the way forward.

Christian spirituality is, I think, spirituality of the in-between places. The truth is that we all as Christians live in-between, between the explosion of the Kingdom into our lives and the realization of that Kingdom, between Egypt and Canaan, wandering the desert with a vague sense of direction and some crazy cloud leading the way. The hard part is that we have to figure out how to live in-between and not feel like we're crazy while we're doing it. I think that's why I often feel like a network marketer when I talk about my faith - I only half-believe it myself, and I feel like I'm trying to talk other people into believing it with me so that I won't feel so crazy for thinking this thing actually works. I feel badly for those who interpret 1 Corinthians 13:10, speaking of the coming of the perfect, as referring to the New Testament canon. I don't know how you live with that theology and not go insane with doubt and fear, with the pressure of knowing the "perfect" and not being able to match your life up to that. I'd rather hear Paul saying that he sees now as through a glass darkly and say, "Yeah, Paul, preach on. I'm right there with you."

And it's interesting that Paul concludes that conversation by referring to faith, hope, and love, calling love the greatest. The reason that this is interesting to me is that faith and hope are virtues for in-between places. Faith, I think, is that trust that overcomes the fear of uncertainty that enables us to act out the story that we've become a part of. Hope is the arational pursuit of some better future that overcomes the doubts that there is some greater purpose toward which we live. Someday, I think, these virtues will no longer be needed in their present forms; I think they'll be transformed into something greater, something as yet unseen, when the Kingdom finally comes in its fullness. Hope, in particular, is something that I've thought a great deal about. It's a tragedy what has been done to Christian eschatology in recent years, how it's been stripped of its hope and left with a shell of a tale that is more suited to a sci-fi channel late night movie than to Christian spirituality. Whoever recovers eschatology as a discipline of hope will do Christianity a great favor (Moltmann deserves some credit here). Hope is what allows faith to function, providing a trajectory for our trust in order that it can be displayed.

So tonight I sit and think of what it means to be in the in-between places, to be caught in the act of becoming a Christian and wanting to see faith and hope explode in my life. Perhaps that's what you want too. Pull up a chair - let's sit together in these in-between places.

Gnats and Dragons

I've been somewhat absent lately. It's been one of those weeks where all of the things in my life came together to attempt to drown me, or at the least make me very frustrated. After I got the mess cleaned up on the site over the weekend, we ended up in the hospital with my son, who had a fever of 104 degrees. Fortunately all turned out fine; he simply had a fairly long-lived virus. Sunday Joy and I had one of those really dumb arguments that end sort of like, "Oh, wait, THAT's what you said?" It was no doubt the result of an incredibly stressful week and it was probably my fault (these things usually are), but I don't really remember, that's how lame it was. Monday, back to the grind, the relentless assault of corporate America on my humanity and dignity - well, I'm being overly dramatic, but it's been one of those weeks of senseless, unending negotiations over very tiny parts of the project that I'm leading, the kind where you quibble about words like "all" vs. "some". (I'm not kidding about that part.)

On the other hand, my friend John is going through a crisis right now. He seems to be holding up well, but it's not the sort of thing that you can characterize in any other way. John was asked to resign this week as the pastor of the church where he has ministered for six years. Having walked through the same situation not once but twice in my short ministry career, all I can say is that my heart and prayers go out to him and his family. I think I can say from a man's perspective that something like this strikes at the very core of your being, your identity. I think it no accident that the curse visited upon the man in Genesis 3 struck at his livelihood, and we've been living under the assault on our identity ever since. I don't know if it's the same for women. My wife seems to think not. But nearly every man I have ever spoken with about the subject will point to troubles in his work as central to struggles with his identity. I know John well enough to know that he is a great man who deserves better. I pray that he will weather the storm and come out the other side, swimming like Lieutenant Dan or something.

I think there are two kinds of troubles that we face in life - gnats and dragons. Gnats are the everyday sort of problems that wear you down with their relentless persistence. It's death in very tiny bites - slow, annoying, and endless. Killing a gnat is like catching raindrops in a hurricane. You end up exhausted and you haven't stopped the flood. For me, it's been a week of gnats. Dragons, on the other hand, are those problems which come on occasion but which require all of our resources to resist. I have faced a few in my thirty years; no doubt every one of us can think of the dragons that we have fought. I know mine by name, and they know me - they wait to ambush me when I'm not suspecting and my resources are at their lowest. The most fierce among their number is Rejection; he sends his minions often to harass my steps, but when he comes in the guise of a crisis, his breath is most fierce. John will be facing his own dragons in the days to come - I pray that he would withstand their assault and witness their defeat by the One Who Will Not Be Named.

I have thought long and hard about suffering recently; it's been in my thoughts since the tragedy of the tsunami several months ago. I don't know why we suffer, why we are beset by gnats and dragons. I don't have an answer to that question that doesn't sound hokey and patronizing. All of the standard responses seem cold and distant, unattached as though I were discussing the weather, sterile as though I were discussing symptoms with a doctor who cannot relate to his patients. But I have to wonder if it's the right question to ask. The question that I have been wrestling with more often is that of God, of Christ and why he chose to suffer. Why would a God who is sovereign give up his rights in order to come and subject himself to suffering at the hands of the ones he shaped and formed and gave life? What is it about suffering that is in some small way redemptive, and how is it that I become more like Christ as I suffer? It's an odd way to think, odd enough that I feel somewhat strange voicing it. But it's also a voice that hasn't gone silent, so I have to wonder what it's trying to tell me...