Gaudete Sunday, the pink candle, and the call to rejoice. The Introit for the day is partly from Philippians, "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice. Indeed, the Lord is near." I have to confess that Kathy and I tarried a little in getting ready for Advent, and so our candle for this week is white, not pink (they were out of them at the store). Oh well!. Anyway, our church's candle is pink and we dutifully lit it this morning and something in what the pastor said got me asking this question, "Do I believe that each life has a divine purpose and plan?" Said another way, do I believe that God creates us and our life for a specific purpose in His plan, and that He then ordains every detail of what evangelicals call "His perfect will" for us? Things like who we will marry (evangelicals, especially young evangelicals, are always very concerned about that), where we will go to school, what we will do for an occupation, what our gifting and ministry is going to be in the kingdom, and so on. Now I must admit I have seen the hand of God openly active in my family's life at times in the past. But I also have to admit that it is not a routine, day-in and day-out occurrence. Sometimes it's my hand more than his that rules the day. And that got me to thinking of other alternative schemes that God may use for life than the whole perfect will route. Perhaps He simply gives life to us and imbues it with full potential, and then allows us to choose, to live, to fail, to succeed, to journey...to work out our salvation with fear and trembling. I am reading a book on this great debate about how the sovereignty of God interfaces with the concept of free will and choice, how predestination really plays out in our world and I confess it makes a compelling case for this model.
So ridiculous concepts pop into my head this morning including such notions that God has preordained my wardrobe for my entire life, what tie I will wear today and so on. Ridiculous, I know, but somehow truth pushed to extreme always ends up in those corners or my understanding. But more seriously I was forced to face other issues such as does God create babies that die prematurely, or men and women born into slavery or subjected to poverty or crippled by disease. And it's at that point that the pat answers that used to serve me well seem to stick in my mouth and I have to say, I don't know. I don't always understand the way things work out in life and sometimes I don't always feel like "rejoicing", even when the candle is pink instead of purple. But on this Third Sunday of Advent, my hope remains that the Lord indeed is near, because He is the only one that can bring sense out of the muddle that I continually find myself in.
Monday, December 17, 2012
The Unexpected Hand of God
Advent is a great time to float those impossible prayers out there. The entire Christmas story is one big impossible expression of hope fulfilled, the proverbial victory snatched from the jaws of defeat, so why not pray big in a season like this? As I grow older my prayers tend to be much more focused, give me an outlet for what you have gifted me to be. A pastor without a church is not a pastor at all, and I wrestle with what God has made me to be without giving me an opportunity to express it. Now this is not about pastoring, but it is about feeling the hand of God, and, more specifically, feeling the hand of God with no idea as to what it means. But I had to record this thought before I lost it forever.
A little background. There are always individuals in every church that are always on the fringes...you know the type. They are the dancers, and exhuberant praisers, and faith confessors, and ardent prayers, and mountain-moving believers. And while a lot of people may write them off as extreme, there is just something about them that makes me know that they have seen the face of God, and routinely find themselves in His presence, and so when they speak, I listen.
And that's where this account finally gels together. The scene: Second Sunday of Advent, pre-service praise music, finishing a cup of coffee in the back pew and trying to get my thoughts in a somewhat ready order. Praise group is singing a song that I don't recognize, one of those generic songs naming all of the great qualities of Jesus and what He has done. And as they sing this one particular line "through you the dead will raise", the hand of God, or more accurately the hand of our resident God-seeker, lands on my shoulder and more or less says "that is you." So that's it. I do not have a clue what it means, and I was frankly scared to ask for much of anything more in the way of explanation. It is worth recording because it does not happen that often, but I have come to expect great things from this season. This is one of those "thin" times, when the barrier between heaven and earth gets gauze-like thin and miracles still happen.
A little background. There are always individuals in every church that are always on the fringes...you know the type. They are the dancers, and exhuberant praisers, and faith confessors, and ardent prayers, and mountain-moving believers. And while a lot of people may write them off as extreme, there is just something about them that makes me know that they have seen the face of God, and routinely find themselves in His presence, and so when they speak, I listen.
And that's where this account finally gels together. The scene: Second Sunday of Advent, pre-service praise music, finishing a cup of coffee in the back pew and trying to get my thoughts in a somewhat ready order. Praise group is singing a song that I don't recognize, one of those generic songs naming all of the great qualities of Jesus and what He has done. And as they sing this one particular line "through you the dead will raise", the hand of God, or more accurately the hand of our resident God-seeker, lands on my shoulder and more or less says "that is you." So that's it. I do not have a clue what it means, and I was frankly scared to ask for much of anything more in the way of explanation. It is worth recording because it does not happen that often, but I have come to expect great things from this season. This is one of those "thin" times, when the barrier between heaven and earth gets gauze-like thin and miracles still happen.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Another Reflection on the First Sunday of Advent
So we lit the first candle on the Advent wreath, and the little narrative that was read reminded us that this first candle was the candle of hope. Now your little narrative may be different, but for the sake of continuing this reflection let's say that hope is as good as anything for the first candle to represent. Now I am not as much a curmudgeon as some of my family may think I am, and I really do, deep inside of my inmost self, want to hold onto the things of God and have the fullness of deliverance that He alone gives. But I asked myself first, "What is hope?", and second, "Did anything that we do this morning in the sanctuary really give us (me) hope?" Or did we walk out of church on this First Sunday of Advent saying the words but completely missing out on the reality?
Searching for a meaning I turned to Webster's first and found that hope (a noun) is a desire accompanied by an expectation of something or a belief that something will come to pass. But that seemed pretty shallow, not at all the message I heard at church. Webster's tried to make me feel better (more hopeful???) by informing me that the word used to be synonymous for trust or reliance in something, but that we don't use the word that way any more. No fooling! That's the problem, we say we hope for something, but we feel all empty and futile in our declaration That was not what I was really looking for, so I turned to Hebrews and found that hope was intended to be the anchor of my soul, firm and secure. I read further that it proceeds from the promise of God, something that He has eternally decreed and in which He cannot lie. And furthermore, this anchor is grounded in the very center of the sanctuary of God where Jesus stands and ministers on my behalf, forever. And that, I determined, was the reality of the word hope that was supposed to be portrayed by that first frail candle.
No offense meant to the Advent wreath, but a behemoth of an iron anchor set firmly and providing secure mooring I can understand. I have to admit, however, that on this First Sunday of Advent, my personal level of hope seems much more akin to the flickering, feeble light of that first candle, frail and easily snuffed. It would be easy to despair and give up, to think that none of the things we do week after week really inspire a hope that is supposed to anchor our soul. We walk out the door and we find ourselves without secure mooring, being beat to death by life itself. I find myself wondering do any of us really have hope? What evidence is there that is is real? But then I notice that something still compels me to put one foot in front of the other, I still move (perhaps slowly and unsurely but move nonetheless) towards something elusive that still lies before me and beckons in some unknown way to my soul. And that reassures me that hope must still be present and active inside of me, even when I am unaware of it. And while I still want more certainty, that seems enough to take away on this First Sunday of Advent.
Searching for a meaning I turned to Webster's first and found that hope (a noun) is a desire accompanied by an expectation of something or a belief that something will come to pass. But that seemed pretty shallow, not at all the message I heard at church. Webster's tried to make me feel better (more hopeful???) by informing me that the word used to be synonymous for trust or reliance in something, but that we don't use the word that way any more. No fooling! That's the problem, we say we hope for something, but we feel all empty and futile in our declaration That was not what I was really looking for, so I turned to Hebrews and found that hope was intended to be the anchor of my soul, firm and secure. I read further that it proceeds from the promise of God, something that He has eternally decreed and in which He cannot lie. And furthermore, this anchor is grounded in the very center of the sanctuary of God where Jesus stands and ministers on my behalf, forever. And that, I determined, was the reality of the word hope that was supposed to be portrayed by that first frail candle.
No offense meant to the Advent wreath, but a behemoth of an iron anchor set firmly and providing secure mooring I can understand. I have to admit, however, that on this First Sunday of Advent, my personal level of hope seems much more akin to the flickering, feeble light of that first candle, frail and easily snuffed. It would be easy to despair and give up, to think that none of the things we do week after week really inspire a hope that is supposed to anchor our soul. We walk out the door and we find ourselves without secure mooring, being beat to death by life itself. I find myself wondering do any of us really have hope? What evidence is there that is is real? But then I notice that something still compels me to put one foot in front of the other, I still move (perhaps slowly and unsurely but move nonetheless) towards something elusive that still lies before me and beckons in some unknown way to my soul. And that reassures me that hope must still be present and active inside of me, even when I am unaware of it. And while I still want more certainty, that seems enough to take away on this First Sunday of Advent.
On the First Sunday of Advent
I wish that I could remain proverbially "fat, dumb, and happy" when it comes to things religious. When I was young-ish, I could skate through most any church service without a care, only stumbling on things that were monumental in terms of heresy or apostasy or the like. Now I find that I catch my feet on a thousand little things that I would hardly have noticed in my younger days. I think that is caused by being much closer to my death than my birth. When you are nearing the end of your timeline on earth you tend to take stock of all of the things you have picked up along the way because it becomes harder to carry them all, and you question things that you would have hardly noticed before because you are measuring them against eternity and trying to decide whether they have any lasting value for you after all.
On this First Sunday of Advent we heard about light, light coming into the world, light coming into the darkness. And I wondered whether it was presumptuous of us, on this First Sunday of Advent, to once again mention the Us/Them distinction, as in, "We walk in the light", while "They (the elusive they) remain lost in darkness." Okay, I know the scriptures, I can quote all of the ones popping into your head as your read these words that would seem to bolster this distinction. But even if the world lies in the hands of the wicked one, can we really say that everything is darkness? If so, where does innovation invention, composition, or creativity come from? From what source does courage, generosity, compassion, loyalty, or empathy spring? Did God really turn His back on the world and leave it to its own devices so that all it produced in His sight was the filthy rags of failure and despair during that interlude from Adam's sin to the coming of Jesus? Or was there always a glimmer of eternity stuck away in the hearts of each and every person that was put there by the very hand of God, sometimes brighter, sometimes dimmer, never being completely extinguished, and ultimately finding its meaning in the coming of Jesus? I only ask because I look at the world, then I look at the church, then I look at the world, then I look back at the church and it seems that the distinction is one of words only, and that both of us seem to be sharing a shade of gray more than either of the two extremes. On this First Sunday of Advent I do find hope in the words of Isaiah 42 quoted also in the gospels, "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out..." If this is what the coming of Jesus offers to me then I am thankful that whatever light I do have will not be taken from me until the day that makes all things light be fulfilled in me.
On this First Sunday of Advent we heard about light, light coming into the world, light coming into the darkness. And I wondered whether it was presumptuous of us, on this First Sunday of Advent, to once again mention the Us/Them distinction, as in, "We walk in the light", while "They (the elusive they) remain lost in darkness." Okay, I know the scriptures, I can quote all of the ones popping into your head as your read these words that would seem to bolster this distinction. But even if the world lies in the hands of the wicked one, can we really say that everything is darkness? If so, where does innovation invention, composition, or creativity come from? From what source does courage, generosity, compassion, loyalty, or empathy spring? Did God really turn His back on the world and leave it to its own devices so that all it produced in His sight was the filthy rags of failure and despair during that interlude from Adam's sin to the coming of Jesus? Or was there always a glimmer of eternity stuck away in the hearts of each and every person that was put there by the very hand of God, sometimes brighter, sometimes dimmer, never being completely extinguished, and ultimately finding its meaning in the coming of Jesus? I only ask because I look at the world, then I look at the church, then I look at the world, then I look back at the church and it seems that the distinction is one of words only, and that both of us seem to be sharing a shade of gray more than either of the two extremes. On this First Sunday of Advent I do find hope in the words of Isaiah 42 quoted also in the gospels, "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out..." If this is what the coming of Jesus offers to me then I am thankful that whatever light I do have will not be taken from me until the day that makes all things light be fulfilled in me.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Stained Glass Theology
We have this great stained glass window at the front of our church with a glittering bible ensconced at the very center point and the words "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path" arrayed around it. And while is is beautiful to look at and makes the best use of the prevailing sunlight, I wondered how the Bible became the central focal point of our Protestant worship? Why has the written word of God displaced the living word of God, Jesus?
I think that if we were Jesus centered rather than word centered (and I know that there are some who would accuse me of splitting hairs), our churches would look different in practice. Our prayers might have a real power to them as we prayed to and with Jesus, rather than praying theologically correct "in the name of Jesus." I don't think we would spend much pulpit time expounding deep theological mysteries, or the relationship of law to grace, or correct doctrine. I think we would spend most of our time in the gospels, telling again the marvelous story of Jesus and His love. And I think we would spend much more time contemplatively, listening at His feet as Mary did, rather than making much ado about nothing as Martha did.
I get the sense that this is the right thing to do. It says in Hebrews that God spoke to us in many times and ways, but in these last days spoke by His Son. Jesus said that if we have seen Him, we have seen the Father, and warned that we search the scriptures because we think that in them we have life, but it is the scriptures that bear witness to Him. I already have significant heartburn about how evangelicals have taken the word of God and put it in the place of God Himself. If that printed bible was so vital to the life of the church, I wonder how Christianity survived that first 1500 years when people did not have access to a printed bible, when even if they did many might not be able to read and understand the archaic languages. I would tend to think that their faith was placed in a person, not a page, that right relationship was more important than right doctrine, and that made all the difference in their lives.
I think that if we were Jesus centered rather than word centered (and I know that there are some who would accuse me of splitting hairs), our churches would look different in practice. Our prayers might have a real power to them as we prayed to and with Jesus, rather than praying theologically correct "in the name of Jesus." I don't think we would spend much pulpit time expounding deep theological mysteries, or the relationship of law to grace, or correct doctrine. I think we would spend most of our time in the gospels, telling again the marvelous story of Jesus and His love. And I think we would spend much more time contemplatively, listening at His feet as Mary did, rather than making much ado about nothing as Martha did.
I get the sense that this is the right thing to do. It says in Hebrews that God spoke to us in many times and ways, but in these last days spoke by His Son. Jesus said that if we have seen Him, we have seen the Father, and warned that we search the scriptures because we think that in them we have life, but it is the scriptures that bear witness to Him. I already have significant heartburn about how evangelicals have taken the word of God and put it in the place of God Himself. If that printed bible was so vital to the life of the church, I wonder how Christianity survived that first 1500 years when people did not have access to a printed bible, when even if they did many might not be able to read and understand the archaic languages. I would tend to think that their faith was placed in a person, not a page, that right relationship was more important than right doctrine, and that made all the difference in their lives.
The Proverbial Tree without Fruit
For some reason or another I found myself reading that section of the gospels where Jesus seeks fruit on a fig tree, and when there is none, he curses it and the tree withers away. It reminded me of the counterpoint made in the story where the owner of a fig tree comes seeking fruitfulness, and finding none, tells his gardener to cut it down because it is wasting space and is useless. The gardener takes a slightly different tack and asks for one more year of special care to coax the tree to fruitfulness. Now there are enough examples of dry and dead trees being burned up in the fire in the Scriptures and I am not going to be drawn into an argument about the fairness of these examples. God is God, and I am not, and if He wants to wither fig trees even when they don't bear in the wrong season that is His business.
But I will apply the story as if I was the one seeking fruit. What is my response to be when finding none? Am I quick to condemn, to lay the ax to the root, to cast the tree on the pile to be burned? Is fruitfulness or usefulness the measure I use to judge another's spirituality? Is my spiritual discernment to be kingdom production oriented? I wonder if we have not misread the intent of these gospel accounts and taken the wrong view of how God views the human soul. Judging on fruitfulness does not seem to express the miracle of grace. After all, if God saved us when we were separated sinners under condemnation, will He be so quick to cast us off if we fail to show forth the fruits of righteousness? That's as far as I can take this train of thought. On another note, check out some of the commentaries on this passage if you want to see a bunch of evangelicals doing contortions and back flips to defend the justice of God against His mercy.
But I will apply the story as if I was the one seeking fruit. What is my response to be when finding none? Am I quick to condemn, to lay the ax to the root, to cast the tree on the pile to be burned? Is fruitfulness or usefulness the measure I use to judge another's spirituality? Is my spiritual discernment to be kingdom production oriented? I wonder if we have not misread the intent of these gospel accounts and taken the wrong view of how God views the human soul. Judging on fruitfulness does not seem to express the miracle of grace. After all, if God saved us when we were separated sinners under condemnation, will He be so quick to cast us off if we fail to show forth the fruits of righteousness? That's as far as I can take this train of thought. On another note, check out some of the commentaries on this passage if you want to see a bunch of evangelicals doing contortions and back flips to defend the justice of God against His mercy.
Amen and Church Peer Pressure
I have fallen into a bad habit in church recently, I count Amens, and that includes requests for Amens. But my real question is, "When did Amen become a question?" For instance, it is not unusual to hear someone declare "God is good!", and then, when no response from the congregation is forthcoming, adds "Amen???" You can almost hear those multiple question marks, the inflection of the voice, the prolonging of the final syllable, drawing it out until someone answers. At that point someone in the congregation usually feels compelled to respond and that ends the issue until the next Amen gauntlet is thrown down.
From what I know of the etymology of the word, Amen means "so be it", and is sometimes translated as "truly". In this form it is a declaration of assent, as if we were acknowledging something heard to be "the gospel truth" and bringing our own internal response in full agreement with the spoken word of truth. We might say "Let it be done even as you have declared!", or "From your lips to God's ear." But if something in a church services does not elicit a response, why do we have the habit of pushing the issue until we get a response? It is nothing more than a Christian form of peer pressure and I refuse, curmudgeon that I am, to give in to it.
If you want a response from me, say something that reaches down into my soul and grips me there, something that puts eternity in my heart (as the book of Ecclesiastes says). I am not made of stone, I will respond to such a declaration. But don't force me by peer pressure or the power of the pulpit to make me say or do something that does not spontaneously move up from within me. That only hardens me to stone and makes me resent the moment, not embrace it.
From what I know of the etymology of the word, Amen means "so be it", and is sometimes translated as "truly". In this form it is a declaration of assent, as if we were acknowledging something heard to be "the gospel truth" and bringing our own internal response in full agreement with the spoken word of truth. We might say "Let it be done even as you have declared!", or "From your lips to God's ear." But if something in a church services does not elicit a response, why do we have the habit of pushing the issue until we get a response? It is nothing more than a Christian form of peer pressure and I refuse, curmudgeon that I am, to give in to it.
If you want a response from me, say something that reaches down into my soul and grips me there, something that puts eternity in my heart (as the book of Ecclesiastes says). I am not made of stone, I will respond to such a declaration. But don't force me by peer pressure or the power of the pulpit to make me say or do something that does not spontaneously move up from within me. That only hardens me to stone and makes me resent the moment, not embrace it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
