This week our topic was "Forms and Norms of Ethics."
I had done the reading for the first class on Tuesday-- some 20 short articles, detailing a wide variety of approaches to Christian Ethics, written and expounded by theologians large and small. And, though I'm hardly any kind of expert after a few hours of survey reading, I thought I was prepared for the class. I felt I had a fair grasp of the main points, of the gist of the arguments.
Then I walked in the classroom. The discussion quickly went into a land of ethical theory that is not where I live at all; and my mind, looking desperately for a marked trail, got lost in the forest of amorphous chalkboard illustrations, and arrows that were not directional, and connections I simply couldn't seem to make. Moving from the actual to the virtual... the real to the possible... and different understandings of the Trinity sort of overlaid on it all.
Boy, did I feel clueless.
You know what helped? Bouncing it off someone who wasn't there. Nothing like trying to explain something, to force learning.
So, here's the result:
The present reality is kind of like facing the kitchen, and trying to decide what to do there. Initially, the possibilities are infinite: cooking, perhaps, but what? Or if not cooking, then maybe holding a conversation, or redecorating, or making love on the countertop. Then those possibilities get limited, by preference (I'd rather bake cookies than roll out a pie crust) , or experiencial background (kitchens are not supposed to be orange), or circumstance (the counter isn't big enough for the both of us).
So finally you make a choice, based on whatever criteria. Let's say you decide to bake oatmeal raisin cookies. This further defines the actual reality, as well as narrowing the path for future decisions, defining what sorts of kitchen-related stuff you're about to do next, as well as what you're likely to do another time.
Now, suppose you're the kind of person who keeps a journal. You record the experience of oatmeal-raisin cookie making that day-- your thoughts, your feelings, your disappointment over the whole counter-size issue. If, say, five years later, you remember the event, and look up what you wrote, it's very likely that your memories - the virtual reality of the event - will be quite different than what you recorded in the actual reality of the moment.
This is how I see ethical thinking. We are faced with myriad choices and possibilities every day, large and small, for ethical consideration. The forms and norms of ethics are what we use, consciously or not, to narrow the possibilities and shape our realities.
Forms: Do I make a decision deontologically, choosing to do what seems to be my duty, regardless of how awkward or painful the result might be? Or teleologically, looking at the end result, and forging ahead by whatever means necessary? Or situationally, looking at what seems to be the greatest good at the moment?
And Norms: what do we accept as givens, as default positions? If I declare myself to be a Christian, what do I hold as foundational virtues (faith, hope, love?) and standards that someone of another faith background-- or none-- may or may not?
These are only a few broad brushstrokes, I know; there are many forms and norms in ethical thought, and ethicists further define and nuance within them. But these, for good or ill, provide the basis of how we live in the actual, as well as how we filter the virtual; and how we move from what is possible, to what is real.
Opinions, anyone? Questions? Fire away; I'm still absorbing, and that'd help.
Yes, the thrill continues. This is not easy stuff, by any means; but I like it. I feel like a kid who's been handed a Secret Decoder Ring. Even when I'm stuck in deciphering why some odd verb form is used ("ah, the gnomic aorist! Who'da thunk it?"), I'm still having a good time.
In some ways, it's a blessed alternative to the rest of our usual curriculum. We have written assignments and quizzes each class, small projects to be started and completed. In Myers-Briggs terms, this makes my results-oriented "J" very happy. There are right and wrong answers; the wrong answers can be corrected, and the right ones agreed upon-- even by a classroom full of Episcopal seminarians.
There are a few of us who have taken to gathering in the Refectory before breakfast (yes, you heard me correctly) on class days, to drill vocab and go over homework. This has been incredibly helpful; listening to Andrew and Charlie work through translations, wrangling over verb endings and mumbling noun declensions together is reinforcement beyond price. Thanks, guys!
Our odd behavior has earned us the above nickname from the regular breakfast crowd; a club to which I'm grateful to belong. Of course, we have an open membership policy; feel free to come over to play, anytime.
The last couple weeks on this blog have been a trifle minimalist, from a personal side. This quarter has had some adventuresome moments, and not all of them academic; but I looked up today and saw daylight, at least for a few minutes. And I've noticed that I've overlooked mentioning this and that, along the way. So...
Tuesday was Tripp's birthday, and a fine day it was. The lovely and talented Trish organized a dinner gathering at this little Indian restaurant, and then served an incredible cake back at the apartment for our collective delectation. We stayed talking, a few of us, until the wee hours, and were exhausted the next day, and it was worth every minute. Your day, love, but we were the ones gifted by the celebration. Thanks.
Meanwhile, Mark has taken to posting his parish newsletter musings. The first entry takes a gander at the way we talk about God. Stop by and chime in.
And David the Curate is soon to be David the Rector, having been called to his first parish. Exciting ministry opportunities abounding; I'm thrilled for him, and for his new parish family.
'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to bring good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and recovery of sight to the blind,
to let the oppressed go free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."
"Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."
Gutsy words, coming from a housewife in blue jeans.
They don’t sound so nervy coming from Jesus, of course-- at least, not to our ears. In the last few weeks, we’ve read in Matthew about Jesus’ baptism (and what a moment that was!). He’s spent his time in the wilderness, tempted and tested by Satan, and ministered to by angels. He went to a wedding in Cana, and turned water into wine. Having heard these stories, we’re more ready to hear his authority today.
But the crowd who is listening in the temple doesn’t have that background. What they know is that a local boy - Mary and Joseph’s oldest-- is developing a reputation for impressive teaching, and he’s back in the neighborhood. Jesus is coming home, and his reputation precedes him. So the hometown crowd comes out, to hear what he has to say.
So he goes to the temple on the sabbath, and stands up to read. He’s handed the scroll of Isaiah-- the biggest one on the shelf. From it, he chooses this reading-- and then claims it for his own. This is Jesus’ call, his mission.
So what does that mean for us? Well, I come from a math and science background, so that’s how I think about things. And there’s a fundamental mathematical principle that applies here. Math, not logic, so please humor me, and put the philosopy away for a minute, okay? That principle is called the Transitive Property. It’s simple: if a=b, and b=c, then a=c.
So think about this story in those terms.
a: Jesus has stood up in the assembly, and declared this as his mission.
b: You and I are disiples, followers of Jesus. As Christians, we are “the body of Christ in the world.”
So then, c: if this is Christ’s mission, and we are the body of Christ, then this is our mission, yours, and mine.
“to bring good news to the poor...” - to care for the homeless, the destitute, and the ill; and to recognize the poverty in our own souls, relieved by the same.
“...to proclaim release to the captives...” - those trapped in striving and sin, in greed and power and self-interest, with the Good News that there is another way-- a better way.
“...and recovery of sight to the blind...”- pointing out what the world does not wish to see; the damage done when we ignore the pain and suffering of the world around us, and the healing that is possible when we open our eyes.
“To let the oppressed go free...” - to stand with, and sometimes speak on behalf of, those who either cannot speak for themselves, or who would not be heard in the clamor unless one more voice is added.
“...and to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.” - In Jesus, the Old Testament year of Jubilee, of freedom, is expanded. In his life, we learn how to live. In his death, our death is destroyed, and we are reborn in his resurrection.
"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me.”
Go ahead and say that.
Own those words, and take them seriously, and live them-- and this scripture will be fulfilled in our hearing.
Tripp asks for more specifics about my last Ethics class posting. In light of my more formal musings, how do I interpret scripture, personally?
Good question, bro, and not one for a single sentence answer.
First, I start by reading it. That sounds elementary, but I'm surprised at the folks I come across who don't, much. Often people hear a preacher, or teacher or writer, and take what they say as the Gospel, without looking it up on their own. (Incidentally, that's part of why I take the preaching ministry so seriously; for some people, that's their primary, if not first and/or only, exposure to the text. What I say, and what they hear, has a direct bearing on how they will accept the Word, or not. Let me note, in this digression, that I am under no illusions that I am responsible for another's salvation; but I do want to avoid getting in the way, if I can).
So, I begin by reading. For me, that is almost never simply looking at a selected verse or passage. That also includes prayer, and reading what comes before and after, and any footnotes that may be attached, and references to other places in the Bible that influence the words in front of me. I try to get a sense of what's going on: who's speaking, who was the original audience, and what was going on that might have influenced the exchange?
Then I do listen to other voices: Sunday morning preaching, bible study, and devotional reading are part of the arsenal. I've never been in a group study where someone didn't come up with a take on the scripture that would never have occurred to me, on my own. So we're back to the community discussion, and how much more we are together than we are individually.
Sometimes what I hear is wonderfully eye-opening and instantly illuminating; other times, I am made uncomfortable, or even angry. But that's useful, too. Because the challenge then is to discover why. Is that different view irritating because of "proof-texting?" -- someone supporting a personal opinion by selected quotation, and omitting other pertinent information? Or does it get to me because I am, as my evangelical friends would say, convicted in my own heart of misunderstanding?
Over time, I've learned to heed and trust some voices over others. I have favorite authors, and preachers, and study/prayer partners, and friends-- and also a list of those people I do not listen to, especially. But both of those lists shift and change as I learn of new names and voices. That's been one of the great blessings of seminary: exposure to a whole realm of scholars and theologians (amateur and professional); of Christians whose voices I had not heard before. No, I don't agree with them all-- but they have collectively been incredibly influential in how I read the Bible. I can't tell you the number of times since I've been here that I've looked up and said, "I didn't know that was in there!"
And that's the biggest key, I think: not ever even pretending to be done. I think of my Grandmother, a lifelong Christian, who at 98 was still studying and learning from the same stories and lessons that had been taught her as a girl, even before she could read them on her own. There's always something new, if we're listening for it.
This week our discussions revolved around with the ethics of biblical interpretation. Now, this is a topic where I find it easy to remember Trevor's injunction to "focus on how all ethics is personal." Scripture is a big deal to me, enough that I have something of a reputation as a Bible geek around here. I believe that as Christians, ours is a revealed faith-- and a primary mode of that revelation is the collection of scriptures that make up our biblical canon.
To be ordained in the Episcopal Church, a candidate stands before his/her bishop and declares that "I do believe the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be the Word of God, and to contain all things necessary to salvation." If we're making that declaration before the Lord-- and signing it before witnesses gathered-- then what those scriptures contain, and how we understand (read, interpret) them is critical, crucial stuff.
And interpret we do, each one of us; even those who purport to take every word literally. Does anyone believe that describing Jesus as the Lamb of God mean that at one point he was a sheep? No; we look behind the words, to the meaning of the metaphor. That's interpretation.
So what is "ethical" interpretation? Where can we stretch the metaphor and meaning, and where must/should we stop?
Part of the answer to that question, I believe lies in scripture itself-- in the Great Commandment.
If we love God, we take seriously the gift of God's word. That means reading it, listening to it, praying it, in large, satisfying chunks. It means studying and working through the whole canon; not just lingering in the parts we like or understand, or that make us comfortable. It means, in academic terms, "referring to the primary text," rather than simply listening to what some photogenic, proof-texting, pulpit-pounding televangelist spins out, and taking his/her word for "what it really means."
If we love people, then we grant them the same prerogative; and we listen when that prerogative is exercised. This does not mean we necessarily agree, certainly; discussion and challenge are endemic to how we as humans grow, intellectually and spiritually. But it does mean respectfully seeking to hear the voice of God in the multitudes of places in which the Word is loved and spoken: through both men and women, rich and poor, of all races and nationalities, past and present. I can certainly read my Bible on my own, and gain understanding, and strengthen faith; but only in combining my understanding with others committed to the task will God's Word be heard in its fullness.
So there's my suggested approach to ethical interpretation: first, to be committed to "read, mark, learn and inwardly digest" the Word of God as wholly worthy of our personal attention; and then, to attend to what that Word is saying to the minds and hearts of those around me, as well as my own.
Why it is that I'm continuing to scramble, and never quite making it? Trying to follow, and always falling short? I'm tired, and scared, and woefully inadequate-- and tired of being scared and inadequate. Anything I have to contribute is already present in this place in abundance, and in better form than I could hope to provide or offer.
Trevor began class on Thursday with the ritual Bruce Cockburn; music from a more liberal outlook deliberately selected in an effort to balance the more conservative ethical thinking from our earlier text. And so we talked about the need for balance: can we think ethically without it? We inevitably put things on a scale, weighing and measuring, in order to understand.
But what if our balance is flawed? What if we live in a flawed community-- as we, being human, inevitably do?
Then Jane Clark said a notable thing: that maybe we're "called to be unbalanced." And I think she's right. If we proclaim ourselves Christian, we are thereby marking ourselves as intending to be "in the world, not of it." Our balance, and our decision making, will be hopefully coming out of a Christian ethic-- for Anglicans, anchored by Scripture, Tradition and Reason, however we try to portray their value and relative importance visually-- rather than a cultural community ethic. And this will necessarily be out of synch with much of the world around us.
Now, does this lead to some sort of perfection? No; we can no more create the perfect community than our non-Christian neighbors. We will always be flawed. The difference we can hold to may be summed up in two words: salvation, and revelation. The first, as Carolyn noted, is our escatological hope: that Christ's return will finish what his life, death and resurrection began for humanity, and fill in the flaws that we cannot or will not on our own. Secondly, we have the gift of Jesus' revelation and teaching, by which we can measure ourselves, and find our balance, our center, in a way that people in other communities do not.
Now, I know that there are those who may be made uncomfortable by that last statement. Am I somehow intimating that Christians are somehow better than non-Christians? Not at all. I've seen too much on the inside of the church door to be under any illusion that belonging to a faith community guarantees some sort of sanctity. But I do believe that, in deciding to share my life in community with people striving for those same goals, sharing those "Common Objects of Love" as part of the journey that is the Christian life-- I am becoming a better person than I otherwise would be.
While other children were collecting their share of bruises and bumps and skinned kness, I was dislocating my shoulder, and getting stitches, and breaking bones-- 5 of them, before I was 12. At one point, my father declared me "Queen of the Cast Room." In today’s world, our frequent visits to the Emergency Room would likely have resulted in a visit with the hospital social worker, if not a call to Child Protective Services.
Needless to say, with a track record like that, I was not the kid at the top of anyone’s list when it came time to pick sides for a game on the playground. Nor did I want to be, particularly. I knew that, even if I managed not to get hurt, I would inevitably bungle something: drop the ball, or kick it in the wrong direction. So I was just as happy to prop myself against the side of the school with a book, and lose myself in the perils of Nancy Drew, or some autobiography. I can still feel that red brick wall at my back, rough and solid and safe.
So when I hear Isaiah’s words today, they’re hard for me to take in. “Here is my servant, whom I uphold; my chosen, in whom my soul delights.” He makes it sound so wonderful, the chosen one he describes, and I find myself thinking, “Wow. How can I measure up to that?”
But as I thought about that, I realized I was asking the wrong question. How I measure myself doesn’t matter. What matters is God, who “calls us by righteousness;” what matters is Jesus, who “takes us by the hand and keeps us,” pulling us away from that brick wall and into the game.
Safe? No, not safe. We’ve spoken of how nervous we are, standing to preach; I left this class on Tuesday shaking in my shoes as I thought about my turn being next. But oh, my friends, the gifts we give, and are given, when we do step in. Just think of what we’ve seen and heard and taken in so far:
Moki's gentleness, and Aune's strength, and Susie's enthusaism.
Rebecca's baptism by fire, and Judi's dreamless dreams of flight.
Each time someone has stepped up to speak, I’ve heard the Word of God come alive; and it has been a wondrous thing. And each time I am freshly reminded that this is one of the tasks set before us-- that this, right here, is part of the purpose for which we are chosen, and challenged, and called.
For here," God says, "are my servants, whom I uphold; my chosen, in whom my soul delights!"
This morning is dedicated to homework. Greek first. Exercises, and more flash cards-- nouns, this time. Only a dozen or so words; not bad, until you start messing with the grammar endings. We started with the second declension (don't ask what a declension is. All I know is there are three of them, and the 2nd is supposed to be the easy one). By the time class was over, my brain was full. One thing that didn't throw me was the idea of rearranging the word order. The verb apparently comes first, more often than not. In other words, Yoda was Greek.
Preaching class this afternoon. Susie, Micah, Tripp and I are in the pulpit this time. Good company, but I am nervous about this. Had a hard time finding the sermon-- I've scrapped two half-done, half-baked attempts, and this one still feels like a tenuous work in progress. What is it about this place that seems to throw me off so? Anyway, there it is; to the degree that I manage not to mess up, you may directly credit divine intervention. If I actually come up with something coherent to say, I'll post it after class.
This evening, then, is the annual bacchanalia we call Boar's Head. It is in part an opportunity to blow off steam, especially for Seniors who have just finished taking GOE's; and in part an opportunity for said seniors to be roasted by their Middler seminary classmates, before they head out the door in the spring. This being an Episcopal seminary, We begin with Eucharist-- an Elizabethan service, taken from the 1549 Book of Common Prayer. Many dress in period costumes of a sort, in honor of the occasion. Worship is then followed by a dinner along the same theme (service courtesy of Junior class volunteers) and there the roasting and revelry take place. I was one of the servers last year, and it was fun; this year I'm part of the entertainment portion, in a choral group our chair is calling the "Boar's Ass Chorale." Looks like it's going to be a hoot, and I'll be up way past my bedtime.
Good news:Verbs. Greek verbs conjugate very like the way Spanish does-- change the ending, and you've changed the tense and number. And some of the endings even sound like the Spanish, at least in the first principle part, so learning them is familiar turf.
Bad news:Accents. Can't have one accent. Nooo, there must be three, each with it's own name (acute, grave, circumflex) and picky "if/then/else" set of rules about when and where it shows up. Even though they all do precisely the same thing.
Nasty, cruel accentses.
Good news:Reading. Ethics texts are much less complicated than the blogging lab requirements, and the little NT book on Paul reads practically as a novel.
Bad news:Color compulsion. I found myself fussing over which highlighter to use in which book. The orange highlighter that suited my NT reading was totally unacceptable in O'Donovan's book for Ethics. That had to be blue. Virtues and Practices? Green, of course.
In the entry below, the Astute Reader will notice something new, and different, and exciting: all the words are in a pretty green. This is intended to be a visual cue to those intrepid souls from my Ethics II class, who will be wandering by at the behest of our fearless instructor. I'm trying to make it easy to find the required class entries. This way, they can look for the color coding, and bypass the other trivia I post here, if they so choose.
A word of explanation for those without a syllabus in hand: Trevor has, as one of the course requirements, set up a "vitual lab for the practice of Christian Ethics." Being Trevor, blogging is an integral part of that. You can check here if you're interested in the details of why and how.
I find that the structure of the whole project is rather confusing; so I am sort of mentally ignoring it at this point. I'm concentrating on my piece, which is to blog weekly from a personal viewpoint, and commenting on something related to that week's topic.
Our discussion in the last class centered on Huebner and Schroeder's text, Church as Parable: Whatever Happened to Ethics? Toward the end of the discussion, the chapter on Binding and Loosing came up, and Schroeder's list of "areas which call for new understanding." (p. 161-2). I'm not surprised that it was #4 that garnered the most attention:
"Fourth, the covenant of marriage will need to be upheld as a lifelong commitment within the church. If it is to lead to life, marriage cannot be treated lightly or as a covenant entered and broken at will. It is a commitment within a covenant community and is binding in a way that is passing out of style. the entire Christian community needs to speak to the issues that cause marriages to become dysfunctional and sinful."
There was some concern and objection; not over the sentiment, but to phrasing, especially in light of our denomination's current controversies over sexuality. What about those in commited relationships? Are they not also of concern to the church?
Additionally, I had a conversation after class with a single person who was also a bit uncomfortable with this. If the church is to focus on marriage, what does that say to those not in such a relationship?
Here, I appreciated Trevor's suggestion to put a "sympathetic read" on any text we encounter, because, in doing so, I think Schroeder's instructions speak clearly to a vital concern of the wider church: the upholding of covenental commitments within the Christian community. This certainly speaks to marriage; but think about other covenants we make: baptism, for example, or ordination. In the Episcopal Church, these are all situations where individuals are vowed to a specific commitment within the Body of Christ, and the community promises to support and uphold them. How often is the failure of what we tend (mistakenly, in my view) to see as primarily an individual commitment, due at least in part to the lack of community support?
Think of the children who are baptized into "the priesthood of all believers," but still not, in places, welcome to share at the Table, and in corporate worship life.
Think of the confirmands, on whose behalf we pray that God will "send them forth in the power of that Spirit to perform the service you set before them," and who then are told to put their gifts for ministry on hold until they're older, or have been around longer.
Think of the deacon who burns out because (s)he is caring for "the poor, the weak, the sick, and the lonely" without being cared for.
Think of the priest, "commited to trust and responsibility," who treads the thin line between healthy and harmful behavior (from disregard of devotional time, to sinful misdeed, to neglect or abuse), and is not called on it.
We as the Body of Chirst have the words of community support down pat; but our actions fall far short of where we are called to be, together.
Schroeder is right; we can and should do a better job of upholding lifelong commitment within the church. Marriage is but one example.
Today is the last day of GOE's for the seniors. They've been walking around looking a little glazed, but generally seem to be handling the stress of the exam well. One more year until we're in the chute. Whee.
Classes are going to be cool this quarter, but I already foresee the coursework piling up in a big hurry. Ethics, New Testament, Preaching, Greek. Yes, I'm going to be busy.
First Greek quiz this morning, over the alphabet. I figured out how to type Greek letters (α β γ δ ...); and AKMA gave me pointers that will let me get that into a word processor easily.
Sleeping is a challenge. Gotta get better at that.
“Wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking ‘Where is the child who had been born king of the Jews?’”
This is the bit of inquiry that sent Herod into a tizzy, and eventually resulted in his ordering the merciless execution of all the children in Bethlehem, two years old and under. And it may also be the best justification I’ve ever heard for refusing to stop and ask for directions. “No way, honey! Remember what happened last time?” The one really sensible, logical thing the magi do, and it really goes wrong.
Speaking of sensible, I'm reminded of a piece of internet humor that’s made the rounds for years. Maybe you’ve seen it-- it crops up especially frequently during the Christmas season. It asks the question: How would things have been different if wise women had seen the star in the east? According to the latest version I’ve seen, they would have:
arrived in time to help deliver the baby;
cleaned the stable;
made a casserole;
and brought more practical gifts.
I have to tell you, this appeals to me. I’m a practical gifts kind of person. I don’t buy baby clothes smaller than 6 months’ size, because odds are good that the little cherub will outgrow anything smaller before he or she ever gets a chance to wear it. And when my cousin Kristy got married last summer, I was delighted to find for her the coolest crock pot you have ever seen. It was huge, and included a set of different sized crocks, so she and her husband, Mike, can either cook two separate things at once in it for a family meal, or an enormous quantity of a single dish for a crowd (I’m hoping to see it at the family reunion next summer!). Got a nice cookbook to go with it, too, so they can really make use of it. Yep-- very practical.
So when I read the Gospel story for today, my initial reaction is not particularly impressed. There’s a lot of impractical going around.
Okay, the gold is nice. Depending on the amount of gold, you could buy a lot of baby clothes-- and a fair kitchen-full of crock pots. But frankincense and myrrh do not carry the currency today that they did with the original hearers of Matthew’s gospel.
The footnote in my study Bible says that frankincense and myrrh are “aromatic gum resins obtained from shrubs found in tropical countries of the East.” Okay, I understand that these were very valuable items back then, worth their weight in gold and then some... but we’re living in middle America, in the 21st century. Quite frankly, my first reaction, hearing this on the first Sunday in 2004, is something like: “Oh, goody. Overpriced tree sap."
Even the fact that the wise men made the journey in the first place is not a particularly sensible move. They’ve traipsed halfway across the known world, from God only knows where, in order to bring expensive gifts to a child of unknown parentage... because they saw a new star in the sky?
But this is one lesson I’m continuing to learn: “practical” and “logical” and “sensible” are not always the standards to live by. The measured, careful response is not necessarily the right one. The world’s economy, and God’s economy, are often two very different things.
Think about our church, for example, the community that is St. Paul. From a practical, worldly standpoint, we are not anything special. It’s true that we have a lovely building to worship and work in; but it comes with a millstone of a mortgage that has us struggling, financially. We are not a large congregation, the kind that makes the papers with satisfying stories of phenomenal growth and expansion. And the press we in the Episcopal Church have been getting lately has been both controversial and, for many, very painful.
But oh, my brothers and sisters, in God’s economy we are incredibly gifted. Look in the windows of our mortgaged home. There you’ll see images that represent the gift of our biblical heritage: people whose words and actions convey the Word of God, which continue to provoke, and inspire, and lead.
Next look around you, in the pews-- even over on the side you never sit on-- and see the gifts of Christian fellowship. In this small community there are some very large hearts, worshipping and working and seeking God together. God's gifts are shared here, every day-- by the people who serve in the liturgy, as well as bible study, education and outreach. Spiritual gifts of tongues and healing, as well as those indispensible casseroles.
Then, in a few minutes, be watching as bread and wine are brought forward to be blessed and broken-- to be for us the body and blood of Jesus, the Christ, given as the greatest gift of all. Think about what that means. Rather than taking a tidy, pragmatic approach, and trying to redeem creation by scrapping sinful humanity and starting over, God cared enough to choose a far messier path: one that led from from childbirth in a stable, to an ugly, bloody execution.
Paul remind us of this in Romans:
“For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die. But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us”
In other words, God, in her infinite wisdom and love, sees something in us worth saving, even at tremendously impractical cost. I won’t pretend to entirely understand it. I'm not sure that we can. I think all we can do is accept it, gratefully.
But there’s the next question: what does that mean, to accept? Can I just say, “Jesus lived and died and rose again for me. Isn’t that nice?” and go back to whatever I was doing? I don’t think so. It’s like any other relationship-- there has to be a connection between word and action, or it’s not real, not whole. I can tell Bruce I love him all day long, but if my behavior towards him doesn’t also indicate my love, how sincere can I be? Likewise, if we truly own God’s love and presence in our lives, we are necessarily forced to act on it. Like the magi, we can’t just sit home and admire the pretty new star from the comfort of our living room. As James reminds us, we need to be “doers of the word, and not hearers only.” Otherwise, we’re only deceiving ourselves.
Now, I’ll admit that the idea of living out this sort of Christian commitment can feel uncomfortable. It might mean changing in ways that we can't anticipate. It can be intimidating, and even a little scary. Ben said something about this, on the first Sunday he preached here, remember? He said the Gospel-- the Good News-- can seem more like a Good News/Bad News story. The Good News is that God loves us, each of us, exactly where and as we are. The Bad News is that he’s not inclined to leave us there.
And if we're being practical... well, it doesn’t always seem to make much sense, either. I’m very aware of that in my own life, right now. I mean, really-- look at this: I am currently in the middle of a 3-year seminary program, stretching our family’s resources, scrambling for scholarships and student loans, trying to earn a degree that will qualify me for a job that might pay almost as much as the one I held with only my bachelor’s degree, 20 years ago. And worse, my crazy husband thinks this is a good idea.
But you know, my pragmatic character is finding that this is a wonderful place to be. This is where faith comes in. And trust grows. And I’m learning to believe, more every day, that whenever God calls, God also provides, in innumerable, immeasurable ways. That’s the nature of the call to discipleship that we all share, and gifts for ministry we are all given-- whether lay, or ordained, or somewhere in between. All of God’s gifts are precious, and given to us to be given by us.
So, follow those impractical magi. Bring your gifts-- your time, your talents, and your treasure-- and lay them all at the feet of the Christ child.
Love, when it’s easier to be indifferent.
Step forward, when it’s easier to sit back.
Speak, when it’s easier to be silent.
Listen, when it’s easier to ignore.
Stay, when it’s easier to leave.
Take a deep breath, and give it all, knowing that it is for this purpose that we have been given-- and will be given-- “infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.”
Today is a getting ready day-- the last full day at home, before I begin once again the weekly pilgrimages that are my routine when classes are in session.
I am what Seabury terms a Weekend Commuter: go up on Monday, come home Thursday or Friday, depending on the class schedule. This means Bruce is Parent on Duty during the week-- which role has him on the fast track for sainthood, in my opinion.
No, it's not ideal, but it serves a couple of purposes. First, we didn't have to uproot our family for 3 years, which was especially important to the daughter in high school. Second, staying on campus during the week gives me back what would be the daily commute time , for study and community stuff at school. That way, I don't have to lock myself in a closet to get work done when I get home; by and large, I can walk in the door and be wife and mother, rather than student recluse.
So today I'm washing clothes and ironing, finishing some last-minute projects, and packing up my laundry basket. I'm going up on Sunday this time-- unusual, but so is the week. Seniors start GOE's bright and early Monday morning, so we'll be celebrating a community Eucharist the evening before, as part of the preparation.
On the way up, I will be swinging by the airport to pick up newly priestedMark, who is coming back for the week as GOE chaplain, and will be presiding at the service. This is a Very Cool Thing.
So, today is the last minute scramble, before we're back at it again. Laundry, errands, and a bit of sewing-- and if I'm efficient, time for a second viewing of The Movie with Bruce and the gang from the dojo this afternoon. I've largely finished the sermon for tomorrow-- it's down to the tweaking stage. I'll post it in the morning before I go.
We spent a goodly portion of last evening upgrading my operating system. Even on my beloved Mac, this is a time-consuming adventure: back up the hard drive, give it a good scrubbing, install the upgrade (OS 10.3, aka Panther, for the curious), put all the files back, and check to see everything made it into the proper slots. It feels a little like moving to a new house-- boxing up, then unboxing, all of one's worldly goods.
I'm happy to say that the move has gone smoothly. I've somehow misplaced a couple of typefaces in the process, but I'm sure they'll turn up. The only aggravation is that, for whatever reason, the new and improved email system deleted my passwords. I remembered the home account, but not the one for my school email. Northwestern (through whom Seabury gets its email) is pretty rabid about security, and requires we change our passwords every three months. I just changed mine in December, but now I don't recall what the new one is. And of course, the Help Desk is not open over break, so I'll have to wait until Monday to get it fixed. Whee.
Good morning, and Happy New Year! We had an evening, last night, with food and friends and all. Some of the friends are still around, curled up sleeping here and there. Others weren't able to make it down, or over, but were present in our hearts anyway.
New Year's Resolutions? A few-- and nothing new, really. But I am freshly aware of how very fortunate I am to be working on the same old me within the community that is my life.
I learned last night that one of our parishioners died over the weekend. This was not, strictly speaking, a surprise; Tom has been dealing with cancer for a good long while, and he and wife Celie had been told by the doctors that there was nothing more they could do.
Tom was a sweet man, with a gentle smile and a knack for asking "coffee hour questions" that would be the envy of any GOE examiner. "Good morning, Rabbi," he'd say, and then pose an inquiry that not only showed he'd been listening to the sermon, but also reading his Bible-- and that I had best be keeping up with my studies, as well. This could have had me bracing myself each Sunday, but it didn't-- because our conversations were always peppered with a gentle humor, and a certain amount of grace.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
