Author: Sara Palmer

  • The recovery and refocusing of Lent: a time for baptism preparation and discipleship renewal

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    The Recovery and Refocusing of Lent: A Time for

    Baptism Preparation and Discipleship Renewal

    Eric T. Myers

    Highland Park Presbyterian Church, Highland Park, Illinois

    The Complex Origin of Lent The origin of the period of Lent is complex and confusing. Lent is thought to have developed as a backwards extension of the one- or two-day (and later, one-week) preparation period of fasting before the celebration of Easter.1 In other words, the early church prepared for the Paschal celebration with a one-day fast (Friday before Easter) or a two-day fast (Thursday and Friday). Soon the two-day fast was extended to include the whole last week before the celebratory feast that began with the Paschal Vigil, which occurred the night before Sunday morning. These periods of preparation for the Paschal celebration commemorated and marked the last days of Jesus’ life on earth. Eventually, as the theory goes, the period of fasting and preparation before the feast and celebration was extended backwards to include forty days. It is quite possible that “Lent” did not actually develop as preparation before Easter but rather as preparation before baptism and initiation into the church. In their examination of the baptism of converts in the church of antiquity (up to the fourth century), historians of worship Max Johnson and Thomas Talley reveal that preparation for baptism concluded with a period of intense instruction that typically lasted between three to six weeks. Those coming for baptism were instructed in the teachings and mysteries of the Church. This period of preparation was also extended to include those who had been excommunicated and who were preparing to be welcomed once again into the community. It would only be natural that eventually the baptized and confirmed would observe Lent as a time of renewal in sympathy with those being initiated and re-welcomed. As stated above, the origins of Lent are complex and confusing. In their exploration of these origins, Johnson and others point out importantly that baptism into the Church concluded with an intense three- to six-week period of baptism preparation . This final period of preparation became associated with Easter as the Church “adopted” Easter (by the end of the fourth century) as the preferred time of baptism. As the Church moved away from baptism for adult converts to baptism of infants, making the period of preparation for baptism unnecessary, Johnson proposes that Lent took on “the sole character of preparation of the faithful for the events of Holy Week and the celebration of Easter.”2 Thus, what had been a period of preparation for baptism became a period of anticipation for remembering the last days of Jesus’ earthly life. As Johnson remarks, “Such a focus—extremely penitential, and oriented in character and piety toward the ‘passion of Jesus,’ with little attention given to the period’s baptismal and catechumenal origins—has tended to shape the interpretation and practice of the ‘forty days’ of Lent until the present day.”3 But Lent is not a six-week long Holy Week. Lent is different from that important seven-day period when the Church does remember the events of the last days of Jesus’ life, beginning with Palm/Passion Sunday and concluding with the Easter Vigil. Lent


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    is not six weeks of hearing and reliving the passion of Christ with all its horror-filled details.

    Worship in Lent But if Lent is not a forty-six day Holy Week during which the Church relives the detailed Passion of Jesus, then what is it? If our worship for the Sundays in Lent does not focus on the events of the last days of Jesus’ earthly life, then what are the themes and foci of worship during Lent? As we have discussed, one possible answer to the origin of Lent is that Easter became the preferred time for baptism into the Church. Final preparations for baptism were made during the weeks preceding the event. Could our worship during Lent regain focus as a time of preparation for baptism? And for those who have already experienced the rushing waters of new birth, could Lent be a yearly time of renewal—a recalling to the baptismal life that Jesus exemplifies in his life, death, and resurrection? Of course this shift in focus of Lent does not mean that the Church forgets or even de-emphasizes the death and resurrection of Jesus. The Church can never do that, for the death and resurrection of Jesus is central to all that the Church is and does. We cannot worship during Lent, or for that matter any time during the year, without keeping in our minds that what we are truly celebrating (as we gather on Sunday morning or Wednesday or Thursday or Friday), is the central doctrine of our faith: the Son of God, Jesus Christ, has been crucified and has been resurrected from the dead. Yet, that change in focus shifts the attention from the last week—the final days of Jesus’ earthly life—to the broader baptismal call that is ours through the birth, life, ministry, death, resurrection, and promised return of Jesus the Christ.

    Lent: The Time of Preparation for Baptism and Renewal Easter must once again become the time in the Church year for baptism and the welcoming of new members. From very early on, the Great Easter Vigil was the most important service of the year and was one of the times for initiates to be received into the Church. As Peter Bower states, “As the principal service of the year, since at least the second century, the Paschal Vigil celebrated the promise of new life, of forgiveness of sins, and of victory over death.”4 These themes of new life, forgiveness of sins, and victory over death are central to this annual service as baptisms are either celebrated, new members welcomed, or baptisms are remembered by all the baptized present. Perhaps today’s church could recapture the rich drama encapsulated in this historic service as it “reinstates” the Easter Vigil either on the evening before Easter morning or early on Easter morning itself. The revised worship materials of several denominations include orders for the Vigil along with helps for planning and implementing this involved service. Today, churches of all denominations and traditions can and indeed are recapturing the splendor of the excitement of this most important service of the year. With pre-planning and education, members of faith communities of all sizes can become excited about participating in this stirring worship experience in which the story of our redemption is heard and celebrated as new members are baptized and received into the fellowship of believers. As the Church prepares for the upcoming principal service of the year, the Great Vigil, newcomers to the faith are prepared for baptism and initiation as others in the church are called to a reawakening and renewal. The themes of baptism come to the


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    forefront: metanoia orto change one’s mind/repent and death and resurrection into the life of Jesus Christ through our baptism are important. Again, the traditions of the ancient Church can inform our theology and practice of today. Egeria, a fourth century nun from Spain or Southern Gaul, gives an account of baptism and initiation practices in Jerusalem that she witnessed while on pilgrimage there. She describes the enrollment of those who were being prepared for baptism that would take place during the Easter Vigil:

    I think I also ought to tell you how instruction is given to those who are baptized at Easter. Those who give in their names do so the day before Lent begins; the presbyter writes down the names of all of them. This takes place before the eight weeks during which, as I told you, Lent is observed here. When the presbyter has made a note of all the names, later on another day in Lent, the day on which the eight weeks begin, the bishop’s chair is set up in the middle of the great church, the church of the Martyrium. The presbyters sit on either side of the chairs and all the clerics stand. Then the candidates are brought in one by one, the men with their “fathers,” the women with their “mother.” Then the bishop one by one asks their neighbours: “Is he a good-living man? Does he respect his parents? Is he a drunkard or untrustworthy?” He asks them like this about every vice, at least the more serious ones. If the bishop finds that the candidate is free from all these faults about which he has questioned the witnesses, he writes down the candidate’s name with his own hand.5

    It is interesting to note the serious depth of the questions that are asked not of the soonto -be candidates but rather of the “neighbours.” Today, some traditions are basing the initiation process on the practices of the early Church. The Roman Catholic tradition produced the Rites of Christian Initiation of Adults (R.C.I.A.) in 1972. Professor Jim White describes the resource: “The R.C.I.A. recovers the process of the Apostolic Tradition of the third century. A congregation leads converts through a long process of stages of training, prayer, and examination of life until final initiation is reached in the sacraments of baptism, confirmation, and first communion.”6 Today’s rites differ significantly from the ancient rites as witnessed by Egeria, for today ‘ s rites are centered on prayer to God for those preparing for baptism. The church intercedes for direction, healing, and strength in the lives of the catechumens—those being instructed and being prepared for baptism. The Church has explored the early traditions of the Church and has adapted contemporary practice from those traditions. By marking significant moments in the conversion experience in public worship, the Church is recapturing the seriousness of the initiation process Other traditions are slowly recapturing the richness of these rites as well. Churches in which traditional confirmation classes are held can include prayers for those involved in the process. Those enrolled in the process can be invited to be part of the worship experience by helping to lead worship or by sharing stories of their faith journey, including their “wondering” questions and significant growth moments and experiences. For those not going through the final stages of preparation for baptism or reception


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    into the Church, Lent can still be a significant time of growth and renewal. Worship during Lent can be a time when we are reminded of our baptismal calling, our need for repentance, the gift of grace, and a time when we are given the opportunity to commit ourselves once again to the life of Christ. Planners of worship should intentionally prepare worship to include an emphasis on our baptismal call to discipleship. Especially during the season of Lent, the confession sequence in many worship orders of today’s revised resources can voice our shortcomings as disciples yet call us once again to be followers of Christ’s different way. God’s act of redemption through the death of Jesus on the cross is proclaimed. God’s forgiveness is declared loud and strong. God’s call to lead a life that is loving toward and forgiving of others is heard. Water poured into the font or lifted up by the worship leader can be a stimulating reminder of our baptism call into the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. During the season of Lent it is appropriate to include in the order of worship a time of invitation in response to the Word proclaimed. The response following the sermon can be a calling for recommitment; many of today’s worship resources recognize the importance of this element. For example, in the Book of Common Worship of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), Service of the Lord’s Day order includes “Invitation— An invitation may be given to any who wish to make or renew personal commitment to Christ and his kingdom.” 7 Similarly, the worship resources of the United Methodist

    Church include, “Response to the Word—This should include an Invitation to Christian Discipleship.. .Responses may also include: 1 ) A first commitment to Christ, which may be followed if appropriate by enrollment in a preparatory group for baptism or confirmation 2) Reaffirmation of Faith.. .” 8

    The worship of the Church during Lent emphasizes our call to the baptized life. An invitation to recommitment is most appropriate during the season of Lent as the baptismal call is heard. Our call to discipleship is stressed. We are called to repent and to renounce the power of evil in our lives. Opportunities are given for people to respond to this call in public ways.

    More Resources for the Shift from Holy Week to Baptismal Emphasis The emphasis on Lent as a time of baptism preparation, renewal, and recommit­ ment is enhanced by some of the components of worship already discussed, such as giving emphasis to the confession sequence each week or including a call to discipleship following the sermon. Both those preparing for baptism and those who are baptized members already hear the words of confession, forgiveness, and invita­ tion to new or renewed life in Christ. Likewise, other worship “resources” such as Scripture, prayers, and hymns can enhance the worship life of the Church during the refocused season of Lent.

    Scripture The lectionary readings for the season of Lent as found in the Revised Common Lectionary focus on the covenant between God and God’s people, the promise of baptism, and our calling as disciples. The Old Testament readings for Year Β tell the story of Abraham and Sarah (Genesis 9:8-17; Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16), the giving of the commandments (Exodus 20:1-17), the impatient Israelites and their confession (Numbers 21:4-9), and the re­ establishing of the Covenant (Jeremiah 31:31-34). In the hearing of these readings, we


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    hear our place in the family of Abraham and Sarah and their descendants. The readings from the epistles tell of Christ’s suffering for all and the saving waters of baptism (1 Peter 3:18-22). We also hear of the “foolishness of the cross” (1 Corinthians 1:18-25) and the new life in Christ that is ours by grace through faith (Ephesians 2:1-10). Jesus as the source of salvation for all who obey him is proclaimed (Hebrews 5:5-10). In the readings we hear what it means to be a follower. The Gospel readings tell of the baptism of Jesus, his wilderness experience, and his struggle with temptations (Mark 1:9-15). Jesus tells the crowd what it means to be a disciple—”denying themselves and taking up their crosses” (Mark 8:31-38). John’s Gospel tells us of Jesus’ anger at the events of the temple (John 2:13-22). We also hear Jesus’ words, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son…” (John 3:14-21). Jesus also tells us of his impending death and proclaims that his death is indeed “glorified” (John 12:20-33). The Gospel readings during Lent point us toward the cross yet do not take us there quite yet. The readings call us to a life of the covenant as they remind us that we are children of Abraham and Sarah, that we are baptized in Christ, and that we are called to live the life of Christ here on earth as we await the final glory—the glory that will be revealed through the cross of Christ.

    Prayers Revised denominational worship resources offer prayers and litanies that focus on the themes of turning around, repentance, and the call to the baptized life. In the Book of Common Worship the prayers of the day for the various Sundays in Lent include the words, “Give us grace to direct our lives in obedience to your Spirit, that as you know our weakness, so we may know your power to save…”9 and “Transform the poverty of our nature by the riches of your grace, and in the renewal of our lives make known your heavenly glory…”10 The theme of the day is set forth in the Prayer of the Day as the hearts and minds of the people are collected together as one. Renewal, deliverance from sin and temptation, and redirection are included as petitions.

    Hymns With a quick glance in some of the current denominational hymnals one could very well discover no section of the hymnal entitled, “Hymns for Lent.” What one could discover by looking in the topical index of the very same hymnals is that for Lenten hymns, one is referred to the section entitled, “Passion and Death”! Perhaps one might look elsewhere for hymn suggestions during this refocused season of Lent. As we prepare for baptism during this refocused season, hymns that center on baptismal themes are often appropriate even if the water sacrament is not celebrated. Words from Ruth Duck’s hymn, “Wash, O God, Our Sons and Daughters” exemplify the theme of renewal: “God, renew us, guide our footsteps; free from sin and all its snares, one with Christ in living, dying, by your Spirit, children, heirs.”11 The theme of call to discipleship is heard in many of the hymns found in the sections of hymnals entitled, “Missions” where one will find hymns such as, “Today, We All Are Called to Be Disciples.”12 Hymns that focus on life in Christ such as “Lift High the Cross” often give praise to God for the redemptive act celebrated as resurrection people. Other hymns, like “Lord, I Want to Be a Christian,” are more contemplative prayer songs that ask for God’s help in following Christ’s way. Though these hymns are not found


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    in the section entitled “Lent” or “Passion of Christ,” they are very appropriate in helping us recapture Lent as a time of baptismal preparation and renewal in Christ.

    The Worship of Lent: Renewed and Refocused We cannot worship during Lent without remembering that our faith is in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. But our worship during Lent can be refocused to include the broader themes of baptismal call, repentance, and renewal rather than on the details of the passion—the last days of Jesus’ earthly life. Our orders of worship can and should reflect this shift. The resources are abundant to help us reorder and refocus our worship services during the holy season of Lent. The Scripture readings heard, the sermons preached, the prayers prayed, the hymns and songs sung can prepare us for baptism and help us to be renewed in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ—the one whom we celebrate during Lent.

    Notes

    1. For more detailed information concerning the origin of Lent, see Maxwell E. Johnson, ed., Between Memory and Hope: Readings on the Liturgical Year (Collegeville, Minn.: The Liturgical Press, 2000), 207-22. 2. Ibid, 221. 3. Ibid. 4. Peter C. Bower, ed., The Companion to the Book of Common Worship (Louisville, Ky.: Geneva Press/ Office of Theology and Worship, Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), 2003), 106. 5. Edward S.J. Yarnold, The Awe-Inspiring Rites of Initiation: The Origins of the R.C.I.A. (Collegeville, Minn.: The Liturgical Press, 1994), 8-9. 6. James F. White, A Brief History of Christian Worship (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1993), 150-51. 7. Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), Book of Common Worship (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1993), 63. 8. The United Methodist Church, The United Methodist Book of Worship (Nashville: The United Methodist Publishing House, 1992), 24. 9. Book of Common Worship, 242. 10. Ibid, 246. 11. The United Methodist Church, The United Methodist Hymnal (Nashville: The United Methodist Publishing House, 1989), 605. 12. The Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), The Presbyterian Hymnal (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1990), 434.

  • Imagine there’s no heaven: the loss of eschatology in American preaching

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    Imagine There’s No Heaven:

    The Loss of Eschatology in American Preaching*

    Thomas G. Long Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia

    There are two types of music-good and bad-and you can tell them apart by listening. Duke Ellington

    The comedian George Carlin, in one of his marvelous standup routines, expresses astonishment over those opinion polls on television networks like CNN and Fox, where some debatable question is posed and people are invited to phone in and vote their views. “Did you ever notice,” Carlin says, “there’s always, like, 18 percent who vote Ί don’t know’? It costs a dollar to make those calls,” Carlin says, “and they’re voting Ί don’t know.’” Carlin imagines some guy seeing the question of the day on the TV screen and saying to his wife, “Honey, give me that phone!” He shouts “I don’t know ! ” into the phone and then says proudly to his wife, “Sometimes you have to stand up for what you believe you’re not sure about.” Carlin goes on to speculate that these same people probably call 1-900 numbers for $3.00 a minute to say, “I’m not in the mood.” Suppose, however, that there were a preachers’ version of these phone polls, and the question of the day was “What do you think about eschatology? What are your views on the specific shape and character of Christian hope for the future? What do you make of the New Testament’s promise that ‘the Son of Man will come in the clouds with great power and glory’?” Most preachers would probably vote “I don’t know.” And as for actually preaching a sermon on the theme of eschatology? Well, “I’m not in the mood.”

    The Loss of an Eschatological Voice How today’s pulpit grew reticent about eschatology, about the classic “last things,” is a complex story, but it is also a remarkable story, because we who preach today are the heirs of preachers in a not-too-distant past who spoke often, clearly, and confidently of the Christian hope for people and for of all of creation. The children of Presbyterian clergyman Lyman Beecher, for example, remembered vividly that he prayed every day, “Overturn and overturn till He whose right it is shall come and reign, King of nations and King of saints.” Among educated clergy in the churches we have come to call “mainline,” the language of heaven, hell, Christ’s coming reign, and the final judgment were recurring and important topics of sermons in the nineteenth century, but by the close of the twentieth century a veil of embarrassment had been thrown over the whole matter. Preachers in 1850 spoke eloquently and frequently about the consummation of history in the return of Jesus Christ and of the pilgrimage of the soul toward eternal life, but they would have blushed at the mention of sex.

    *This article is an excerpt from “Preaching in the Future-Perfect Tense: Eschatology and Proclama­ tion, ” delivered as a part of the Lyman Beecher Lectures at Yale Divinity School, October 2006.


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    Today, many preachers are willing to discuss life’s fleshier problems with the frankness of Jerry Springer, but the prospect of preaching a sermon on the Second Coming or Judgment Day chills the blood. A number of years ago, a reader of the official denominational magazine of the United Church of Christ and the United Presbyterian Church sent this no-doubt earnest query to the question-answer column: Q. Why are there so few sermons in our churches on the Second Coming? Is this part of our belief or not? The wise “answer person” replied this way:

    A. Not all Christians think alike on matters of theology, but it would be hard for someone to feel at home in our tradition who did not understand God as the One who has come, who is present…in our lives today, and who is yet to come in whatever form the future ends up taking. To literalize the Second Coming is to ruin both its beauty and its significance. To ignore it is to avoid what may be the most important part of the Gospel we know about since the past and present, relatively speaking, are brief, while tomorrow borders on forever.1

    In a later issue of the magazine, another reader reacted to this answer:

    I compliment the Rev. for his illusive non-answer to what I am sure was a serious question concerning the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. If I understood his answer, he said, in effect, “We don’t all agree. But if you want to be comfortable in the UCC/UPC, you will need to agree that Jesus is coming again, but not really – for if you actually believe in the Second Coming you will ruin both its beauty and its significance. Yet you can’t ignore it because it is in the future.”2

    Like this later correspondent, we may wince at the confused gobbledygook of the editor’s answer to the original question, but most of us recognize in ourselves the same tendency to sand down the jagged, offending surfaces of eschatology. Whenever we enter the apocalyptic and eschatological territories of the Bible, we suddenly become disoriented tourists who don’t know the language, who stumble over the customs, who are made queasy by the diet, and who can’t find our way back to the hotel. What do you think about eschatology? I don’t know. What about a sermon on the Last Things? I’m not in the mood. What has happened to American preaching in the last one hundred years to cause the trumpet to lose its certain sound on eschatology? The story, as I read it, is that nineteenth-century Presbyterian, Congregationalist, Methodist, Episcopal, Baptist, and other clergy in the American Protestant mainstream (mostly in the North) married themselves to a form of eschatological thinking that was finally conflicted internally, ham-handed in terms of biblical hermeneutics, and notably ill-equipped to withstand the hurricane winds of social and intellectual change that swept over the American religious landscape in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. We are still walking around, stunned, in the dust and ash of its collapse. American church historian James Moorhead has persuasively described how a


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    wide swath of educated clergy in the mid-nineteenth century held firmly to a version of eschatology known as postmillennialism. This view of the course and consummation of history was actually a rather ingenious attempt to combine stout loyalty to the Bible, on the one hand, with an equally strong and optimistic commitment to social gradualism, on the other,3 and it was described by a contemporary as “the commonly received opinion” of the day.4 From the Bible came an apocalyptic view of time, complete with the full pyrotechnics of trumpet blowing angels, howling winds, stars falling from the heavens, “the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory,” and all the nations gathered before the throne to be divided into the sheep and the goats. Their strict, mostly literal view of the Bible forced postmillennialists to take with utmost seriousness the biblical images of the Second Coming, of the ultimate cataclysmic denouement of history, and of death as the personal moment of standing in the breech between heaven and hell. Make no mistake abut it, postmillennialists believed that one day “this old world was gonna reel and rock,” and their brand of eschatology had, as Moorhead says, a “hard residue of apocalypticism.”5 On the other side, though, from the social and philosophical Zeitgeist came an evolutionary view of history, moving ever onward up the ramp of progress. Postmillennialists were mostly educated and thoughtful denizens of their age who drank freely and deeply from the wells of developmental philosophy. History may be moving toward an omega point, they thought, but it was not blindly stumbling toward Armageddon. It was rather unfolding, evolving, and progressing toward the time when Christ would be all in all, and human beings had a role to play in this grand redevelopment project. The postmillennialists were, after al pert-millennial. The shaking of the world’s foundations was surely coming, but not yet, not soon. These events would occur only after a millennium of social and moral progress, an extensive span of time in which Christ and his people were at work in the world gradually nurturing and developing society toward the ultimate kingdom.”[T]his was an effort,” Moorhead says, “to maintain a sense of the End while keeping it at a seemly distance.”6 We have to admire their achievement. Apocalypticism and social developmentalism are odd bedfellows to be sure, and only the most heroic expenditure of energy and intellectual capital could keep their relationship from ending up in divorce court. As biblical scholar John Barton has noted, apocalyptic poetry and historical prose are usually not commensurate. When Scripture says, “The stars will fall from heaven and the sun will cease its shining; the moon will be turned to blood and fire mingled with hail will fall from the heavens,” we don’t expect the next phrase to be “the rest of the country will be partly cloudy with scattered showers.”7 What postmillennialism generated was a kinder and gentler eschatology than the alternative strain: premillennialism. Premillennialists, who barked their fearful theology mainly from the fringes, held to a Halloween nightmare view of the end of time. Human history was a soiled failure of sinful rebellion, and a Christ with wrathful, burning eyes was coming with his terrible swift sword at any minute to clean house and rescue his tiny righteous remnant. Mainstream Protestants, however, were far more relaxed. They had one thousand years, a whole millennium, to do what Protestants do best: toil like worker bees Christianizing the nation, evangelizing the world, improving society, and otherwise efficiently engineering countless institutions after the pattern of Christ. The great-grandchildren of pre-millennialists would put signs beside


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    freeways warning, “Are you ready? Christ is coming soon!” while the grandchildren of postmillennialists are running church bureaucracies. What the confident and socially suave postmillennialists did not know, though, was that, like the Titanic, another nineteenth century concept pushed into the dangerous seas of the twentieth century, postmillennialism was headed for the iceberg. To summon another metaphor, postmillennialism rested uneasily on a three-legged stool. The first leg was a naive view of the Bible as literally and factually accurate in every way. The second leg was the idea that Christianity was a religion so unlike, so superior to other religions as to constitute a difference not just in degree but in kind. Christianity was the unique revelation of God, and all other religions were but ignorant paganisms doomed to be superceded and left in Christianity’s evolutionary wake. The third leg was a proud view of human beings as superior rational and moral beings, higher than and separate from the rest of creation, and thus capable of engineering the kingdom’s arrival. What happened to this three-legged stool? To put it in shorthand, German higher criticism and science sawed off the first leg; anthropology and the comparative study of religions sawed off the second (for example, Andrew Dickson White, the president of Cornell, reported that he lost his faith in the miracle stories of the New Testament when he discovered in the 1850s that Islamic belief s included claims of the same sorts of miracles8); and Darwin and later Freud sawed off the third leg. The result was that the predominant eschatology of American religion, all of its supports compromised, collapsed in a heap. Unitarian Oliver Wendell Holmes’ famous poem “The Deacon’s Masterpiece, or the Wonderful One-Hoss Shay,” which poked fun at tightly constructed Puritan theology by describing a carriage where every part was logically crafted and each piece just a strong as the next one, could just as well have described the fall of postmillennial theology:

    You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, All at once, and nothing first, Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That’s all I say.

    Early in the twentieth century, the essayist Edmund Gosse spoke for a whole generation when he remembered the very moment when he lost his eschatological virginity, when his childhood faith in a future, coming Christ evaporated into thin air. He was a schoolboy, standing alone in the school year, and suddenly the air around him grew still. “There was,” he wrote,

    an absolute silence below and around me, a magic of suspense seemed to keep every topmost twig from waving. Over my soul there swept an immense wave of emotion. Now, surely now, the great final change must be approaching. I gazed up into the tenderly-colored sky, and I broke irresistibly into speech. “Come now, Lord Jesus,” I cried….I waited awhile, watching….Then a little breeze sprang up and the branches danced….From


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    far below there rose to me the chatter of boys returning home. The tea bell rang. …”The Lord has not come, the Lord will never come,” I muttered, and in my heart the artificial edifice of extravagant faith began to totter and crack.9

    Essentially within the span of a single generation, the reigning eschatological view of American mainstream Christianity fell to pieces. As Ernst Troeltsch stated just before World War I, “The eschatological bureau is closed these days.”10 And the mainstream pulpit grew strangely silent about the “final things.”

    The Return of the Repressed The French cultural critic Andre Malraux once observed that the figure of Christ, once so prominent as a theme in classical Western art, had largely disappeared in modern art. But Christ, Malraux claimed, was not really gone. Instead of being the subject of paintings, Christ, under other names, had become absorbed as the inner principle of modern art.11 Just so, eschatology, once a major motif in American theology and preaching, did not disappear. Rather it reappeared in the form of confidence in the doctrine of progress, confidence in human powers to transform society in the present tense. The language of an eschatological future, now turned to vapor, was sucked up into the engine of the optimistic present tense, and mainstream American preachers, deprived of eschatological language, devoid of a future hope, became instead apostles of progress in its many forms – moral progress, social improvement, the “power of positive thinking,” church growth, and the psychotherapeutic gospel. Even the growing agnosticism and atheism of late nineteenth and early twentieth century America was, in the final analysis, mostly Christian eschatology transformed into a domesticated and intellectually acceptable doctrine of progress. “Progress did for unbelievers,” claims historian James Turner,

    what God did for believers. The existence of God assured believers that the universe had a purpose. An agnostic had to conclude that the final purpose, if any, of the cosmos eluded human knowledge. But one could still feel that one’s own strivings did not evaporate into nothingness, that they held an infinitesimal but salient place in the pilgrimage of the race.12

    To hear how the contemporary church has turned away from eschatology, listen to the words of this popular hymn, generated in the Roman Catholic world, but finding traction among progressive Protestants, too:

    Not in the dark of buildings confining, not in some heaven, light years away— here in this place the new light is shining; now is the kingdom and now is the day! Gather us in and hold us forever; gather us in and make us your own; gather us in, all peoples together, fire of love in our flesh and our bone!13


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    “Not in the dark of buildings confining” is the anti-institutional, anti-embodiment prejudice of the reigning “I’m spiritual, but not religious” popular piety, and “not in some heaven, light years away” is the accompanying sarcastic rejection of the future tense as a meaningful register for religious experience. Everything is lodged in the mystical, disembodied present tense, and, having lost the power of eschatology, long before John Lennon ever penned it, twentieth century American Protestants could say, “Imagine there’s no heaven.” This is all gathered up in quasi-gnostic popular theologians such as Marcus Borg, who claims that “Jesus himself seems to have believed in an afterlife, but he doesn’t talk about it very much.”14 Actually, that statement better characterizes Borg and a host of other contemporary preachers than it does Jesus. Borg goes on to say, “Put most simply, salvation means to be saved from our predicament… [a] multilayered transformation of our lives in this word,9’15 and again, “[t]he biblical understandings of salvation are focused on this world, not the next.”16 The main problem with this, of course, is that this worldly theology, for all of its brave talk of transformation, is basically condemned to the possibilities already present in the human prospect. It is finally a form of pragmatic atheism, and the God who intrudes upon the closed system of the present tense is the most missed of all missing persons. As James Turner has noted about the nineteenth century, it was not the enemies of God who damaged the faith, it was the “get right with modernity” friends of God who did God in:

    [R]eligion caused unbelief. In trying to adapt their religious beliefs to socioeconomic change, to new moral challenges, to novel problems of knowledge, to the tightening standards of science, the defenders of God slowly strangled Him. If anyone is to be arraigned for deicide, it is not Charles Darwin but his adversary Bishop Samuel Wilberforce; not the godless Robert Ingersoll but the godly Beecher family.17

    One big piece of news in the church today is that even the evangelical Christian right, the last segment to hold onto eschatological claims, usually in premillennial form, has suffered, a century later, the same collapse of their theology of God’s future as mainstream Christians. Evangelical preachers, too, have become evangelists not for the God who breaks in from the future but instead for progress, and their sermons have moved into the present tense genre of wisdom literature. Consider Rick Warren, the Hawaiian-shirted, bare-ankled preacher to an SUV-driving congregation at California’s Saddleback Church and the author of The Purpose-Driven Life. Among his sermons on healing hidden wounds, finding the courage to make a difference, and the essentials of life, Rick Warren will throw in an occasional sermon on heaven and the afterlife, but you get the sense his heart isn’t in it. As for Joel Osteen, the pastor of Houston’s gargantuan Lakewood mega-church, his focus is firmly on the present tense, on Your Best Life Now!

    The Recovery of Eschatology Contemporary theology is marked by a vibrant resurgence of eschatology, but so far this has bypassed American pulpit, which remains stuck in the funeral rites of the death of nineteenth century thought forms. Vibrant Christian preaching depends upon


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    the recovery of its eschatological voice, an eschatology that avoids the naïveté of nineteenth century literalism while insisting that the full disclosure of God is not fully contained in the present tense. As Duke Ellington once said, “There are two types of music, good and bad, and you can tell them apart by listening.” Just so, there are two types of eschatology, and you can tell them apart by living them out. The first kind of eschatology depends upon a literalistic grip on biblical images and results in a gospel that is either intellectually implausible or “pie in the sky” irrelevance. The second kind of eschatology, however, allows the eschatological affirmations that “Christ is risen!” and “Jesus is Lord!” to exercise tension upon the present tense, generating both judgment and promise. Liturgical scholar Gordon Lathrop has insisted, “[PJreaching ought to be an eschatological event, the presence of God to create faith.”18 Whatever else this might mean, it implies that preaching is God’s word, come to us from God’s future, from the time of eschatological fullness, and as such forms both a judgment upon and an offer of redemption to the present predicament.19 Years ago a student of mine told about a summer he had spent as a menial laborer on a construction crew. He said that his foreman was a person of kindness and grace. If a worker got sick on the job, he understood and made arrangements. If a worker had problems at home and was late or absent from work, he would cover for him. The one thing this foreman would not tolerate, though, was if a worker would sit down on the job before the work was done. To sit down was a sign that the job was done, and to do so beforehand was a violation of a sacred trust. Just so, the Christian affirmation that Jesus is “seated at the right hand of God” is essentially a claim that the work is done, that, in God’s chronology, justice has been established and that, in God’s eternal time, shalom even now reigns. Eschatological preaching brings the finished work of God to bear on an unfinished world, summoning it to completion. Progress preaching tells people to gird up their loins and to use the resources at hand to make the world into God’s kingdom, and such preaching necessarily condemns people to failure and despair. Eschatological preaching promises a “new heaven and a new earth” and invites people to participate in a coming future that is open to their labors but not of their own making. Biblical scholar J. Christiaan Beker puts it well when, in assessing the continuing value of Paul’s apocalyptic and eschatological thought for today, he points out that claims like Borg’ s that “biblical understandings of salvation are focused on this world, not the next” imply a false and unbiblical dichotomy:

    [W]e must seriously attend to the beckoning power of God’s coming triumph without losing ourselves either in chronological speculations or in a denial of the coming actualization of God’s promise. God’s act in Christ focuses our attention on the present time as an “apocalyptic” time, that is, on the either-or of our allegiance: do we either serve Christ or the powers of this world? The apocalyptic categories of Paul’s gospel focus primarily on the “now” of our decision, but they do so only because of the motivating and beckoning power of God9 s final triumph. For the “now” of our decision is only then realistic when it is inspired by the vision of God’s kingdom. Without that apocalyptic vision, our hope becomes either a romantic


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    illusion or a constrictive demand because it collapses God’s coming triumph in our present personal stance and will power.20

    But where will preachers today find fresh language to speak the eschatological claims of the gospel? Strangely enough, the most promising revival of eschatological hope is appearing not just among systematic theologians, but among artists and novelists, and it is to them that we must now turn.

    Notes

    1. United Presbyterian A.D. (October, 1981), 16 as quoted in J. Christiaan Beker, Paul’s Apocalyptic Gospel: The Coming Triumph of God (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1982), 12-13. 2. United Presbyterian A.D. (December, 1981), 8 as quoted in Beker, 13. 3. James H. Moorhead, World Without End: Mainstream Protestant Visions of the Last Things, 18801925 (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1999), xiii. 4. Ibid., xii. 5. Ibid., xiv. 6. Ibid. 7. John Barton, Reading the Old Testament: Method in Biblical Study, Second Edition (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 17. 8. James Turner, Without God, Without Creed (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985), 155. 9. Edmund Gosse, Father and Son: A Study of Two Temperaments (New York: W.W. Norton, 1963, original edition 1907), 231-232, as quoted in Moorhead, xi. 10. Ernst Troeltsch as quoted in F. L. Polak, The Image of the Future (New York: Oceana Publications, 1961), 243. 11. See John B. Cobb, Jr., Christ in a Pluralistic Age (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1975), chap. 1. 12. Turner, 237. 13. “Here in this Place,” words by Marty Haugen, copyright 1982 by GIA Publications, Inc. 14. Marcus Borg, The Heart of Christianity: Rediscovering a Life of Faith (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2003), 173. 15. Ibid., 178, emphasis mine. 16. Ibid., 172, emphasis mine. 17. Turner, xiii. 18. Gordon W. Lathrop, The Pastor: A Spirituality (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006), 49. 19. Ibid., 50. 20. Paul’s Apocalyptic Gospel: The Coming Triumph of God (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1982), 118.

  • God’s good gift

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    God’s Good Gift

    Isaiah 56:7-8; Acts 8: 26-40

    John L. Bell

    Iona Community, Iona, Scotland

    The eunuch must not say, “I am nothing but a barren tree.” (Isaiah 54:3)

    Lincoln Cathedral has hit the headlines for agreeing to do what Westminster Abbey declined, and, in the process, encouraging tourism and fomenting opprobrium. The Cathedral has agreed to be one venue for the film version of the Da Vinci Code, that bestseller that has lined the pockets of its author and publishers but caused a little consternation in some Christian circles because of questions the book raises regarding the romantic designs of Jesus. I discovered this while working at Montreat Conference Center in North Carolina earlier in the summer. I was the conference preacher and had been asked to give a daily plenary address to senior high students. Preferring to dialogue with, rather than talk at, I devised a process that enabled these youth to articulate what for them were key questions regarding the Christian faith. The Da Vinci Code aficionados found thereby the means to bring up issues the book had raised: “Did Jesus have a girlfriend?” asked one boy. “Was he married?” asked anoth-er. Then a girl asked, “Was Jesus gay?” Now it would have been easy and certainly convenient to suggest that these were not really crucial questions, that perhaps we should look at original sin and limited atonement. But I sensed that while the issues raised might not be big for me, they were big issues for teenagers whose bodies, emotions, and perspectives on life are all in a process of change. So I decided not to avoid the questions but to put them in a larger context. And I began by saying, “I want to tell you something about Jesus that maybe no one has ever told you before. But I can say this with abject certainty: Jesus had a penis.” There was an intake of air and looks of disbelief on every face, particularly on the faces of twenty adults who were sitting at the back of the room, and who I wrongly presumed to be the Presbyterian Thought Police. So I said, “In case you didn’ t hear me, “JESUS HAD A PENIS.” I think if I had said he had a tail or two heads it would have been much easier to deal with. Now why should that information be so alarming? I mean, it is biblically verifiable. We don’t know anything about Jesus’ liver or Jesus’ ears or Jesus’ tonsils, but we do read in Luke’s Gospel (2:21) that eight days after his birth he was circumcised. And that isn’t done to a man’s thumb. Yes, the truth is biblically verifiable, but in the long history of the church, issues of sex and sexuality have been treated with more embarrassment and negativity than with openness and affirmation. Some people might want to blame it on Paul, who was discouraging of intimate personal relations because he believed that Christ was going to return soon. Some would put the onus of blame on Augustine, who seems to have found his libido something of a problem. Certainly, since Augustine, much of the teaching of the Roman Catholic church has been “cautious” with regard to sexuality, seeing sex as primarily for reproductive purposes rather than for mutual pleasure. But the Protestant churches have been equally remiss. It is in most of our lifetimes that Anglican and


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    reformed Christians argued against the ordination of women. One of the objections was that because women menstruated they were somehow contaminated. And it is certainly in my experience that women who had given birth to a child had to stay away from public worship until they were no longer “unclean.” While Roman Catholics espoused a celibate priesthood as if there were an extra special spiritual virtue in being single, Protestants expected their clergy to have as many children as their manses had rooms. And any minister who did not find a wife was looked on as deficient. So there has been an awkwardness, an embarrassment, a lack of healthy appreciation of the body, never mind sexuality, in the history of the church. But I suppose there is also what we might call the scandal of the incarnation. Incarnation—that word is most often associated with events at Bethlehem surrounding the birth of Jesus, as if the whole of his life were not a manifestation of God in the flesh. And sometimes what is said about Bethlehem is not very accurate. We have plenty of Christmas songs telling us that Jesus didn’t cry. “Away in a Manger ” says that Jesus lay in his mother’s arms until his bar mitzvah; “Once in Royal David’ s City” says that Jesus was born in a totally quiet environment; “O Little Town of Bethlehem” says that Jesus was given a lamb by the shepherds. “In the Bleak Midwinter” suggests that all of these presumptions have absolutely no scriptural foundation. But when it comes to Jesus’ enjoying food and drink, a constant in the Gospels, nothing is celebrated in song. When it comes to Jesus’ being angry, another constant in the Gospels, nothing. When it comes to Jesus’ being not only argumentative but provocative, again evident in the Gospels, nothing. When it comes to Jesus’ having the same genital equipment and emotional and sexual potential as any other man, our response is to perspire with embarrassment. Well it’s time we got over that— if we want to claim as the creed states that “He became human.” God gave to Jesus what God has given to us all: marvelous and mysterious gifts. SSSexuality is one; personality is another; creativity is another; imagination is a fourth. We’re all born with these potentials, and nothing in the Bible says that they are essentially bad. Not the Adam and Eve story, not St. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians. Indeed such gifts—sexuality, personality, creativity, imagination, each of them wonderful, are part of our being made in God’s image: “and when God saw what he had created, it was very good.” That is not to say that these gifts cannot be misused. The same personality present in a good husband and devoted father may also be present in a torturer or terrorist. The same creativity that can discover a cure for malaria could advance the frontiers of germ warfare. The same imagination that can create a Hollywood musical might also produce a sadistic horror movie. And sexuality has an equal potential to be life-enhancing or life-degrading whether we are in a committed relationship or single, physically expressive or celibate. Maybe we have to get over the fiction that only those who are sexually active have sexuality. One of the sexiest women I know died as a virgin at the age of ninety-two. She was feminine with every fiber of her being. The fact that she never had had a partner did not diminish her sexuality. If anything it enhanced it, for she was everybody’s girlfriend, big sister, and, in her later years, granny. If we agree that sexuality is one of God’s gifts to each of us, there is then a concomitant question: What do we recognize and value first in a gift—its good potential or its possible misuse? Suppose on your next birthday a friend gives you a present wrapped in fine paper. You feel that it is heavy. You begin to unwrap it. Be-


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    neath the paper is a solid cardboard box. You open it up and there’s a lot of tissue paper. You clear that away and see a beautiful silver Celtic cross, twelve inches tall, set in a solid green marble base. What would your friend think if, as you looked at the gift, you said, “You know, if you hit someone with this, you could kill them.” What an outrageous thing to say! What about its beauty? What about its crafting? What about its potential to inspire devotion, to remind you of your Savior? What is it that makes us see God’s gift of sexuality as some kind of bogus, dubious, devious endowment? I love the story of the two nuns who were walking along a country lane. They came to a wall on which was a large sign: Nudist Camp. One nun said to the other, “What do you think is behind the wall?” And the other said, “I don’t know.” So the first suggested that she would bend down and let the second nun stand on her shoulders. So the second nun did that. Then the first nun asked, “What do you see?” The answer came back, ” It’s just people walking about.” ” Yes” said the first sister, “but is it men or women ?” “I don’t know,” came the reply, “They have no clothes on.” What blissful naïveté, and what a positive affirmation of humanity. I sometimes think that if I were to go back to my first job, which was youth work, I would spend much more time intentionally praying with young people about their bodies, thanking God for the physical changes, thanking God for the range of feelings and emotions, thanking God for the curiosity that is inevitable in teenagers, thanking God that Jesus had known all these feelings and confusion, and asking God to help us honor the marvelous gift of sexuality and to know how to use it respectfully. This is what many churches in Africa find themselves doing. For faced with one in four people in some communities being HIV positive, a message of negativity and condemnation has not proven fruitful, as demonstrated recently in Swaziland, where the rate of infection has increased rather that decreased following a celibacy campaign. What is needed is a positive appraisal of God’s good gift and encouragement to honor it. But there are two things I haven’t yet dealt with that might reasonably be in your minds: The first are the questions I alluded to earlier: Did Jesus get married? Did he have a girlfriend? Was he gay? I can’t answer each question for certain. But I believe, and I take this directly from the gospel, that he never entered into a committed romantic or sexual relationship. And the reason is very simple: his legacy to humanity was the gospel of salvation, and anything that might detract from that was not to be pursued. Had Jesus a partner or a wife, had he had children, there would have been a burden on them that would have been intolerable to carry. Countries with a royal family know all too well how throughout history the sons and daughters, wives and lovers of kings have been a source of scandal and intrigue. Jesus would never have burdened anyone with that legacy. And this is consistent with the way in which he distances himself at times from his mother to prevent her from being the center of salacious media attraction or common gossip. But the second thing you might have in your mind is the Ethiopian eunuch. I haven’t mentioned him yet, although it was his story we heard from the Book of Acts. Eunuch is a funny word. You don’t get it in hymns. It doesn’ t rhyme with much, unless you are Scottish. But eunuchs—whether born as such or castrated maliciously or ceremonially—have, throughout history, been seen sometimes as trustworthy and sometimes as sinister. In Deuteronomy, the law of Moses made it quite clear that no man whose testicles did not function could be part of the household of God. This must have isolated these men even more because often their own families did not want them,


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    looking on them as freaks. And if they themselves were incapable of fathering children and having a family of their own to whom did they belong? Eunuchs suffered from triple estrangement—from their faith community, their birth family, and from any hope of a future family. So in the early days of the church, Philip is led by the Spirit to join not a local Jewish eunuch but a foreign Ethiopian eunuch, ablack man, in his carriage as he reads apart of Isaiah’s prophecy from chapter 53. When asked to whom Isaiah’s words referred, Philip reveals to the eunuch the gospel of Jesus. The effect is such that though he himself might feel unattached and unattachable, and though others might disapprove of or be embarrassed by his sexuality, he asks for baptism. And through this sacrament, administered in a desert pool without a book of church order, he is brought into the community that is the church, in which men and women, partnered and celibate, are brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, sons and daughters to each other. This happened because Philip realized that while others might have viewed the eunuch’s sexuality as a curse or a predicament, God wanted him, and wanted him to know that he and his sexuality had a place and purpose in the community of faith. When Jesus Christ was born of the virgin Mary, he wasn’t an emasculated angel who came from Mary’s womb, he was God taking on human flesh and human emotions, gifts of which humanity should never be ashamed. To the One who makes this and all things possible be our praise and glory, now and forever.

  • Preaching to [‘to’ crossed out] with exiles

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    Preaching te-with Exiles1

    David S. Lindsay

    Presbyterian College, South Carolina

    imagine no possessions,

    i wonder if you can,

    no need for greed or hunger, a brotherhood of man

    imagine all the people

    sharing all the world…

    you may say i’m a dreamer

    but i’m not the only one

    i hope some day you’ll join us

    and the world will be as one.2

    By many standards, December 8,2005, was an unremarkable winter day in upstate South Carolina-just another day in the life of a college chaplain. Across the wideranging campus ministry community where the chaplain – this author – lives and serves, the “congregation” of some 1300 students, staff, and faculty was focused on final exams and the extended holiday break that loomed, tantalizingly, just beyond this brief period of intense test-taking and grading. As it happened, this chilly, overcast day also marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of the assassination of John Lennon. In response to that anniversary, one of the youngest faculty members from within the college community – a well-liked and respected history professor – organized an informal service on the steps of the main academic building. The casual outdoor gathering was designed to celebrate and honor the life and legacy of the enormously important singer-songwriter -considered a prophetic voice (albeit a radical and polarizing one) of the twentieth century with his stirring and evocative songs of hope, peace, and reconciliation.3 The service itself was brief and very informal. About forty-five people huddled together on cold concrete steps and listened, intently, as four John Lennon songs were amplified over a small CD player borrowed from a nearby dorm room. The “liturgy” consisted only of typed song lyrics; during the gaps between each song individuals shared spontaneous remarks and reflected upon the transformative power and impact of John Lennon’s music. Though intergenerational in composition, the crowd consisted mostly of young adults in their late teens and early twenties, all of them born after the death of the man they were gathering to remember. At the conclusion of the service – and in lieu of community prayer – the professor who organized the service sincerely and warmly thanked everyone for coming together for this event. There was an informal, impassioned charge to the community to evidence signs of hope and love with others in the days ahead. People exchanged hugs and words of peace with one another and departed into the rest of their day. Along with a couple of other students, I headed back across the crowded, grassy quad to my office in the campus’s student center. As is my Pavlov-like pattern, I walked into the office, turned up the heat, flipped on my stereo, and promptly checked my phone and email messages. “Wow,” I remarked to the people who’d accompanied


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    me back to the office, ‘That’s pretty cool. Γ ve just sent out my 11,000 th email of the

    year.” Though random, fairly generic, and only subversively “religious,” these two expe­ riences are useful and significant illustrations for the purposes of this article. My invitation for this issue of the Journal was to “write an article on Easter preaching to young adults.” Why, one might wonder, so narrow a topic when most of us will be preaching to a much wider range of age groups in our worship services? Is it because this may be the last sermon that some of our young adults hear and experience until Christmas rolls around? Unquestionably, there is a perceptible sense of anxious “straw-grasping” occurring within the church today when it comes to more effectively engaging the preaching task with newer, more practical and meaningful approaches. I also suspect that the invitation is related more to a faithful, loving, and urgent awareness – a shared, growing attentiveness within many congregations and contexts for ministry – of perceived patterns of irreligiousness and irreverence in the attitudes and outlooks of so many young adults toward church membership and institutional­ ized religion. Those are certainly extraordinarily important observations and cri­ tiques. As an Ipod-carrying member of Generation X, a demographic coveted and pursued so arduously by both Madison Avenue marketers and the church, I will offer up yet another essential “I” word related to this topic. This word is prophetic and possibly a threatening one (though it is hardly a new or original one) that, for me and others of my generation, captures a bit of the nature of the relationship between some young adults and some forms of organized religion in the twenty-first century: irrelevance. 5

    The opening illustrations of this article point to unavoidable and undeniable realities of the lived experiences of many young adults today. The Lennon service emphasizes the popular, emerging, and spiritually meaningful appeal of “worship” styles, formats, and settings that may not seem overtly or obviously religious – at least not to some people – and perhaps especially to those from other generations and perspectives. The flood of e-mails shared between a campus pastor and the young adults in his “congregation” reminds us of the hugely transformative shift in media and communication over the last decade – our popular and ever-expanding dependence upon using instantaneous and (arguably) impersonal modes of contact for informa­ tion-sharing and relationship-building. A substantial majority of those 11,000 e-mails I sent out during the course of a year involved engaging in some sort of pastoral conversation or moment of pastoral care. In almost all cases, these e-mails were either an initial or ongoing part of an ever-developing, Christ-centered, pastoral relation­ ship. 6

    These anecdotes suggest that the culture is rapidly changing and evolving in these postmodern times. I also believe these two specific examples hint hopefully at ways the Holy Spirit is alive, active, and well in this re-formation of spiritual selfunderstandings that also, and importantly, should become connected coherently to corporate expressions of our enthusiastically grateful worship of God. The importance of our generous, bold, and imaginative ability to seek and discover Christ’s presence and God’s purposes wherever and whenever possible with our young adults will have tremendous implications for preaching and pastoral tasks in the twenty-first century— and with all people of faith. My own experience tells me that far too often, we give only passing attention to


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    thinking creatively, joyfully, and honestly about how it is that we actually relate, pastor, preach, teach, empower, and equip our young adults. On the one hand, we can be very quick and ready to ask: Which young couples can we approach and ask to serve as our volunteer youth group leaders and nursery attendants this year? ( I recommend inviting retirees to become volunteer youth advisors. They will be terrific companions in those journeys of youthful faith!) What snazzy and appealing “inducement” – a fitness center, terrific childcare – will prove to be a good entry point of evangelism for attracting young adults and young families to consider church membership? What program – perhaps a terrifically-themed Christian education course or Wednesday night supper program – will provoke eager attendance among our young adults? These questions are better asked in a secondary and supplementary way. There are far better questions that are often not being asked as often or as passionately: How can we embrace the broadly diverse faith backgrounds and current experiences of “young adults” while also somehow not minimizing, patronizing, or ignoring the gorgeous diversity of God’s purposeful evidence and presence in the lives of individuals and communities? How are we empowering and supporting our single adults to feel equally welcomed and celebrated? This, to me, is a shared failure in so many settings of ministry. Young adults are getting married – if at all – much later in life than did the Boomers. Much of the time, we are not well-equipped or fully focused (however well-intentioned) on ministering with this part of the young adult population . How openly are we caring for (and preaching about) those going through divorce, joblessness, infertility, loneliness, overwhelming busyness, and the loneliness of spiritual fatigue and confusion – all commonly ignored and often-avoided issues (at least, from the pulpit) that characterize young adulthood for many people? I have said very little about the actual task of preaching. That is intentional. To be able to preach with young adults, we must first be better able to know and relate to them. We must boldly discover embodied models for proclaiming the Good News of God – the unshakable, true, and life-transforming Word of God – in language and in presence that authentically reveal how we genuinely appreciate, support, love, and care about these generations of people and how we seek to be able to become dependable, humble fellow sojourners on the path of experiencing Christ’s redeeming grace and sustaining love.

    Non-Negotiables Easter preaching with young adults cannot and should not be i solated to one season of the year. Many of us summon up some of our “best” and boldest sermons for Easter Sunday. We must summon up that same exuberant wonder and excitement that accompanies the miraculous choice and event of the resurrection with the wonder and excitement that fills each day of the lectionary calendar. Second, Easter preaching with young adults must remain biblically-centered, gimmick-free, culturally-aware, and authentically shared. We, as young adults, do not want our gospel in watered-down forms. That seems to be a gentle critique offered up toward some emerging forms of ecclesiology. And, in some cases, that critique may be fairly aimed. However, most of the young adults I know want to know more about the Jesus they read about in the pages of the gospels – the God who chose to love, eat, bless, and to simply enjoy hanging out with strangers, outcasts, sinners, and lepers. Finally, Easter preaching with young adults can happen, by the power and pur-


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    poses of the Holy Spirit, whenever and wherever the gospel of Jesus Christ is proclaimed. It far less about location and much more about the relevance, coherence, and sincerity of the lived-out faith of covenant communities of shared meaning. This may or may not include the presence of wooden pews and high pulpits. We must become more attuned and less afraid of the many revelatory possibilities for how and when God’s word can be shared with young adults, and with all people.

    Explanation of Terms: Postmodernism, Young Adults, and Exile In a wide-ranging, overreaching article like this one, language becomes precariously dangerous and contested. Undoubtedly, I will misuse or be misunderstood in my use of these terms, but this is my current, still forming, and faith-filled understanding of common expressions that relate, vitally, to the topic of postmodern preaching. In so many ways, an article examining the topic of preaching to young adults might more accurately be described as exploring “postmodern preaching.” In “The Gospel for Post-Modernity: Finding a Center,” William Stacy Johnson sketches the outlines of postmodernity, a term largely indefinable by its very paradoxical nature. In part, he claims:

    Postmodernity represents much more than a passing fad among radically chic academics; it is a wide-ranging set of cultural shifts that are fast becoming second-nature for many of our parishioners. Like it or not, these shifts will profoundly affect the way the church conducts its ministry for the foreseeable future. [Postmodernity] is not a monolithic reality but a bewildering profusion of responses to the contradictions and limitations raised by “modernity.” One of these is the problem of “founda-tions.” At least since the seventeenth century, the modern world has tended to construe meaning and truth according to a set of incorrigible foundations—certain cornerstones believed to be objectively, universally, and self-evidently true. Some found an unblemished foundation of knowledge in “experience ,” while others found it in “reason.” In the wake of the modern experiment, postmodernity has come to recognize the futility of this desire for fixed foundations. Like the character in the biblical story who stored up for himself treasures on earth instead of in heaven, those who seek to secure their lives with a set of human foundations are sure to be disappointed. In contrast to the modern fixation on foundations, postmodernity has asserted the plural, contextual, and open-ended character of meaning. Rather than looking for a single “center” of meaning, postmodernity appreciates the “decentered” character of meaning and truth. The postmodern mindset decenters “reason”; it decenters “experience”; and it suspects that claims to speak from the “center” all too often are but a subterfuge for wielding power over others. Some Christians may well perceive in the open-endedness of postmodernity a radical threat to the gospel. If Jesus Christ is the way, the truth, and the life, then how can there be any Christian rapprochement with this adolescent worldview that casually brushes aside all claims to universal certainty? Indeed, many advocates of postmodernity have abandoned belief in God and drifted away from the church. Still, the postmodern milieu also


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    offers the church a tremendous opportunity. Times of momentous cultural change have often provided the pivotal occasion for the gospel to be heard afresh. This was clearly the case in the world of late antiquity; it was also the case during the reformations of the sixteenth century; and, by God’s grace, it may once again be so in the cyberworld of the rapidly approaching twenty-first century.8

    I also deeply admire what Brian McClaren describes as the five core values of postmodernism in his provocative book, The Church on the Other Side.9 His sensible insights pair nicely with Johnson’s theologically enriching understandings of postmodernism . 1. Postmodernism is skeptical of certainty. There are moments for us to more openly confess and exuberantly celebrate the mystery and paradox of becoming and being faithful, impassioned followers of Christ. Let us be bold, vulnerable, and honest: we do not know all the answers. Let’s claim the parable-like, mystically-experienced qualities of our humanity that wonderfully challenge and enrich it as we live it. 2. Postmodernism is sensitive to context. Too often, we seem to think that we need to adapt parts of popular culture (offering “contemporary worship” or having a weekly session of “theology on tap” at a local pub) to attract and serve our young adults. These might be fantastic entry points for immersion into popular forms of culture. Pastors, preachers, and laity need to attend to the broader context of life experiences in more sensitive and patient kinds of ways. Let’s listen to the narrative arcs and narrative wreckage of our communities of faith. 3. Postmodernism leans toward the humorous. There is a balance between wit and wisdom. We need to trust our sense of humor and be able to express God’s love and radical claims in ways that are also generous in spirit and mood. There is something audaciously awesome and hilarious about our seeking to “explain” God’s abundant love and grace. 4. Postmodernism highly values subjective experience. 5. For postmoderns, togetherness is a rare, precious, and elusive experience. Young adults—who are they? A common way to capture this ambiguous demographic is to simply speak of folks in their twenties and thirties. This, however, diminishes the wide variety of experiences that are being lived out by people who just happen to be born in the same era. Some young adults are determinedly single. Some are married with children. Some are going through divorce. Some are new to the faith. Some are blissfully steeped in traditions imprinted in the households of their childhood . Others have discovered the joy and excitement of meeting God, again, in the more autonomous landscape of adulthood. To my mind, there is a better way to talk about this group. First, think of this group more in terms of attitude than age. Many folks in their forties might want to be able to participate in the programs and classes but feel excluded because they were born too early in the 1960’s. Similarly, some in their late twenties feel limited in their being thrust into a narrow category of options for fellowship and Christian education. We can become a bit more relaxed and flexible. Second, it is time to invite college-age adults in this group. Far too often, our ministry for and with this demographic consists mostly of monthly newsletters and Christmas care packages sent to students who are away at colleges and universities.


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    This is not enough. Congregations must find ways to work with schools and families in continuing to serve their adults when they leave their homes of origin for school and work. Young adulthood most certainly signals an immersion into exile – a liberating, terrifying departure from the forms of faith and religious inculcated in the first two decades of life toward the wide-open expanse of spiritual self-discovery and exposure that seems most emphatic as folks leave their home for school, work, and marriage. Third, consider the language we have often used to describe this group: “Young” can carry with it the unintended meaning of being immature and unready; “Young” can unwittingly imply a lack of wisdom and ability to lead. Maybe it is time for us to use much broader categories. For instance, we could identify those in the time of life between (roughly) ages eighteen through forty-three as “Middlers.” This might better capture the shared variety of experiences of this twenty-five-year span of life that finds many people discerning their vocational call, forming lifelong relationships, and creating homes and communities of meaning for themselves and their families.10 Exile is a common and critical theological description and metaphor that aptly captures the experiences of many young adults. The theological description and existential condition of exile is a terrifically evocative and descriptive term for relating the un-relatable — the shared, and yet also completely personal experiences of many young adults who find themselves cultivating their faith and spirituality after leaving home, often permanently, for the first time in their young lives. This theological concept of exile is invested with new and life-altering meaning for young adults as they often find themselves in a strange and unfamiliar spiritual “land” upon leaving their homes of origin. For many people, a college community becomes the first place and first time in their religious lives where faith-related decisions (about church participation, for example) become an almost fully independent choice. This is both disorienting and thrilling for them as they encounter unfamiliar forms and expressions of belief – both Christian and non-Christian. Evidence and experience suggests that this time of life often also marks a time of departure into the wilderness away from the religious traditions and beliefs that have been instilled and nurtured during the “household” faith of childhood and youth. Many young adults of current generations will explore, adapt, nurture, and understand their spiritual selves in ways that do not necessarily include membership in local congregations or that conform to the models instilled and installed by their families of origin. Though this trend feels alarming to many people from many parts of the church, I think it signals an exciting shift and re-formation of ecclesiological patterns and possibilities. As Walter Brueggemann might suggest in any of his wonderful texts, this exilic status presents terrific pastoral possibilities and opportunities for the church. Let’s seize these opportunities with hope.

    Conclusion Many of us, perhaps and especially, young adults, are amused by David Lettermanlike lists. They appeal to our irreverent outlook and sense of humor. Such lists appeal to our preference to quickly assimilate small, sound-bite pieces of information. In that spirit, here is my own list, titled, “In Our Ever-Emerging E-World, Eleven Elements of Effective Easter Preaching With Young Adults.” 11. Extend. We must physically, personally, and continually extend invitations


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    to young adults into times of worship and fellowship. Cutesy, clever signs posted out in front of sanctuaries on the church lawn won’t work. Nor will simply hoping that my peers will come together on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights because of habit or tradition. Bulk mailings feel random and painfully indifferent. Pastors and congregations need to reach out and build personal relationships to open wider the possibility for hearing the Word proclaimed. 10. Eat. Strongly consider establishing an effective “ministry of meals” whereby you hear and share in stories of life and faith with young adults over sub sandwiches, salads, or a pint of beer. Listen deeply and carefully to the shape, characters, and moods that fill these narratives. Help us to find language and God’s purposeful meanings in our stories. 9. Empower. Young adults need to experience much more than just lip-service surrounding the notion that young adults (and youth) are equally and fully called into life of shared ministry· When was the last time we took a young adult to lunch to talk about his or her passions and gifts for ministry? How often does my spiritual “homeland ,” site of my marriage, and my retreat center of choice – the Montreat Conference Center – invite young adults to preach in their nationally-known Summer Worship preaching series? Young adults want to see folks who look and sound like them. Don’ t relegate us to the “kid’s table” of church leadership. Boldly invite us into shifting from consumers of church to creators of church. We are not all that invested in “church maintenance.” 8. Educate. Let us be pastorally sensitive that we will each come into worship with differing backgrounds and exposures into Christian education and biblical literacy. As we preach God’s Word, let’s be patiently committed to fleshing out the people and places that form the backdrop for God’s compelling story. Please do not patronize us but lead us through the many aspects and parts of “becoming” part of the body of Christ. 7. Embrace ecumenism. Generation X and the Millenials are more optimistic and open to possibilities of deeper denominational friendships. Let us continue to seek ways to reach out and to become pulled into dialogue and community (two words rapidly losing their meaning and power to members of these generations) with our neighbors. Let us, in our words and behavior, reflect God’s own hospitality with others. 6. Embrace the exilic. Liminality is an unavoidable condition of our human experience . And for many good reasons, the liminal, exilic quality of the time of life between childhood and later adulthood is one of the most critical times in our faith development and understanding. More than ever, we need to be physically, pastorally, and patiently present with young adults in exile. 5. Embrace the emergent. The Holy Spirit is still participating in the re-forming and reshaping of ecclesiological forms. Don’t dismiss traditional, conservative, and deeply enriching modes and models of worship. At the same time, let’s not become overly suspicious or dismissive of emerging forms of church life and worship. 4. Exhort. Letusbecomemorepropheticinourpreaching. We must become more passionate, radical, and even reckless in proclaiming the amazing expanses of God’s grace and intentionality for creation. Anything short of such faithful exhortation runs a risk of sounding too safe or too hypocritical. Show us why God matters. 3. Evangelize (gently and generously!). Give witness to an invitation to a


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    committed Christian life with language, opportunities for service and study, and images that bring sustenance for our souls while helping express the meaning of our lives that naturally take upon Christ-shaped forms. 2. Experience. What we feel will linger longer than what we hear. Lead us in unearthing a life-giving and life-shaping faith and spirituality. Help us to discover the richness and fullness of a life in Christ through the trustworthy, open, and generous companionship of people, and God, who dares and continually chooses to love each one of us. 1. Easter. In each of our sermons, let us always proclaim – faithfully, strongly, and joyfully – the saving death of our Risen Lord until he comes again. Preaching with young adults cannot begin and end with written words carefully exegeted and engagingly composed alone in the confinement of our church libraries and offices. Though this may seem to be an overly obvious attribute of good homiletics, it certainly needs to be emphasized for the expressed purposes of this article. The preaching task, perhaps most especially with young adults, will begin and remain connected to hearers of the Word through embodied, energizing, and sustained relationships between preachers and the members of their congregations. Let’s give the final word attributed to St. Francis of Assisi: “Preach the gospel always, and when necessary, use words.”

    Notes

    1. This title gives me a chance to offer a caveat and a clue about the thesis of the article. My invitation to write for the Journal requested comments on “Easter preaching to young adults.” I am convinced that a huge chasm is closed in changing “to” to “with.” One of the primary points of the article is an emphasis on empowering young adults (indeed, all hearers of the proclaimed Word) into a more fully participatory role in the preaching task. Similarly, I know that the opportunity to preach just with young adults is rare. None of us who preach can narrow God’s Word to one demographic in most of our Sunday services; hence, I like the broad use of “exiles.” I agree with Walter Brueggemann’s idea of the Church in exile. Further, I sense that young adults—Generation X’ers and Millenials—often experience a profound type of exile today. 2. Lyrics from the title track of John Lennon’s second solo album, imagine (Apple Records, 1971). Written by Lennon, a member of the Beatles (arguably the most famous and acclaimed rock band of all time), the song became and remains popular as an anti-war protest song. 3. In many ways, the professor and friend of mine who organized this event also fits the profile of the “type” of young adult I focus on in this article. Raised in the Roman Catholic church, this thirty-two-yearold teacher would probably not describe himself as an active member of a local congregation. This fact, however, does not diminish (in my opinion) his faithful, devoted pursuit of Christ-like humility, service, and kindness to humanity. For example, he generously volunteers to preach at community chapels and is active in cultivating the spiritual lives of the students he teaches. 4. On this day—December 8, 2005—my email “SENT” box registered exactly 11,000 e-mails, the number of e-mails I had sent out from my office computer over a span of twenty months. While many of the e-mails could be categorized as some combination of administrative functions, casual exchanges, and personal correspondence, a substantial portion would fall into a category of “pastoral conversation” and care. As the primary form of communication, along with mobile phones, for young, college-age adults, e-mail has become an effective and necessary pastoral tool in my ministry. 5. By irrelevance, I am most certainly not referring to the life-transforming, Christ-centered richness and relevance of God’s Word. In so many ways, this article could fairly and rightly be characterized as navelgazing . I am a young adult. And as a young adult, I am – at least in some ways – limited to a very narrow and limited insight into my demographic and part of the church. It will be very easy – and rightfully and agreeably so – for other young adults and other people to find disagreement with any of my assertions and


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    claims. However, my hope and prayer is that these tentative and sincere suggestions will extend the dialogue about the postmodern preaching task in the twenty-first century. I love, respect, honor, and cherish the “expressed” form of the Church that is the Presbyterian Church (USA); I love, respect, honor, cherish, and am committed, much more, to trying to live out my sense of call to participate in the body of Christ. 6.1 am not suggesting that the Lennon service was a Christian worship service of Word and Sacrament. However, it is illustrative of a style and form that is meaningful – even if offered only in a supplemental form – to the spiritual lives and development of young adults. Similarly, my e-mail example should not be misread as an invitation to extend teaching and pastoral care to purely electronic forms. That would be disastrous. Yet electronic media mil likely continue to be a necessary form for extending the reach of the church and of the pastoral presence of the preachers and the congregation beyond the four walls of the church itself. 7. In using dangerous, reckless words like “whenever” and “wherever,” I am being intentional in exposing postmodern issues. However, I absolutely think and believe that there are certain non-negotiables involved in the preaching task. The preaching of God’s Word must, I believe, always be biblically-bascd, prayerfully discerned, and prophetically proclaimed. I am in no way suggesting that we mute, muffle, or manipulate God’s good, challenging, demanding and loving Word for God’s people merely to attract and sustain the allegiance of a generation. 8. William Stacy Johnson, “The Gospel in Postmodernity: Finding a Center.” The Gospel and Our Culture: Encouraging the Encounter in North America 9, No. 3 (1997). 9. As part of the “mainline” church, we need to extend ourselves more deeply into the friendship and dialogue with the Emerging Church “movement.” 10. Many volumes of literature examine and explain generational differences and distinctions. For my purposes, I am referring to Generation X (perhaps first identified by this name in Douglas Coupland’s book of the same name) as the age group born between 1965 and 1981. The Millenials (or Generation Y) are those born between 1981 and the end of the last millennium. More than generational age groupings, Generation X and Millenials, I think, are more identifiable by their respective attitudes and outlooks.

  • Preaching to people with cancer: the eschatology of the body

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    Preaching to People with Cancer:

    The Eschatology of the Body

    Douglas John Hall*

    Montreal, Canada

    The word “cancer” comes from the Latin for “crab,” that darting crustacean with four pairs of legs and one of pincers that fascinates and frightens little children playing at the edges of our waterways. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, this unlikely term was applied to this disease because “the swollen veins surrounding the parts affected [bore] a resemblance to a crab’s limbs”—this being the observation of the famous Greek physician and writer, Galen (12-200 A.D.). The word was adopted in Old English as early as 1100, and after about 1600 it received its more technical medical connotation. The image of a crab having a deadly hold on one’s body is a grim statement about the destiny of finite creatures. Nevertheless, for Christians the eschatology of the body is not a tragic story.

    The Background Since I have been asked to write this small article out of my personal experience of cancer, it is probably best to begin with “the facts.” Last fall, as a result of a routine colonoscopy, it was discovered that my colon was host to an unwelcome guest, a cancerous tumor. An operation on January 14, 2005, “successfully” removed the growth along with a foot of the larger intestine. Subsequent analysis of thirteen lymph nodes revealed that three of them had had traffic with malignant cells; therefore, chemotherapy was recommended. I am almost through the twelve prescribed sessions of “chemo,” and I have been fortunate: no serious nausea, no great hair loss, only minor reactions like hiccups and periodic weariness oddly juxtaposed with bursts of unnatural energy. I am feeling fine, really. But of course—it’s cancer, and I am seventy-seven years old. “The Big C,” my general practitioner calls it. I read somewhere that 2 in every 3 males, and 1 in every 3 females in Canada contract cancer of some type during their lifetime. In the United States, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, “Cancer is the second leading cause of death among Americans. [It is] responsible for one of every four deaths….In 2005 more than 570,000 Americans—or more than 1,500 people a day—will die of cancer.”1 Many people are so frightened of contracting some form of this condition that they look for it in every skin blemish or body ache. Others are so debilitated by the very thought of cancer that they have enormous difficulty relating to people—often their close relatives—who suffer from it. A neighbor of mine, when I mentioned that I was “on chemo” simply gasped, touched me in a strange, fatalistic way, and never mentioned the subject again. In fact, he has stopped speaking to me. In some degree, what AIDS is to Africa, cancer has become to the West. There’s a certain stigma attached to it. It’s a synonym for mortality, death…the end.

    * Emeritus Professor of Christian Theology, McGill University, Montreal.


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    Ah!—but that word, “end,” signals for Christians thoughts that are not all negative. Sober thoughts, certainly, but not bleak ones only. What I intend to do in this short piece is simply probe that little word, and to do so as one who for the past seven or eight months has had to entertain very concrete reasons for thinking about the end. How, as a Christian, should I consider the reality that I, too, am now at the mercy of “the crab”? Although I shall concentrate, in this article, on the personal side of the subject, I have also been led to reflect on cancer as a vast, ubiquitous social fact, both a real and a symbolic “statement” of the human condition—the condition of creatures who move inescapably toward apparent oblivion. The environmental and lifestyle contributions to the causes of cancer make it necessary to consider this condition from the perspective of social ethics and not only as a question of personal health. I should like therefore to keep the social dimension in view in what follows, but I shall have to focus chiefly on the personal.

    “Theology Helps” Let me first establish the point of view from which I wish to speak about my experience of living with cancer. Without discounting the marvelous support I have received from family, friends and well-wishers near and far, the greatest comfort I have found during these rather critical months has come from—theology. I am not, by nature, a patient person, but I have learned patience in coping with cancer because I was able to bring to that reality a perspective, a tradition combining both truth and hope, that I had imbibed over the years from the scriptures and traditions of the Hebraic-Christian faith. Nor am I, by nature, a calm person, easily able to accept the interruptions, psychic jolts, and major crises by which all human life is punctuated. But in the face of this great disruption I found myself turning in new and very practical ways to the theological background on which I had been reflecting and writing and speaking for decades. To my friends, I often wrote of this with some surprise: “Theology helpsl” I told them, almost as if it were an amazing and unanticipated discovery, late in time. Not just “belief or “faith,” which is of course the spiritual basis of any theological depth one might acquire, but theological reflection as such brings to the contemplation of one’s (let me call it) end-condition a certain calm that passes understanding, to be sure, but unlike a good deal of “religion” does not bypass it! The first thing I should like to say to my readers, therefore, is simply this: Do not despise theology! As you try, as preachers, pastors or friends, to help and comfort others who suffer from cancer or other end-conditions, don’t imagine that you have only your prayers and your presence and a few bits of practical wisdom to pass along to them (“Cultivate a positive attitude,” “try to live as normally as ever,” “get lots of really good food, and exercise,” etc., etc.). You have something better and more lasting to give. You have a vantage point of meaning and courage that you can, with a little discipline on your part, help to make accessible to others. You will have to translate your theology into the specifics of the individual lives you want to touch, and that is no easy matter; but it will always begin with your own revisitation of the best resources you can lay your hands on—the Bible of course, but also the great works of theology and biblical interpretation that have graced the past hundred years of Christendom; for, not accidentally, as Christendom itself has declined in the West, some of the best theology has emerged from the perceived ending of the “official” forms of this faith— probably beginning with Sören Kierkegaard. Like people, institutions often become


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    interesting as they are caused to contemplate their ending.

    The Two Senses of “End” The word “end” has two connotations. It “means both finish and aim; and as such it is an excellent tool for the expression of the two sides of the Kingdom of God, the transcendent and the inner-historical.”2 On the one hand, “end” refers to the termination of something. In “inner-historical” terms, all things under the sun—and the sun itself—bear within themselves the conditions that will lead, sooner or later, to their ending. On the other hand, however, “end” connotes goal, purpose, intention, aim— in Greek, telos. Hence that most famous of Protestant catechismal questions, “What is the chief end of man?” The teleological end of an acorn is to become an oak; and that “transcendent” purpose is also contained within the structure and substance of the acorn. In a real sense, therefore, disintegration and integration, destruction and fulfillment , death and life are present in every organism. Thinking about “the end” of life, when it is profound, is always a matter of reflection on both terminus and telos, both the winding-down and the intimation of purpose, both defeat in the frantic struggle to survive and the possibility of victory in the quest for life’s meaning.

    The End as Terminus My encounter with the wily and versatile crab, cancer, has involved a good deal of meditation on both sides of this dialectic. The one side—termination—is obvious enough. In a society where cancer plays such a decisive role in ending human life, you cannot become its subject and victim without facing the prospect of your life’s termination. It may be that, in the future, cancer will be made to play a less prominent role in conducting human beings to the grave; for there will no doubt be many more breakthroughs in the treatment of its various manifestations—many such have already changed the treatment of and attitudes toward this dread disease. Yet we are mortal— how often during these months have I thought of the famous syllogism of classical texts on logic:

    All men are mortal Socrates is a man Therefore Socrates is mortal

    Overlooking for the moment the sexism of the syllogism (all women are mortal, too), just try substituting your own name for that of Socrates. If you have cancer, you won ‘ t have as much difficulty doing that. The sheer/aci of one’s finitude is now unavoidable. You’ve known it all along, of course. It has been haunting you for years, perhaps since the earliest glimmerings of self-awareness. But now it stares you in the face: I will die. Despite my knowledge of the fact that “all flesh is grass,” I’ve been acting, really, as if my life would go on and on—”world without end,” so to speak. I’ve based almost my whole lifestyle on that assumption, and every impulse of our consumer-culture has aided and abetted me in this self-deception. Well, naturally, I realized that I would die sometime. Everybody does. But in the Modern period the statistics of life-expectancy have created for me—for most of us, I think—the illusion of a kind of secular immortality. To the fifty-year old, seventy-eight (or whatever life-expectancy is at the


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    moment) can still seem way off, and ninety a virtual eternity! But the actual presence of cancer turns all such statistical eschatology into dust and ashes. The general assumption of mortality becomes the sure and certain knowledge of one’s own perhaps imminent end. It cannot be repressed any longer. It flashes like an old-fashioned neon hotel sign on the inner screen of the mind. “Every morning I wake up thinking ‘I’ve got cancer,’ and it will soon kill me,” said a late friend of mine. To be sure, cancer may not always be the catalyst of our dread of non-being that it is now. One hopes for its reduction, and especially of those forms of cancer that affect the young. But the rhetoric of our “official optimism” can be very deceptive. The Republican administration of the U.S., which has a penchant for declaring “war” on nebulous and evasive enemies like drugs and terrorism, also, under Richard Nixon, declared war on cancer. War seems an inappropriate metaphor for dealing with all such elusive threats to human and societal well-being; but if the unsophisticated mind needs these dramatic categories to tackle such threats, I suppose one must bear with it. In the process of conducting such “wars,” however, a dangerous illusion is often courted: that the righteous warrior will bring about a state where these threats exist no longer—and that in the attempt to do so he will usher in a state worse than before. In the case of the “war on cancer,” it is all-too-easy to move from the assumption that cancer can be beaten to the assumption that death itself can be beaten. And that assumption really is dangerous, because it is blatantly illusory. So far as the body is concerned (and for Christians, unlike dualists, “body” connotes “self), termination is a given. We are (as Heidegger rather roughly stated the matter) “being-towards-death.” For the present at least, “cancer” is a prime factor in the eschatology of the body. Facing the fact of one’s own mortality is never a welcome experience, even for seventy-seven year olds; yet neither is it the worst thing that could ever happen to us. Much worse, surely, from both a human and a Christian perspective, would be never facing that reality. Individuals and whole societies devote enormous energy to the task of repressing the knowledge of mortality. Ernest Becker, in one of the best books of our era, argued that our own present culture in North America is a culture so dedicated to “the denial of death” that its life is vastly and deleteriously affected, its energies depleted, its enjoyment of existence blunted and artificial, its vaunted “pursuit of happiness” forced and pathetic.3 Could one ever apply the term “maturity,” or even “adulthood,” to an individual who by circumstance or design never gave a thought to death? The experience, which cancer inevitably brings, of having to consider death at close range, is thus seldom a purely negative one. It is at least potentially salutary in the degree to which it brings one a little closer to the fullness of humanity for which our Creator intends us. Endings of nearly every kind can produce in most human beings a surprising capacity for truth; and theologically as well as humanly speaking, becoming truthful is a condition greatly to be desired—even when the truth one has to confront is apparently a negating or humiliating one. If, as I suggested earlier, persons, like institutions, become especially interesting and often remarkable as they face their own terminus, it is at least partly because they are in some measure relieved, by death’s proximity, of the consuming illusions and untruths on whose basis they have conducted so much of their own lives. They find themselves being made real as they disburden themselves of so much of the superfluous unreality they have been carrying about on their shoulders. What is essential, like the love of those around them,


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    or the true vocation that has beckoned them, or the sheer beauty of the world, shakes itself free of all the superficiality and sham—the accidens, the medievals would have said—that have nevertheless consumed so much of one’s time and energy. Even as terminus, then, “the end” has—or can have—a highly clarifying effect on those who are grasped by it.

    The End as Telos But this positive function of the-end-as-terminus is never, I think, entirely separable from the other side of this same coin, the-end-as-te/as (aim, goal, purpose). Though they are theoretically different and distinguishable, I suspect that the two connotations of “end” are, in practice, never quite separable. Thanks to Johannes Brahms, whose wonderful work Ein Deutsches Requiem gives a decidedly Protestant slant to the Catholic practice of having masses for the dead, I have learned something that seems to me quite vital about the strange interconnectedness of these two meanings of the little word, “end.” In keeping with his determination to use only the Old and New Testament scriptures for all the words of the requiem, Brahms bases the third major section of his oratory on the first four verses of Psalm 39. But of course he uses Luther’s translation, which in this respect differs significantly from the King James and most of the later English versions of the text. The latter (which is virtually the same as the KJV in all the editions I examined) reads, “Lord, make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it is; that I may know how frail I am (v. 4, KJV). The German text, however, introduces an important nuance,

    Herr, lehre doch mich, Dass ein End emit mir haben muss, Und mein Leben ein Ziel hat Und ich davon muss.

    (Roughly translated: “Lord, teach me, even me, that there must be an end [terminus] to what I call me, and that my life has an end [goal, purpose—Ziel] of which I must surely become conscious”). The point is, here we have both meanings of the concept, “end,” juxtaposed in one overarching thought: my life has its quite natural and necessary ending, but even including this ending it contains a purpose that it is my responsibility and privilege as a thinking animal to contemplate as deeply as I can. “…mein Leben ein Ziel haf Whether Luther got the Hebrew right, I will leave to others more qualified in that department. I know he got the theology right, and I wish the English translators had had his insight. For it is impossible, surely, to consider the termination of life (not only, but especially one’s own life) without being driven to ask, “And what purpose, if any, does this life that I have been living have? What’s the object? What’s the use of it? Is it, and all history, just ‘a tale told by an idiot,’ or does it have some perceivable goal?” During these past several months, I have found myself turning with ever greater interest to the past—the past as I have experienced it—my past. In fact, I have been drawn into retrospective meditation more than ever before in my life. I completed the final draft of a sort of theo-autobiography while under this influence4, and I have continued writing an extensive, more personal autobiography that I do not intend for publication—just for myself and those closest to me. Of course, I have the usual


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    activist’s misgivings about spending so much time thinking about the past, and the usual “Christian” compunctions about concentrating so narrowly in the self. But it is the only self I shall ever have, and most of its journey through time has already taken place. Moreover, I am struck with this insistent, this (may I not say?) incarnationalbelief that if purpose is to be found it must be there—at least hiddenly, implicitly, partially— in the journey itself. In defiance of the kind of religion that reserves meaning for the journey ‘ s end—for “heaven”—I am convicted of the more frustrating belief that there must at least be intimations of purpose in the journey itself. I am certainly ready to wait for a final judgment about the course my life has taken, but I am not ready to give up on the capacity of reason, illumined by faith, to glimpse life’s goal already in medias res—in the middle of things. Just at the point where the future seems brief, and perhaps bleak, the past, revisited, becomes a new source of …possibility. I remember therefore I am. I remember therefore I hope. I remember in order to give my hope substance. There is a picture above my bed that I find myself contemplating very often now. It is an enlargement of a faded photograph showing a small family standing beside their stone house in old Ontario—father, mother, and two-year old son. It is the year 1930, and the clothing of the little group reflects that fact. Like most of their contemporaries, they have been hit hard by the Great Depression, and the young parents’ faces reveal something ofthat reality. Yet they stand together, leaning in toward one another. And if the parents are anxious about the future, the little boy doesn’t seem to be. His face is full of curiosity. Why should he be anxious? He is standing on a rock that is more dependable than the great granite stones of the house in the background: the rock of his parents’ love and delight in his being. I was that little boy. And as I try to trace, in memory, the course of my life from childhood on, I become conscious again and again of the secret that is already present in that photograph, for remembering reveals that it has been manifested many times over. And it is this: I have been accompanied, befriended, upheld, supported, in short—loved— all the way through. The persons who mediated that love—old ladies and gentlemen of my youth, friends, teachers, colleagues, students, strangers, my wife and children—were and are themselves needy souls; their love was not sufficient by itself to sustain me, any more than my love was sufficient to sustain them. But through this great admixture of actions and reactions, flawed motives and noble outcomes, imperfect loyalties and exceptional trust—through this great, continuing mixture of things that we call life, a love has been communicated to me that incorporates while it transcends all the relationships in which it has incarnated itself. I see this now (I have not always seen it) as I remember my past, as I relive in memory the great and small moments of my journey through time. And in that recall I recover something of the magnificence of the end, the telos, the Ziel, toward which I have been moving all this while. For that end is nothing more, nor less, than the full and no-longer-ambiguous and halfhearted acceptance and appropriation ofthat same divine love. How could I imagine that I will be left all alone and unfriended in death when from the earliest days I have been accompanied by a love that I neither fabricated nor ever wholly deserved? No, nothing will separate me from that love (Romans 8). That is the end toward which I have always been moved, even when I resisted it, and death cannot alter that trajectory any more than life has done.


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    In Practical Terms Having indulged myself in such a grand affirmation, which I suppose many will think uncharacteristic of me, I feel the need to—no, not to qualify the affirmation, but to translate it, just a little, into practical terms. Not every life gives the extent and degree of evidence for transcendent love that I have been finding, lately, in my own. I know individuals, and I am aware of whole populations that seem to exist in an almost complete vacuum of care, or whose suffering so far exceeds anything by way of pain known to me that I am reduced to speechlessness as I think of them. The affirmation of divine love as the meaning and end of existence can never be made easily, even by those who, like me, have experienced wondrous intimations of that love in their personal journeys. The affirmation of divine love as life’s goal is always an affirmation of faith, not of pure sight. For life in its raw day-by-dayness always holds enough evidence of the antithesis of such an affirmation as to render the affirmation, whenever it is made, a leap of faith. Yet memory is strangely able, when prompted by a Spirit that transcends the here and now, to detect patterns and meanings and mysteries that elude the eyes of the flesh in their necessary confinement to the present and the visible. It is one thing to consider one’s life as it unfolds day after day, year after year; it is something else to meditate upon it, under the impact of a felt proximity to its ending, in its whole movement. Many lives, viewed in terms of their externalities, seem to those more fortunate devoid of meaning and hope. But I have known few persons well who, though surrounded by all the makings of despair, could not be helped to discern in the course of their lives intimations of something like transcendence. It was, after all, not some naive and shallow optimist or bourgeois devotee of “happiness” but the poet Job, humiliated and brought low by life, who, with the promptings of that same sharp Spirit, had to conclude:

    For I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth; and after my skin has been thus destroyed, then in my flesh I shall see God. (19:25-26, NRSV)

    Job’s “friends” tried—and they still try—to quicken the stricken man’s conscience by prompting him to remember what ill he has done to deserve this apparent punishment. Real pastors also try to prompt the memory of their ill and dispirited friends; but they do not ask them to uncover and admit the wrong of their lives; rather, they encourage them to remember the good, the beautiful and the true that, in the actual living of their lives, they may well have missed or underestimated. I have been struck, lately, by the fact that not only I myself, but many of my friends and acquaintances, facing death in one or other of its many guises, have found themselves reflecting long and deeply on their past, to the point, in some cases, of actually writing autobiographies or memoirs. The pastoral conclusions that should be drawn from this (as I would call it) “tendency” are clear enough: in your counseling of those confronting their own end give them, first, the opportunity of speaking openly and freely about death and dying; do not think that you, along with all the others who surround them, must continue the fiction of living on and on! Our faith allows and enables us to become truthful, particularly just at this point.


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    Second, encourage them to reflect—in whatever ways are natural to them—on their past. Draw them out, ask leading questions, repeat for them some of their own words as they tell their stories—for often we do not hear what we ourselves are saying. Let them talk! So much in their environment, especially now that they are singled out by the grim reaper, wants them to be quiet! Because when they are allowed to speak they inevitably speak as men and women who know they have come close to the end of their stories, and that threatens the living who live by the repression of just that thought. But they will only discover real hope, these who have fallen prey to “the crab,” if they are able to rehearse their lives with sufficient freedom to see, hear, and feel in memory what they could not experience fully in the happening. Be, for them, the occasion through which they may sense at last the steadfastness of the providence and love of God. Let them discover for themselves the faith that the destiny of our bodies— that is, of our very selves—rests in the amazing grace of the One who made us and who has never been very far from us.

    Notes

    1. “Cancer Facts & Figures 2005,” American Cancer Society, 2005. 2. Paul Tillich, Systematic Theology, vol. iii (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), 394. 3. The Denial of Death (New York: The Free Press, 1973). 4. Bound and Free: A Theologian’s Journey (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005).

  • Hold the chicken soup: preaching Advent hope

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    Hold the Chicken Soup: Preaching Advent Hope

    Sally A. Brown

    Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey

    The numbers are in: chicken soup sells and sells. No, not the kind your grandmother used to prescribe for the flu (¿though sales are brisk in that market, too), but the kind packaged in the now over five dozen paperbacks in Jack Canfield and company’s enormously successful Chicken Soup for the Soul book series. Within days of the 1993 release of Canfield’s first volume, Chicken Soup for the Soul: 101 Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit, “chicken soup” stories began to be heard from many pulpits.1 If the homiletical aim was to send the congregation out with portable, can-do optimism to fortify them for whatever might be awaiting them at home or office, preachers from the first-semester homiletics student to the seasoned pulpit veteran could be heard serving up one or another of Canfield’s catch-in-thethroat stories of human courage, insight, and kindness. Preachers who swear by these tales admit that a dose of Canfield’s brand of chicken soup may not save anyone, but it can get a lot of them through a week. The warm, regular-folks-next-door stories of unexpected human kindness, persistence , and uncanny timing that find their way into Canfield’s books are chosen from hundreds sent in by Chicken Soup fans. Those that make the cut are carefully selected for particular target audiences. In addition to six volumes of basic “chicken soup” stories, there are now multiple volumes of custom-brewed Christian chicken soup, as well as collections for the African-American, Latino, Jewish, Canadian, and LatterDay Saint soul. Other volumes target the golfer, the gardener, the cat- and dog-lover and the NASCAR fan. If reader testimonials are any indication, Canfield’s brand of chicken soup indeed brings relief to many souls. The lonely and the addicted, the incarcerated and the unemployed, and kids as well as adults who wrestle with mental or physical health challenges testify that the touching stories Canfield packs into his books have given them the one thing that has made their hardships endurable: hope. God knows our congregations need hope. ¿1 the Advent season, preachers grope for compelling ways to preach hope. Rightly, they struggle to evoke hope not merely as an intellectual idea, but a palpable experience. They know that folks will stumble into the pews on those pre-Christmas Sundays straining to live up to burdensome expectations to produce a Christmas to end all, while secretly they harbor fears about job security and retirement savings, fret over college tuition, and in more cases than anyone might imagine, fight off depression. Others come feeling worn down by night after night of evening newscasts where the cameras pan across once serene Near Eastern city scapes being thrashed into rubble by bombs and rocket fire, while in silent commentary, erratic oil prices and stock market numbers stream across the bottom of the TV screen. Many preachers face congregations whose lives and livelihoods have been reduced to heaps of mildewed ruin by hurricane and flood. If folks like these have managed to make it to church on a pre-Christmas Sunday morning, the least we can offer is a believable message of hope. Unlike the hundreds of stories in the Canfield books, the texts of Advent do not,


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    on the whole, serve up hope in pure and portable forms. Hope in many Advent texts comes indigestibly packaged with other ingredients—warnings of judgment, fearful visions of cosmic upheaval, and a pervading sense of apocalyptic emergency. Faced with biblical texts where hope seems to flicker like a desert mirage on a distant eschatological horizon, what preacher would not be tempted to cut to a cozy, hearthand -home story? Certainly, if it is such a story a busy Advent preacher seeks, Canfield’s tales can be counted on to deliver uncomplicated, hearty helpings of optimism and happy endings that anyone can readily digest. Of course, preachers may be heartened to find that at least some of the texts for this Advent season, Cycle C of the New Revised Common Lectionary, appear to serve up hope more generously than in some years. The reading from 1 Thessalonians for Ad­ vent I lets us overhear a pastor giving thanks for a faithful, hardworking congregation. The first six verses of Luke 3 for Advent II brim with hope and promise, framing John the Baptist’s ministry with a lengthy quote from Isaiah (“every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low….and all flesh shall see the salvation of God,” Luke 3:5-6). Two lyric prophetic visions are offered for Advent III; and who could ask for a more soul-stirring text for Advent IV than Philippians 4:4-8 (“if there is any excellence,anything worthy of praise,think about these things,” v. 8)? Perhaps it is possible to cut and paste this Advent season, using texts selectively so as to slice out of the photo anything that would disturb the serenely hope-filled horizon. A more honest approach, however, will be to allow these hope-inspiring texts to be heard within the context of the other readings for each day. The Gospel reading for the first week of Advent from the middle of Luke 21 announces, “your redemption is drawing near” (v. 28)-but only amid catastrophic upheaval in space and sea. An honest reading of the 1 Thessalonians 3 text reveals, as New Testament scholar Beverly Gaventa points out, that missing from the recital of the familiar triad of virtues (faith, hope, and love) is hope, indicating that perhaps this congregation, for all its faith and love, is laboring as do many of our congregations under conditions that are sapping their hope. 2 On Advent ΠΙ, the lyrical visions of restoration from Zephaniah and Isaiah

    play against John the Baptist’s grating prophetic denunciation of the crowds who come to him for baptism. In Matthew, the epithet “brood of vipers” is reserved for the Sadduccees and Pharisees, but in Luke 3 John applies it to all, accusing both the humble and the haughty of religious presumptuousness. Israel’s hope, the Messiah, draws near, says John—but with pitchfork and fire, prepared to commit the unworthy to the flames. The fourth Sunday of Advent focuses on Mary—alarmingly young, arguably the first disciple, and so unflappably open to God’s taking up residence in her that we cannot help wanting to see this thing through with her, full term. Yet we can be pretty sure that her visit to cousin Elizabeth’s house was no casual social call, but a way of lying low until the death-threats back in her home town settled down. Welcoming God’s future can get you killed. And while her beloved song celebrates full bellies and dignity for the poor, she envisions, as well, the humiliation of the rich. The hope that Advent announces always stands in uneasy proximity with visions of ultimate judgment and warnings of doom. By contrast, stories that work along the lines of the “chicken soup” genre portray (sometimes in a “surprise” ending) straight­ forward, unambiguous hope. Canfield’s stories feature individuals facing some kind of crisis—illness, lost objects, missed opportunities, or painful misunderstandings. Yet the ending is always happy—unambiguously happy. Even in stories where a loved


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    one dies, it is a “good” death. Memorable last words are exchanged, and even tragically brief lives are complete. There is closure. Yet, in much human experience, closure eludes us. Suffering does not lead to triumph, or, for that matter, even to great insight. In his book, Suffering and Hope: the Biblical Vision and the Human Predicament, Christiaan Beker suggests there are two kinds of suffering, the kind that urges us forward, and the kind that immobilizes us. Some kinds of suffering, Beker argues, test and challenge us, but nonetheless “stimulate our hope,” because they involve difficulties to which we can rise, physically and emotionally and spiritually, through endurance and effort. 3 We can identify re­

    sources inside ourselves or readily at hand to help us meet the challenge. Against great odds, we endure and perhaps even triumph. Not surprisingly, this is the kind of suffering in view in many of the stories in Canfield’s books. While certainly genuine and in many cases indeed very trying, it is suffering from which one can imagine emerging with something akin to grace or even heroism. What does noi figure into the Canfield stories is another kind of suffering of which Beker speaks. There is suffering, says Beker, that “no longer stimulates hope but evaporates it.” 4 This suffering (such as the suffering that Beker and other prisoners

    experienced in forced labor camps during World War Π) defies our attempts to reflect philosophically or theologically about it; at best, someone may attempt to describe it, and then fall silent, for they know they have not begun to convey its terror, its attendant violations, its capacity to induce despair. Marilyn McCord Adams speaks of the human toll of this kind of suffering as “horror.” Adams defines “horrors” as experiences so devastating that they strip the human being of the capacity to make meaning. 5 Horrors

    blast the landscape clean of those moral or spiritual landmarks by which one might navigate toward a glimmer of insight or reconciliation. Some may find the stories in Canfield’s Chicken Soup books and others of the same genre encouraging when what they need is a reminder that human beings are capable of unexpected kindness, that insight can come through trial, and that there may be reasons for optimism in even in bleak, sad, and difficult circumstances. But something more than optimistic tales of individual triumph is required in the face of the sort of extreme, meaning-defeating suffering that writers like Beker and Adams have in mind. It is this kind of suffering—suffering that strips the sufferer of the capacity to make sense or construct a believable future—to which Christian hope must answer. In the face of true horrors, sprightly optimism about human nature and its resilience will not do, argues John Macquarrie. Genuine Christian hope can be neither derived from nor reduced to optimism:

    Optimism, whether it is an illicit generalization from theories of evolution or whether it depends on a humanistic doctrine of progress or whether it is derived from a simplistic religious belief that God orders everything for the best, is a philosophy that misses the ambiguity of the world, and fails to consider seriously its evil and negative features.

    The Bible does not trade in optimism, insists Christiaan Beker. In the New Testament, “the wrong that suffering causes to the individual is not answered in a way that is commensurate with the often unbearable costs that present suffering inflicts on


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    the sufferer.”7 In most New Testament contexts, we are not encouraged to hope that our suffering will be compensated in the sense that all that we have suffered will pay off in a measure of comfort and prosperity commensurate with the pain and dispossession we have suffered—or at the very least, in the form of increased wisdom and insight. Instead of encouragement, what the Scriptures do give us is the bold, contrary rhetoric of promise juxtaposed against an almost unrelenting record of very real loss, pain, fear, doubt, and despair that mirrors the worst of the human condition. According to the testimony of the biblical tradition, God promises against the backdrop of despair a future that is new-created injustice and righteousness. Christian hope that depends on experience-defying divine promise can seem vulnerable indeed. The evidence for it is slim-to-none. In fact, the hardest evidence we will get for God’s promised future is the Church’s testimony to the crucified and risen Christ, God-with-us in the first Advent and God-coming-toward-us in the future. Such hope cannot be shored up by any accumulation of evidence for the triumph of the human spirit, since that is not what it is about. But it is just such vulnerable hope that we find in the texts of Advent—fragile, ambiguous, contrary to experience. Yet such promissory hope is the only kind of hope worth speaking of in the presence of despair and meaning-destroying horrors. All of this being said, might Canfield’s unambiguously hopeful stories still claim a place in Advent preaching? Might we, for example, pair a “chicken soup” story with an Advent text—say, John the Baptist’s berating of the crowds at the Jordan—and thereby “counterbalance” the ambiguity of the hope these troubling Advent texts offer, tipping the scales a bit in a more reassuring direction? My answer is “no.” What makes stories of the “chicken soup” genre an inadequate analogue for biblical, Advent hope is their tidiness, their lack of ambiguity. In “chicken soup” stories, the human spirit proves indefatigable. Such stories lack the capacity to address the kind of suffering that pushes the human spirit beyond that limit where it is possible to cobble together meaning out of the blasted mental, emotional, and spiritual landscape of experience. In addition, because “chicken soup” stories are, by and large, strictly stories of individuals and families, they run the risk of luring us into escapism disguised as hope. If the horizon of crisis is always on the individual level, we can avoid focusing on the appalling sufferings of whole classes, races, and nations, or the systemic evils that cause such sufferings. We can end up soothing ourselves with the fraudulent belief that there are no trials so great that individual grit, ingenuity, and endurance cannot find a way. When the horizon of suffering has been narrowed to the manageable, the nature of hope will be trivialized. Macquarrie, quoting Roger Gregor Smith, writes, ” ‘[T]he great anonymous host of sufferers….are a cloud of witnesses who point the finger of scorn upon all the neat and tidy optimisms which try to sweep all this accumulation of suffering under the carpet and offer us a tidy scheme. ‘ “8 Christian hope must somehow take seriously the tragically anonymous hosts buried or swept away by hurricane, tsunami, earthquake, and war. If there is a worthy analogue to Christian hope to be lifted up at Advent, perhaps it is baptism. The turned-around, ending-as-beginning logic of Advent hope is the logic of baptism as well. In baptism, God starts with us at the end. In baptism, everything we might have counted on to keep us afloat, including (especially) our own capacity for goodness—even our faith in human nature—is surrendered to a watery


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    death. We pass through death with Jesus, and rise up with nothing left to us but a life anchored in the promise and hope of resurrection. This hope sustains the one claimed by God, whether she encounters in her life the surprising human kindness, courage, and insight of which Canfield’s stories speak, or the mind-blasting suffering to which Beker and Adams point. Notably, daring proclamation of genuinely Christian hope that is rooted in the will of God to make all things new has long been heard in African-American pulpits. Many African-American preachers have drunk deeply from the well of their people’s suffering, but have drunk deeply, as well, from the wells of biblical hope—the kind of hope envisioned in Advent texts. Such preaching pairs testimony to the presence of the promising God with a thoroughly realistic, locally credible assessment of the depth of suffering and the pockmarked record of human moral response to the suffering of other human beings. It is no surprise that many preachers look elsewhere than the Bible in the Advent season for stories that can simply, straightforwardly, inspire hope. Without a doubt, stories of the “chicken soup” genre have the advantage of being not only believable but genuine. Furthermore, with the publication of volumes aimed particularly at African-American or Latino readers, preachers can be more confident about finding stories that resonate with non-Euro-American listeners. Yet my advice to Advent preachers is to “hold the chicken soup.” It is not that Canfield’s stories or others with a similarly simple, trouble-to-triumph plot are not worth telling. Human beings will always preserve and share stories of remarkable courage and kindness. But they are not deep enough, ambiguous enough, or large enough to carry Advent hope. The hope our burdened congregants need this Advent season is the hope that comes as stark, unexpected divine promise. Despite the undeniably massive and dismal failures of compassion and courage with which human history is littered, despite hurricane and flood, present sorrows and fears about the future, Advent preaching proclaims: “Fear not, your God comes to you.” In Advent, we remember how God’s promise was handed over to us in the flesh-and-blood babe of the manger, from a source entirely outside and beyond us. This promise and the hope it ignites throws its claim forward over our uncertain present, filled though it is with constant slippage, fear, and regret, and illuminates a horizon where justice prevails. In Advent, we trust all we are, as well as all we have failed to be, all the surprising moments of grace we have known or will, as well as all the ways that life has failed us, to the burning brightness of God’s coming.

    Notes

    1. Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen, Chicken Soup for the Soul: 101 Stones to Open the ¡lean and Rekindle the Spirit (Deerfield Beach, Fla.: Health Communications, Inc. 1993). 2. Beverly Gaventa, Interpretation: First and Second Thessalonians (Louisville, Ky. : Westminster John Knox Press, 1998), 45. 3. J. Christiaan Beker, Suffering and Hope: The Biblical Vision and the Human Predicament, 2nd edition (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmanns, 1994), 25-6. 4. Ibid, 26. 5. Marilyn McCord Adams, Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God (Ithaca, N. Y. : Cornell University Press, 1999), 28. 6. John Macquarrie, Christian Hope (New York: Seabury Press, 1978), 13. 7. Beker, 118. 8. Macquarrie, 13.

  • The lion, the wicked, and the wonder of it all: Psalm 104 and the playful God

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    The Lion, the Wicked, and the Wonder of it All:

    Psalm 104 and the Playful God

    William P. Brown

    Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, Georgia

    In the second volume of his Church Dogmatics, in the chapter on “The Eternity and Glory of God,” Karl Barth offered the following words of advice to anyone who felt inspired to reflect theologically:

    The theologian who has no joy in his [sic] work is not a theologian at all. Sulky faces, morose thoughts and boring ways of speaking are intolerable in this science.

    Imagine that: the “scientific” work of theology as an exercise of unabashed joy! If theology ever becomes painstakingly tedious, not to mention bland and abstract, then perhaps it is best to give up and do something else… or at least take a breather. It is no coincidence that the closest the biblical tradition ever comes to divulging its unapologetically joyous roots is in its evocative poetry. The psalms, for example, testify that the crafting of poetry to communicate the veracity of God’s hesed is as playful and joyous as it is serious and sublime. Indeed, the psalmists are not ashamed to dedicate their poetic discourses (or “meditations”) as joy offerings to God: “May my meditation be pleasing to him, for I rejoice in the LORD” (104:34; cf. 19:14).

    God’s Joy in Creation In the case of the great creation “meditation” of the Psalter, Psalm 104, the psalmist regards her hymn as a gift intended to bring pleasure to God. Moreover, such a hymn would have never been offered if the psalmist had not derived pleasure and satisfaction from composing it. This was no offering made in fear and trembling before an unapproachable God; nor was it something the psalmist considered defective or mistaken. No, Psalm 104 was composed with unabashed joy and freedom of expression , and yet it exhibits a theological sophistication scarcely matched by any other psalm. Here, rigorous thinking and rapturous wonder find a compelling convergence. The world, as grand and manifold as it is, is inscribed with coherence and conviviality. The theme of wondrous joy in Psalm 104 captivates not only the psalmist but also God, or is at least intended to do so. Before offering her “meditation” in thanksgiving, the psalmist makes a remarkable petition:

    May the glory of the LORD endure forever; may the LORD rejoice (yis’mah) in his works, (v. 31)

    The second half of the verse is highly unusual. Whereas the command to praise (“bless”) God for the bounty of creation is given earlier in the psalm (v. 1), here the psalmist commends God’s rejoicing in creation. Such language is rarely attributed to God, for it most often refers to created agency “rejoicing” in or before the deity (Pss 9:2; 32:11 ; 96:11-13; 104:34). Here, however, the reverse applies: the creator rejoices


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    in creation. This one verse, or one half of a verse, provides the key rationale for the psalm as a whole. The psalmist dedicates her work to God to help sustain God’s delight in creation, to provide sufficient support for God’s engagement in the world. The remarkable implication is that God’s engagement with creation is more aesthetically than morally driven. The God portrayed in Psalm 104 runs on artistic and altruistic joy, and so does the world. The radicality of such a claim is set in stark relief when compared to another creation (or more accurately re-creation) text, namely, God’s covenant with Noah. The covenant comes upon the heels of watery destruction, whose aftermath prompts God to issue of sigh of resignation:

    The LORD resolved inwardly, “I will never again curse the ground because of humankind, because the inclination of the human heart is evil from youth ; nor will I ever again destroy every living creature as I have done.” (Gen 8:21b)

    This evil”inclination” (yeser), God realizes, is part of the human makeup, and God has no choice, other than destroying the world entirely, except to accept it. Despite a righteous remnant to begin anew the human race, the human heart remains unchanged in its inclination toward evil. Mostly out of resigned pity, God resolves to set in place a covenantal guarantee that the world will never again be slated for destruction. What follows is a solemn pronouncement that culminates with the sign of the hung bow, a graphic symbol of God’s disarmament for the sake of the world. In highly formal language, God solemnly issues a unilateral pledge of restraint as a self-imposed restraining order. The contrast between priestly covenant and psalmic poetry could not be more sharply drawn. The psalmist replaces the language of solemn covenant-making with poetic pathos. The task of maintaining creation is not by divine restraint but by active giving, not by resignation or pity but by revelry. In Genesis 9, God becomes bound to creation by covenant. In Psalm 104, God freely engages creation in joy. Creation cannot, according to the psalmist, be maintained by divine restraint alone, but by active, providential care, fueled by joy. And there is a necessity to such joy; otherwise, the exhortation in v. 31 would be meaningless. Indeed, the psalmist imbues her exhortation with a sense of urgency. God cow/Jcease enjoying creation, and were God to do so, the consequences would be as devastating as any judgment.

    The Playful God Fortunately, the psalmist does not dwell on such a frightening possibility. She instead attends to what she sees and hears: brooks babbling, trees growing, birds singing, cattle chewing, lions roaring, people laughing, and Leviathan romping. Yes, God’s primordial nemesis is found frolicking in the waters, and it is not alone (v. 26). God is also there splashing away. What the psalmist sees or imagines on the western horizon of the Mediterranean Sea is a remarkable juxtaposition:

    There go the ships, as well as Leviathan, with which you fashioned to play (lesaheq)


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    The sea is populated by the products of human ingenuity and divine delight, maritime trade and play. The psalmist could have chosen dolphins or flying fish, but the selection of a sea monster is nothing short of startling. This fearsome denizen of the deep is no mere play/Awg, as God reveals to Job:

    Can you draw out Leviathan with a fishhook, or press down its tongue with a cord? Will you play with it as with a bird, or will you put it on leash for your girls? Will traders bargain over it? Will they divide it up among the merchants? Can you fill its skin with harpoons, or its head with fishing spears? Lay hands on it; think of the battle; you will not do it again! Any hope of capturing it will be disappointed; were not even the gods overwhelmed at the sight of it? No one is so fierce as to dare to stir it up. Who can stand before it? Who can confront it and be safe? —under the whole heaven, who? (Job 41:2, 5-11 [NRSV])

    No one, of course, except God. Elsewhere in biblical tradition, fearsome Leviathan is the primordial beast of the sea, the Semitic (and original) version of the multi-headed Hydra, which by necessity had to be destroyed at the outset of creation or at least be destined for destruction “on that day” (e.g., Ps 74:13-14; Isa 27:1). But never in Job do we find God about the task of taming, let alone vanquishing, this chaos monster. Rather, God boasts of its fearsome power:

    I will not keep silence concerning its limbs, or its mighty strength, or its splendid frame. Who can strip off its outer garment? Who can penetrate its double coat of mail? Who can open the doors of its face? There is terror all around its teeth. Its back is made of shields in rows, shut up closely as with a seal Clubs are counted as chaff; it laughs at the rattle of javelins. Its underparts are like sharp potsherds; it spreads itself like a threshing sledge on the mire. It makes the deep boil like a pot; it makes the sea like a pot of ointment. It leaves a shining wake behind it; one would think the deep to be white-haired. On earth it has no equal, a creature without fear.


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    It surveys everything that is lofty; it is king over all that are proud. (41:12-15, 26-34 [NRSV])

    And God is plenty proud of it! The figure of Leviathan inspires both fascination and dread, the sublime and the dreadful, a terrible beauty. The psalmist retains the fascination but relativizes the terror by pitting God and Leviathan not as mortal enemies but as playmates, roiling the sea together all in the name of fun. Yes, God’s enjoyment of creation even extends to this erstwhile enemy.

    The Problem with the Wicked But God’s expansive joy evidently stops short with the wicked. The psalm concludes with a petition that “sinners cease from the earth, and the wicked be no more” (v. 35a), understandably omitted in the Common Lectionary reading. Offensive as it might be, this sour note actually saves the psalm from sugarcoated sentiment. Without it, the psalm could be dismissed as simply a romantic, rose-colored view of the world. But with it, the psalmist concludes with a brutal reality-check. Amid the near totalizing goodness of creation there is an acknowledged impediment, associated not with the beasts of the wild or monsters of chaos—they are included fully within the orbit of God’s providential care and delight. Rather, the dissonant element is ascribed to human beings, specifically certain human beings deemed “wicked.” Who are they? Though unnamed, the “wicked” have a distinct, albeit implicit, profile in the psalm, as elsewhere in the Psalter. At base, they are those who do not share the psalmist’s perspectives: first and foremost an awareness of creation’s dependence upon God. The wicked deny their feeling of absolute dependence, to borrow from Frederick Schleiermacher’s definition of religion. But such renouncement of their dependence on God takes on a malicious twist with the wicked, as two other psalms make vividly clear:

    O LORD, how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked exult? . . . They crush your people, O LORD, and afflict your heritage. They kill the widow and the stranger; they murder the orphan, and they say, “The LORD does not see; the God of Jacob does not perceive.” (Psalm 94:3, 5-7 [NRSV])

    Why do the wicked renounce God, and say in their hearts, “You will not call us to account”? But you do see! Indeed you note trouble and grief, that you may take it into your hands. The helpless commit themselves to you; you have been the helper of the orphan. (Psalm 10:13-14 [NRSV])

    By denying their dependence upon God and, in turn, God’s power to hold them accountable, the wicked act with impunity as they wreak havoc upon the vulnerable. What the wicked say or think indicates for the psalmist precisely their disposition:


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    “The LORD does not see” (94:7); “God will not seek it out” (10:4a); “You [i.e., God] will not call us to account” (10:13); “We shall not be moved” (10:6); “There is no God” (10:4b). God is either so limited perceptually as to be oblivious to the criminal activity of the wicked or, for all practical purposes, nonexistent. Hence, the wicked lead lives literally without God, and thereby think they can get away with murder. From the perspective of Psalm 104, the wicked would be those who do not “look to [God] to give them their food in due season” (v. 27). Acknowledging human dependence on God’s sustenance fosters a life of grateful reception of “good things” as gifts, because God, as the psalmist admits, can always close the open hand and hide the face (vv. 28-29). But the wicked do not operate out of such dependence; perhaps they horde rather than gratefully receive; perhaps they take from what others have received from God “in due season”; perhaps they exploit rather than share. In any case, the poet suggests that the wicked, by being wicked, threaten to unravel the delicate fabric of creation. They, rather than the monsters of the deep, are the real purveyors of chaos. They operate, by implication, under the cover of night (see Job 24:14-17), the temporal domain of the nocturnal predators (Ps 104:20-23). Thus, the wicked have, by association, turned predator against their own species ! And the psalmist feels that her only recourse is to appeal to God for a remedy, namely, their extinction. Such an imprecation may still spoil the psalm for most readers, but its inclusion says something quite profound about how the psalmist views humanity’s place in creation. Through the power of poetry, the psalmist has effectively stripped Leviathan of its menacing guise and transferred the dark mantle upon human beings, and in so doing acknowledges the “banality of evil.” Oliver Hirschbiegel, the director of the highly acclaimed movie, Downfall, about the last days of Adolf Hitler, notes that even Hitler and his cronies were “human beings—granted, horrendous, evil, ignorant, and empty—but still human because we can’t learn from monsters.”

    Humanity’s Place in God’s Play field Another remarkable feature of this creation psalm is that human beings are essentially bit players in the unfolding drama of creation: they are not mentioned for thirteen verses, and after that only minimally. Unlike Psalm 8, another psalm of creation, there is no hint of human dominion to be exercised over the animal realm (see 8:6-8). Human beings are interdependently linked with all the other creatures; indeed, dependence upon God is the great equalizer of all the animal species and even the trees (v. 16). All that distinguishes the lion from the human is that the former takes the “night shift” while the latter works during the day (104:21-23). The God of Psalm 104 revels in the care and feeding of all creatures, a labor of love, and the psalmist wants to ensure that God’s way in the world will always be so, hence, her offering of this eloquent “meditation,” itself a labor of love (v. 34). And such an offering is distinctly ecological, for she has inscribed the world as an ordered plurality, a world of wonder, the LORD’S playfield, in which Leviathan is but one example of God’s enchantment with the world. As wine serves to “gladden the human heart” (v. 15a), so God savors creation, not as its consumer but as its provider. And as the drama of such blessing continues into the gospel, God faces the human impediment to creation’s goodness head on, and death is the result, but not that of “sinners.” God’s “joy to the world” trumps even sin and death; it was for “the joy that was set before him” that Jesus endured the cross, “disregarding its shame” (Heb 12:2).


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    In light of the cross, the psalmist’s point still pertains: there are those who refuse to play and therefore refuse to remain in the game or play by the rules. Call them quitters or cheaters, although the psalmist has chosen much harsher language. But then there are those who, like God, delight in creation’s diversity and abundant provision. They, like the psalmist, engage in play not out of fear that God may quit playing at some point, but out of the assurance that God’s joyous commitment to life-giving play is, as confirmed in Christ, everlasting.

    Notes

    1. Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics Π/l (‘The Doctrine of God”), eds. G. W. Bromily and T. F. Torrance (Edinburgh: Τ & Τ Clark, 1957), 656. Drawing from AnselnT s treatise Cur Deus homo, Barth claims that any theological proof is “in itself a delectatio” (Ibid., 657). 2. Joy, and the aesthetic qualities it cultivates, is what makes theology, according to Barth, a “particularly beautiful science” (Ibid., 656). 3. With the exception of Isa 9:17, which is textually suspect, the verb smh (“rejoice” or “be joyful”) nowhere else in the Hebrew canon has God as its subject (see Erhard S. Gerstenberger, Psalms, Pari 2, and Lamentations [FOTL15; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001], 225). Related verbs fas (“to delight”) and rsh (“to be pleased”), however, are applied to God, particularly in contexts of sacrifice and moral integrity (e.g., Pss 5:4; 18:19; 35:27; 37:23; 40:13; 41:11; 51:16, 19; 147:10). Nevertheless, the verb “rejoice” signals a more heightened, intensified level of emotion. The closest parallel to the psalm is found in Zeph 3:17 (“[YHWH] will rejoice over you with gladness”). 4. This suggestion comes from Marilynne Robinson’s wonderful novel Gilead (New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 2004), 124. 5. Author’s translation. 6. Cf. the following verse, which highlights God’s capacity to destroy. 7. Author’s translation. The syntax is ambiguous, given the possible antecedents for the suffixed preposition bo. Thus, the text could be translated: “… Leviathan, which you fashioned to play in it [i.e., the sea].” But this possibility is less likely given the closer proximity of “Leviathan” in the verse. “Sea” is attested in the previous verse. 8. Calvin thought Leviathan was a whale, but it seems to have closer affinities to the crocodile (John Calvin, Commentary on the Book of Psalms, volume 4, trans. James Anderson [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1949], 165). In any case, the figure is drawn mythically larger than life as a chaos monster. 9. Richard Cohen, “A Chilling Look at German People,” op-ed, Atlanta Journal and Constitution, 28 April 2005, A17 (italics added).

  • ‘Scared movement’: an introduction to Lenten texts

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    “Scared Movement”:

    An Introduction to the Lenten Texts

    Mary Ann McKibben Dana

    Burke Presbyterian Church, Burke, Virginia

    I am writing these reflections on Lent within the comfortable walls of a Dominican retreat center near my home. Lent is still a few months away, and the center is largely empty. Vacant dormitories stand open as I walk the halls, pondering the Lenten texts. I take my meals in a deserted dining room; I look out the windows upon dry, falling leaves and wonder what the landscape will look like once Lent arrives. All is quiet and still. During Lent, it will be a different story around here, I expect. Pilgrims will flock to this place for workshops, retreats, and days of prayer. Dormitories will be full, and the dining room will clink and shuffle with seekers, wonderers, people attending to their Lenten disciplines and the peculiar rhythms of this season. It is an irony: during a time in which Jesus’ forty days of fasting and prayer should serve as a sort of pattern for us—a time of simplicity, if not peace—this place will likely be busier than ever. Even in our Protestant churches, chances are good that we will be in a state of Lenten industriousness. Many of our congregations will undertake special programs: prayer circles, small-group studies, speaker series, labyrinth walks, discipline groups, devotional guides, fasts, quiet days, and/or the “40 Days of Purpose.” The impulse is an honorable one—Lent is a time of preparation and penitence, and it should be undertaken in all seriousness and with intention. For many denominations, the liturgical seasons are still a relatively recent rediscovery, and we are still grasping the full impact of these “old, new” rhythms for our lives and our communities. And the spiritual hunger of our culture makes Lent a unique time of outreach to the community, through teaching prayer practices and other disciplines. The shadow side of all of this is the temptation to view Lent as something to be done, another item to be marked off our spiritual checklist. It is undeniable that spiritual disciplines and practices undertaken in Lent can and do bear fruit. While we do not know the full nature of Jesus’ wilderness sojourn (and this year’s tale, from the Gospel of Mark, omits the three temptations, leaving even more to our imagination), Jesus did in fact emerge from the experience transformed, shaped for his public ministry; the Gospels show us a Jesus who is ready for action, shaking off that desert dust and getting down to work. That said, I fear that over time Lent is in danger of becoming Christmas-ized by our culture, something to be consumed. We purchase the products of Lent, not with our money, but with our time. So how are we to proceed? In our spiritually-starved culture, how do we “keep Lent” without reducing it to a program, a consumable? Not surprisingly, the Lenten lectionary texts can guide us. Several years ago, I led a workshop for a youth event called “Sacred Movement,” in which I shared ways to pray with our bodies and different ways of encountering Scripture through drama and movement. When I arrived to set up for the workshop, I found a sign on the classroom door. It said, in huge letters, “Scared Movement.” This is not a typo that the computer’s word-processor would catch!


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    And neither does our own spiritual spell-check, if we take this year’s Lenten texts seriously. There is a bit of a scare in the sacred, because the texts remind us again and again that it is God who is in control, God who transforms our lives—not our prayers, not our labyrinth walks, and not Rick Warren’s book. Indeed, many of the Lenten texts seem to break us down in order to build us back up again. The First Sunday of Lent (Psalm 25) sets the tone: “God teaches the humble in what is right, and teaches the humble God’s way… God will teach them the way that they should choose” (vv. 9 and 12, emphasis added). The God of heaven and earth (and Psalm 25) is the one true teacher, not the small-group leader, Sunday School teacher, Lent series lecturer, and not the preacher. God is the one in whom we put our trust, the one whom we worship—and God is a reliable recipient of our trust and adoration. At the same time, we are called repeatedly in the psalm to “fear” God, to look with awe upon the One who is beyond our comprehension and all our prayerful wrangling. God is unreliably reliable, as we will see throughout the season of Lent. In the Second Sunday of Lent, we receive a second inoculation against getting puffed up with our own diligent efforts, with a healthy dose of the mighty other-ness of God. In Romans 4:13-25, Paul reminds us of Abraham’s faith and reiterates that God’s promise is a gracious gift, not a reward (not even a reward for “doing” Lent properly!). This Pauline theme continues the following week (Third Sunday of Lent, / Corinthians 1:18-25), in which we are warned that God “will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and discernment of the discerning [God] will thwart.” So much for figuring out the meaning of one’s life in the Forty Days of Purpose! Of course, Paul is contrasting the wisdom of this world with the true wisdom of God, which is what we search for in all of our prayers and discernment. However, even our best efforts at humble Lenten seeking can be colored by our own desire for spiritual status, and by the desire for God’s rubber stamp that ours is the right and righteous path. Paul cautions us against such status-seeking. The fruit of Lenten discipleship is relationship and humble obedience, not a gold star. Many of the Gospel texts cut our pious Lenten endeavors down to size as well. On the Second Sunday of Lent (Mark 8:31-38), Jesus lays out the path for those who would follow him: “Let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake… will save it.” It is a familiar call to discipleship, and one repeated in one form or another in each of the Gospels. But the four accounts are not exactly the same. Matthew’s version of Jesus’ words assures us that those who lose their life will “find” it (Matthew 10:39)—and the word contains the sense of discovering or encountering something/or oneself Luke (in 17:33) and John (in 12:25) render Jesus’ words in a similar vein, although using a different Greek term: their word choice carries meanings of “preserving oneself, acquiring, gaining, and obtaining for oneself”1 Modern readers might hear resonances of self-help language in these terms (although certainly these resonances would not have existed originally); it is a hazard of Lenten observance in our modern therapeutic age, in which the healthy pursuit of self-discovery can tip over into narcissistic self-indulgence. Mark provides no wiggle room for any self-help tricks. When we lose our life for Christ, Mark writes, we will save it—save it not in the sense of bland self-improvement , but in the sense of rescuing it from grave danger and harsh afflictions; save it in the sense of being wrested from the very throes of eternal death. Here Mark’s


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    apocalyptic orientation comes to the fore. Spirituality is not something we dabble in for personal enlightenment; a relationship with Jesus Christ is a matter of life and death. While we’re still contemplating the gravity of our Christian discipleship, the Gospel text for the next week (Third Sunday of Lent, John 2:13-22) breaks us down even further. In his cleansing of the temple, Jesus reminds us that God can do quickly what we try through years of dogged effort to do: “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up,” he says. The response is incredulous: “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?” The timing of forty-six years for the temple’s construction is historically credible2, although reading this text through the lens of a busy Lent offers another possible meaning for us—a spiritual one. The forty days of Lent, plus Sundays, yield the number forty-six as well—forty-six days on which to pray, to read devotional guides, to study, to attend classes, to abstain from chocolate or reality television—and still it is not these pursuits that ultimately matter, but the power of God in the resurrection of Jesus the Christ. In this passage, “Jesus challenges a religious system so embedded in its own rules and practices that it is no longer open to a fresh revelation from God…”3 Let us hope that we are not so embedded in our own spiritual construction projects during Lent that we miss God’s fresh revelation, which lies at the center of our faith story and alone has the power to make all things new. So what are we to do? Cancel our programs? Bolt the doors of the retreat centers? Certainly not, but faithful Lenten preaching of these texts can move us toward ways of experiencing the Lenten wilderness, and even its attendant activities, in faithful, God-centered ways. At least three themes emerge from these texts to guide us.

    “There’s a Wildness in God’s Mercy” First, the texts call us to take seriously the image of wilderness as a place to expect the unexpected. Just as the Israelites passed through the Red Sea and landed in the wilderness, so Jesus is similarly thrust into the wilderness, still soggy from his baptism in the Jordan. Jesus’ forty-day sojourn is not just the first Gospel text in Lent; it provides a template for the rest of the season. Mark’s wilderness story (First Sunday in Lent, Mark 1:9-15) seems to provide much less to work with than the other synoptics—no litany of temptations, no scriptural repartee between Jesus and Satan. All we have are Jesus, Satan, angels—and the wild beasts. It is a particular, peculiar detail. Are the beasts included solely for the sake of ambience? Are they simply background figures in our mental diorama of the scene, or do they serve a higher spiritual and theological purpose? At the very least, we can hear echoes of Advent: “The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fading together, and a little child shall lead them… They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain” (from Isaiah 11:69 ). While the link to Advent is noteworthy, I wonder whether there is more to the story than Jesus’ simply “walking with the animals, talking with the animals” as a means of prophetic fulfillment. I have a pastor friend, wise in the Spirit, who has been a confidante and guide in the wilderness experiences of my own life. She will frequently say, “May the angels and the wild beasts tend to you.” It is a misreading of the text, but a deliberate and provocative one, always bringing to my mind the Chronicles ofNarnia, with the


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    Christlike Asian and his kingdom of wise and majestic animals. Her words remind me that true transformation is unpredictable, that our journey with God can be hazardous and, well, wild. At times, even bizarre. We are told that Jesus “was with the wild beasts”—they are not simply on the periphery, but nearby. Did Jesus seek them out? Could the untamed elements of the wilderness (the wilder-nessl) not simply be creatures to contend with and overcome, but also provide some kind of wisdom along the way? After the tsunami in Asia at the end of 2004, many news outlets reported anecdotal evidence that animals sensed the impending disaster before it happened. National Geographic reported that elephants ran for higher ground, dogs and zoo animals cowered indoors, and certain birds fled from their low-lying breeding areas. Very few animals were found to have died, apparently tipped off by a “sixth sense” of trouble on the way.4 Certainly Jesus’ wilderness pilgrimage represented a spiritual tectonic shift—the heavens had been torn apart, a controversial and world-altering public ministry was soon to begin. Wouldn’t he do well to tune in the wisdom of the wilderness, even its wilder aspects? We may be tempted to dismiss all of this animal business as a flight of fancy, except that just two Sundays later, in the Gospel of John (Third Sunday in Lent, John 2:13-22), we witness a stunning turn of events. Now it is Jesus himself who is wild: cracking a homemade whip, flipping tables onto their backs, dumping stacks of coins onto the floor of the temple, and freeing the animals held captive there for use in the requisite temple offerings. Only John’s Gospel mentions the presence of animals, and they are docile beasts: sheep, cattle, and doves, foils to a Jesus who is fierce, unhinged. Certainly his wilderness experience might have helped shape him for this intense prophetic display. The wildness continues the following week, when we turn to Numbers and the story of God’s sending poisonous serpents to deliver fatal bites to the complaining Israelites (Fourth Sunday in Lent, Numbers 21:4-9). (It is a rather comical story. The people’s whining is totally irrational, even toddler-esque: “There’s no food! And the food is no good!”) God’s antidote to the plague of serpents is no soothing “balm of Gilead.” It is a bronze image, fashioned by Moses, of the same serpent that brought the plague in the first place; the Israelites are compelled to gaze upon it in order to live. Yes, God brings healing, but it is a healing tinged with terror. And in the Gospel lesson for that day, John compares Jesus to Moses’ serpent (John 3:14-21): “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up.” The death of Jesus is foreshadowed, but this is not the meek Lamb of God slain; this is Mary Oliver’s “Black Snake,” lifeless in the road, “cool and gleaming as abraided whip…,” a stark, ghastly image of death and “its suddenness, its terrible weight, its certain coming.”5 There’s a wildness in God’s mercy, a wildness that cannot be parsed, dissected, or domesticated. As our congregations undertake our Lenten disciplines and programs, may we not be lulled and dulled by quiet contemplations and well-mannered, prayerful postures. Let us instead experience these important contemplative times as opportunities to wake up to God’s outrageous unpredictability and to move toward faithful and even passionate response.


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    “Your Love is Teaching Me How to Kneel” With the wildness of God firmly in mind, we shift gears to a second theme present in these texts, that of God’s covenant with humanity. Most of the Old Testament texts this Lent cycle concern aspects of God’s covenant. As we all know, there are two parties to any covenant—it takes two to tango !—but as we will see, the lections evolve each week, from a view of humanity that is largely passive to one in which the people are called to respond in some way. Such a careful progression of texts can guide us in our Lenten exploration not to jump in too quickly with our own agendas and goals for the season, but rather, to listen to God and follow God’s leading. The First Sunday in Lent (Genesis 9:8-17) centers around God’s promise to Noah and to creation, following the flood that destroyed the earth. “Never again,” God says. “I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant.” Interestingly, the rainbow is intended to serve not as a covenant reminder to humanity, but to God: “When the bow is in the clouds, I [God] will see it and remember…” God is the initiator, and God provides the reminder for Godself. Throughout the passage, Noah says not a word. Noah simply listens to the terms of God’s covenant. The Second Sunday in Lent (Gen. 17:1-7,15-16) concerns God’s covenant with Abraham (still Abram at this point). Again, in the particular lection in question, the human response is extremely limited. Abram is still a silent recipient, but as if to build on Noah’s response, Abram now bows before God: “Abram fell on his face.” So we, too, are called first and foremost to listen, and to kneel, before our God. And this is where we begin our Lenten journey—not with lists of disciplines and personal wilderness projects, but with silent receptivity and humble praise. It is only in the Third Sunday in Lent (Exodus 20:1-17), with the introduction of the Ten Commandments, that our part in God’s covenant history becomes more prominent. God is still the initiator: “I am the Lord your God,” but only now, after the silence and the praise, do we have expectations for our daily living. Without that relationship as a foundation, the commandments are empty rules, but within the context of listening for God and praising God, these commandments are life-giving. Finally, in the Fifth Sunday in Lent (Jeremiah 31:31-34), we are called not just to receive, and to praise, and to keep the commandments, but we are called to step out in faith. The new covenant God promises Jeremiah still has yet to be; God speaks in the future tense of a new house for Israel, and of a law written on the people’s hearts. Looking beyond the lectionary passage into chapter 32, we see Jeremiah’s leap of faith in the purchase of the field in Anathoth, a visual testimony to what God is yet to do: “Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel: Houses and fields and vineyards shall again be bought in this land” (32:15). So we, too, are called to step out in faith, having been grounded in the reality of God’s love, expressed in God’s covenant relationship with us. It has been suggested that God’s covenant serves as an alternative to chaos.6 Certainly we see that in these Lenten texts: covenant is the alternative to the chaos of a world drowned in mighty waters; to the chaos of a man without an heir, a future, a purpose; to the chaos of a people living without boundaries; to the chaos of a life lived without faith in the future God provides. The U2 song “Vertigo” renders such chaos into contemporary language. The lyrics describe a muddled, frenetic, swirling scene in a dance club; the singer is looking for something visual to grab onto for balance, and he spots a girl “with Jesus ’round her neck.” Later he sings, “Your love is teaching me


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    how to kneel.”7 So it is with us. It does take two to tango, but God takes the lead. God’s love, offered to us in covenant relationship, is what teaches us how to kneel. We cannot learn such a fundamental faith lesson on our own. It is God’s love that gives shape and meaning to all of our Lenten disciplines.

    “Tensegrity”: Living the Contradictions We have experienced the Lenten texts as filled with hope, yet tinged with horror; packed with good news, yet also with grisly images; wild at heart, yet wonderful beyond our imagining. These tensions illuminate a final theme that can guide us in our Lenten wilderness wanderings—the reality of deep paradox. A faithful Lenten pilgrim, and Lenten preacher, would do well not to seek after easy answers, but immerse oneself in the deep contradictions that, in the words of one scholar, may not make sense to us, but certainly make sense of us and our Christian journey.8 Architect and inventor Buckminster Fuller employed the term tensegrity to describe the complementary relationship between two seemingly opposing forces or ideas—push/pull, or attraction/repulsion… or for our purposes, hope/horror, wild/ wonderful, the good and the grisly. These tensions are inevitable and unsettling, but also creative and life-giving. Benedictine spirituality is one particular discipline that explores these tensions, acknowledging that we must tend to the conflicts and paradoxes of our lives, seeking to integrate the forces of push and pull in which we find ourselves; otherwise we will be torn apart, broken selves, lost from the fullness of life that God promises. Esther de Waal writes: “Differences will not be solved by pretending that they do not exist, or that only one orientation is legitimate…. [The goal is] not confusion but a holding together of polarities that leads to vitality.”9 This tending to the contradictions is thoroughly biblical. Consider: “a God who becomes a man; a victor who rides on a donkey in his hour of triumph… a king whose kingdom is not here but to come; a God who tells me that ‘when I am weak then I am strong.’”10 We have explored numerous paradoxes already in these Lenten texts, such as losing one’s life in order to save it (SecondSunday in Lent, Mark 8:31-38), as well as Paul’s juxtaposition of God’s wisdom and human folly, of weakness and strength, and of the “foolishness” of the cross and the cross as a source of God’s power (Third Sunday in Lent, I Cor. 1:18-25). John’s story of Jesus’ angrily confronting the moneychangers in the temple paints a stark contrast to the story that immediately precedes it, the wedding at Cana, in which a more genteel side of Jesus comes out: the wedding guest and miracle worker who listens to his mother (ThirdSunday in Lent, John 2:1322 ). (We may wonder: can this be the same man?) And during the Fourth Sunday in Lent, Ephesians 2:1-10, we are presented with the classic theological paradox of our faith, that “even when we were dead through our trespasses, [God] made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved.” Perhaps the greatest paradox of all is the one we are inevitably moving toward throughout Lent: the cross, in which crucifixion and exaltation are inextricably linked. Paul illumines this paradox flawlessly when he writes that “[Christ] humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross. Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name” (Palm/Passion Sunday, Philippians 2:5-11). Our own lives emulate this tension; in the words of the Rule of St. Benedict, “We descend by exaltation and ascend by humility.”11 This attention to the paradoxes can guide us toward a fuller Lenten experience,


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    from the pulpit and amidst the programs, in the Sunday School and at the small group. The basic tension for our lives is this, according to de Waal: “I am nothing without God… yet God looks to me for the activity that will make use of my gifts… If I can incorporate both of these elements into my life I shall escape the passivity that encourages me to do nothing at all and hand everything over to God, or the terrifying compulsion of over-activity that comes from reliance upon my unaided self.” 12 Given

    our culture of busy-ness, I have been particularly concerned in this article about the latter, but a healthy embrace of the tensions of faith, which I think permeate the Lenten texts, will keep us from overcorrecting into spiritual inactivity. A theme throughout the rule of St. Benedict is the notion of “running” to Christ. We don’t often think about what is involved in the act of running—the relentless loss of balance with each step, the precarious moment between footfalls. “It is risky, this matter of running,” de Waal admits. “[But] by daring to lose my balance I keep it.” 13

    The Lenten texts encourage us to take the risk—moving ever closer to a God who is wild and unpredictable; a God who offers a covenant relationship with us in ways beyond our deserving; a God who encompasses deep polarities and unsettling paradoxes—paradoxes which ultimately set us free and create us anew, in Lent and in every season of our lives.

    Notes

    1. William F. Arndt and F. Wilbur Gingrich, A Greek English Lexicon of the New Testament (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979). Consulted entries for “sozo” (from Mark), “eurisko” (Matthew), and “peripoieo” (Luke and John). 2. Gail R. O’Day, “The Gospel of John,” New Interpreters Bible, Vol. 10 (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 544. 3. O’Day, 545. 4. Maryann Mott, “Did Animals Sense Tsunami Was Coming?” National Geographic News 4 January 2005.”http://news.nationalgeographic.corn/news/2005/01/0104_050104_tsunami_animals.htmr ,http:/

    /news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2005/01/0104_050104_tsunami_animals.html> 5. Mary Oliver, “Black Snake.” What Do We Know: Poems (Cambridge: Da Capo Press, 2002). 6. Fred B. Craddock, et al., Preaching Through the Christian Year Β (Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1993), 138. 7. U2, “Vertigo,” How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. Compact Disc. Interscope Records, 2004. 8. Craddock, 154. 9. Esther de Waal, Living with Contradiction: An Introduction to Benedictine Spirituality (Harrisburg, Pa.: Morehouse Publishing, 1997), 22. 10. de Waal, 24. 11. de Waal, 21. 12. de Waal, 34. 13. de Waal, 26.

  • Forgiveness

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    Forgiveness

    Genesis 50:15-21 and Romans 12:14-21; Matthew 18: 21-35

    Lance Stone

    Emmanuel United Reformed Church, Cambridge, England

    The assumption behind our readings this morning is that the church can be an uncomfortable place. When a group of people so diverse come together there are bound to be bumps and bruises, and we glimpse some of these in our reading from Romans. Clearly there are conflicts and disputes in the church of Rome. Therefore, it’s not surprising that as we continue this week in Matthew 18, we come to Jesus’ teaching on forgiveness. As a community that tries to share life, the church is called to be a community of forgiveness. Indeed, here we come up against one of the fundamental, distinctive features of the Christian faith, something we cannot escape: this faith has forgiveness at its very heart and core. Our faith, after all, centers on a Christ who, as he died an innocent victim of human hatred and violence, prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” And Christians have seen in those words a prayer not only for those immediately responsible for Christ’s death but also a prayer for the whole human race in all its fallenness and tragedy: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” As Saint Paul explained it, somehow in a profoundly mysterious way, in Jesus’ death on the cross “God was in Christ, reconciling the world to Godself, not counting their trespasses against them.” And therefore, we are called to forgive, too. But this is deeply problematic; there are huge issues here. Let me put it very bluntly: can the loved ones of almost 3,000 people who perished in the hell of September 11 four years ago, can they – should they – forgive the perpetrators? Or consider the loved ones of those blown up in the underground and on the bus in London on July 7 this year. Should they forgive? Consider a particularly distressing child murder, a horrible event that seems to blight our summer months every year: Can the parents of children so brutally murdered forgive those who do such things? In terrible situations, dare we speak the language of forgiveness? This, of course, is what our passage from Matthew’s Gospel is all about. In a way it is an absurd story, filled with exaggeration and caricature, and yet it makes a crucial point. Peter starts it all by asking Jesus how often we should forgive someone who has wronged us. The Jewish teachers had a rule of thumb that stipulated three times, a sort of “three strikes and you’re out” policy. So when Peter suggests seven times, he probably thinks he is being very generous, going far beyond the stipulated number. Perhaps Peter thinks he is exaggerating, but not for Jesus. For Jesus he is woefully underestimating. Not seven times but seventy times seven. In other words, indefinitely . There are no limits on forgiveness. It is not a question of mathematics—you just keep on and on and on doing it. And then Jesus tells this story about a servant who owes a king a vast sum of money. It is a ridiculous figure; it has been estimated that 10,000 talents is equivalent to millions of pounds, in all likelihood more than all the money circulating in the entire land at that time. It would take an ordinary laborer about 150,000 years to pay back this sum. And so the servant pleads, and the king lets him off. This massive burden of debt is gone -just like that! But then this servant meets


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    another servant who owes him a trifling sum, little more than loose change in comparison. He violently demands the money, throwing his fellow servant into jail, despite the servant’s pleas for patience. The message is obvious, yet when we try to apply it, there are huge problems because whole story rests upon a comparison between what the servant owes the king, which is millions, and what his fellow servant owes him, which is trivial. We could take this as suggesting that our sins against one another are as nothing compared to our sins against God, which are we forgiven. Our sins against God are equivalent to millions, and in comparison our crimes against one another are but small change. But that is a very dangerous argument. Just imagine that I had lost one of my children in the Word Trade Center four years ago. Am I really supposed to say that alongside my sins against God, that sin against me is trivial? Are parents of children brutally murdered supposed to conclude that alongside the magnitude of their sins against God, such crimes are just small change? Can we really say that? Should we? Does that not cheapen, diminish, and demean human life? Is it not the case that crimes of terrorists and child murderers are sins of infinite magnitude, and that the blood of these victims cries from the ground for retribution, like the blood of Abel? Can such terrible crimes be forgiven? Should they be forgiven? I know good arguments can be put forward in support of forgiveness. For a start, forgiveness is profoundly healing and therapeutic. There is, after all, something about the refusal to forgive that is like a cancer, eating and gnawing away at us, like a toxin poisoning our very souls. I am not being judgmental, for heaven knows I have no idea how I could cope if I found myself in their situations. But I look at some of the people we encounter in the media, parents of children who have been murdered dreadfully and who cannot forgive, and see a terrible bitterness and hardness that is further damaging their lives. It’s as if their hearts have become calloused and their anger and bitterness have corroded their spirits. That is what revenge does: it festers and destroys the avenger as much as it destroys the perpetrator. And you just long for these people to let go and forgive. If only they could just let go, a huge weight would drop from their lives. Forgiveness is such a release. It heals. It restores. We can think of the example of Gordon Wilson, who, in the rubble of Eniskillen, held the hand of his dying daughter and said afterward of the perpetrators, “I bear them no ill will… I will pray for them every night… dirty talk achieves nothing.” There, surely, we see the extraordinary healing power of forgiveness. And yet it hurts to forgive. It hurts to lay down that sense of grievance and resentment. If we are to forgive, something in us must die—and that is a very painful death, as if something in us is being ruptured and torn. We speak about the Christian life as one that involves taking up the cross, and here we encounter that cross – in the sheer pain of forgiving. As the great Scottish theologian H.R. Macintosh put it, “forgiveness is a voyage of anguish for the forgiver.” And part of that anguish is the suspicion we harbor that to forgive is somehow to condone evil. To forgive is to fail to punish wrongdoing, and that can never be right. It’s bad enough for me if I have been wronged, but it is even worse when someone has harmed a loved one. We feel somehow that to forgive is to let our loved ones down, to betray them, to fail to honor them. There is something deeply satisfying about vengeance, retaliation, and punishment . We feel that we are not surrendering one inch to evil. We feel that we are somehow defeating the wrong done to us or to our loved one. We cannot allow evil to

    Lent 2006


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    win, and forgiveness seems to risk that. And it was all very well for Joseph in our reading from Genesis to say to his brothers, “you meant it for evil, but God meant it for good.” After all, everything went well for him in the end. His brothers’ evil against him was not the last word: good triumphed. But things do not always work out that way, and we fear that to forgive is to allow evil to triumph. To let go is painful—and to forgive is “a voyage of anguish.” So what then are we to say in the face of September 11, and July 7, and all the wrongs that have been done to us and that still burn within us? Two things must be said. The first is that God forgives. That is the fact that we are confronted with: God forgives. That is God’s nature, and the point of this parable in Matthew. Using his customary exaggeration and sense of absurdity, Jesus is making a deadly serious point. God forgives – again and again. Not just seventy time seven times, but indefinitely. In Jesus Christ we see God embracing and absorbing all the hatred, crimes, and wickedness of humanity, absorbing it in himself, painfully and agonizingly, and forgiving it. There is nothing that is not forgiven by God. The second point is simply this: we are called to be imitators of God, and again this is the point of the parable and what the Christian life is all about. It’s about being formed and shaped into the likeness of God revealed in Jesus Christ. Embarking upon the Christian life means embarking upon a journey of change, changing into the image of God revealed in Jesus. To forgive is to be like God, to be drawn into the life of God and to be transformed. To refuse to forgive is to distance ourselves from God, and to cut ourselves off from that possibility. That is what it all comes down to. I can give you many reasons why forgiveness is a good thing, but at the end of the day there is only one compelling motivation. It is that God is like that. Jesus is like that. And we are called to be like him.

  • An invitation: the pathway to humility

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    An Invitation: The Pathway to Humility

    Matthew 6:1-6; 16-21

    Julie A. Johnson

    Marietta, Georgia

    Tonight as the sun sets

    and dusk turns to darkness,

    we gather around this table

    to be forgiven,

    sustained, and nourished…

    for a journey we might just decide to take.

    Tonight as dusk turns to darkness,

    Jesus—the light of the world,

    the light of our world,

    has set his face toward Jerusalem.

    Can you see him?

    Can you see him…

    over there

    in the shadows

    with that far, far look in his eyes?

    Can you see him…

    in the clearing at the crossroads?

    shifting from foot to foot,

    looking down at his sandals,

    waiting for something…

    maybe for you

    maybe me.

    You see,

    you don’t have to go…

    You don’t…

    We are not forced

    or “guilted” into following him.

    There are no forced marches.

    We don’t have to go

    to that far-off place.


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    We don’t have to go through the shadow of death. We don’t have to go.

    In fact, you could fake it this year (no one would really know).

    We could just show off our spirituality and make people think we’re religious. We can subtly brag about our good deeds and impress people with our piety. We can just say long-winded prayers and boast about our fasting; about what we’re giving up for Lent.

    You really don’t have to do Lent this year. You and I can just go through the motions or cash in our holy investments …of grace…and just sit this one out.

    But then there’s Jesus again over there in the shadows… Can you see him? right over there…

    See him getting ready to set off willingly to suffer, to be compassion, to love extravagantly, to relinquish with abandon.

    That invitation, the one in your hand, that Lenten invitation—

    Don’t decide too quickly. This invitation, this journey, this pathway of humility, might just cost you everything: your reputation, your self image, your idea of security.

    Journal for Preachers


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    This pathway of humility… might scramble your politics, might mess with your values, might shake up your world view.

    You don’t have to go…you don’t… because Jesus will go for you.

    Prayer of Invitation to Lent

    Okay, Jesus, so we really don’t have to go? You will walk that lonesome valley for us? Really?

    You will choose to walk the path of humility and you will give us the choice! and you only extend an invitation? Really?

    To be honest, some of us need to sit this year out; we’re whittled down, saturated with grief, and blistered by broken promises.

    Some of us really try to be real, work to be authentic, try to be faithful… and well, we can’t this year.

    Okay, Jesus, so we really don’t have to go? But maybe some of us do. Maybe some of us want to; maybe some of us will walk with you, and some of us will walk for our friends who can’t.

    Give us grace to accept your invitation, and we will join you in the shadows over there… together we slip into the shadows, together we can turn toward Jerusalem…

    And Jesus, If we should get lost from one another along the way? We’ll meet you on that Thursday again at the tablethat night when the sun sets and dusk turns to darkness.