Chapters and verses.
Not simply because chapter divisions break up a good story--none of the gospel writers wrote their work with embedded chapters. Each gospel was meant to be read (and heard!) as one, long story.
Neither because chapters and verses lead to misguided interpretations of Paul's letters. Romans is one, long argument. You can't take a verse or two from Romans, examine it, then stick it back in. Indeed, Paul builds argument upon argument in Romans like Jenga blocks. Pull the middle block out and the whole thing falls down. The only way you'll know what Romans 10:9-10 means is to read Romans 1:1-10:8 and 10:11-16:27.
Yes, context is crucial. Yes, chapters and verses imply it's not. But, that's not the most horrible thing about these man-made, artifical divisions.
Chapters and verses spawn "Bible References." And, why do we have Bible References? Well, they're often used to prove our answers to certain questions are "biblical." Now, they can serve as literary pointers to certain parts of Paul's argument or Luke's story. That can be helpful. But, that's not how we use them (either as writer or reader). Readers rarely "look up" the reference (my wife points this out all the time, either in her reading or when listening to Sunday School lessons). Because, if we looked up the reference, we might be led to say, "Hey. That's not what that means." Then, we'd all have to get our Bibles out, read the verse in context, which would take a lot of time that we don't have, and then we'd be left with the unsettling reality that most Bible References don't support the nice, clean, simple answers we need. Life is more complicated than that: relationships, work, money, jobs, help, society, culture--these things are very complex. So, most of us want at least one thing in our life that's not complicated: our faith. And, here's the really dangerous part, that's what most writers/speakers know. We don't want a faith that's hard to think about.
Enter Bible References. Confused about your relationships? Read this verse. Want to have a successful job? Read this verse. Want to feel better about your life, your world? Read this verse. Want to know why these people are wrong and we're right? Read this verse. Want to know what to believe about the most important decisions in your life? Read this verse.
"Who has time to read the whole thing? We should be grateful we have experts to point us to the important parts. Besides, who wants to read the parts that don't answer our questions?"
Friday, August 31, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
The Infallible Christian
I've recently stumbled upon a nearly universal presumption that lies beneath every Christian claim: we understand Jesus. It had never occurred to me that all of us work with an undeniable view of Jesus Christ. I don't think I've ever heard anyone say: "I don't understand Jesus" . . . or even "I may have misunderstood Jesus here, but I think I'm right about this . . ." Indeed, every single one of us believe we get him. We know perfectly well who he was, what he was trying to do, and what he would think about any given situation. That's why, whenever we hear someone's different "opinion" about Jesus, we never question ourselves--whether we could be wrong. Oh no. We immediately jump to the conclusion (I mean every single one of us--the academic and the nonacademic, the religious and the irreligious, the pious and the profane) that they must be wrong.
And yet, if that is true, then most of us get Jesus wrong. We've misunderstood him. We don't know him as well as we thought. We've deceived ourselves. And, there's the rub. None of us are willing to admit we might misunderstand him because all of us must believe we know him. It's as if Jesus were our intimate, personal best friend. "He knows me and I know him." It's astonishing to me how quickly those two worlds collapse into one: Jesus and me. "The way I see it is the way Jesus sees it. His thoughts are my thoughts. My prejudices are his prejudices. My ways are his ways." Because, if we ever came to the place where we were willing to admit otherwise (Jesus doesn't think like me!), then we would feel as though we had lost our best friend. But, the truth of the matter is, we'd only lose ourselves.
Albert Schweitzer was right: we all create Jesus in our own image. When we answer the question Jesus posed to the twelve, "Who do people say that I am?", we're quick to talk about how wrong everyone else could be. And when we answer the other question, "But who do you say that I am?", we are really talking about ourselves.
And yet, if that is true, then most of us get Jesus wrong. We've misunderstood him. We don't know him as well as we thought. We've deceived ourselves. And, there's the rub. None of us are willing to admit we might misunderstand him because all of us must believe we know him. It's as if Jesus were our intimate, personal best friend. "He knows me and I know him." It's astonishing to me how quickly those two worlds collapse into one: Jesus and me. "The way I see it is the way Jesus sees it. His thoughts are my thoughts. My prejudices are his prejudices. My ways are his ways." Because, if we ever came to the place where we were willing to admit otherwise (Jesus doesn't think like me!), then we would feel as though we had lost our best friend. But, the truth of the matter is, we'd only lose ourselves.
Albert Schweitzer was right: we all create Jesus in our own image. When we answer the question Jesus posed to the twelve, "Who do people say that I am?", we're quick to talk about how wrong everyone else could be. And when we answer the other question, "But who do you say that I am?", we are really talking about ourselves.
Monday, August 20, 2012
New Sermon Podcast
A former student of mine, Danny Dyer, has put together a podcast: a collection of sermons that I have preached here and there. The link appears on the right, "Sermon Podcast." He/we may be adding some more material--perhaps even talks at conferences--in the future. This is all very new to me. When he first suggested the idea, I thought, "Who listens to preachers?" And yet, after the first week, the down loads exceeded the bandwidth allowance and the podcast froze up.
Who would have thought? Well, Danny did. Thanks, friend, for all your help.
Who would have thought? Well, Danny did. Thanks, friend, for all your help.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Profanities
The NT world operated with a clear sense of the sacred and the profane. Sacred space--a domain of undeniable divine presence--was carved out of profaned space. Temples marked out special territory. That which was profane was common. So, special ways of negotiating sacred space clearly sanctioned behavior for those who lived and breathed the common world of the profaned.
In one respect, Jesus tore down the binary world of sacred and profane by virtue of the Incarnation. God moved into all space when Jesus walked among us (this was the lesson learned by the anonymous "samaritan woman"). The kingdom of God invades every corner of the earth because God's work is irrepressible. Jesus compared it to weeds and leaven. Once it takes root, saturates one little corner, there's no stopping it. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven . . . This is an invasion, a reclamation project, a retroactive decree, an undoing of the undone. When two worlds collapse into one, it is apocalyptically sacred. God is at work everywhere.
But, when it comes to words, we seem to lose what we gained when The Word became flesh. Indeed, we may claim the sacred renovation of all things seen. We speak of visions and dreams. But, what of audition? What about the things we hear, the words we speak? Does God's kingdom invade every corner of our conversation? When we dare to speak for God do we speak of God? Is there such a thing as divine grammar? Are words the stuff of heaven or earth? Can common words ring a celestial bell? Or, are we just as able to drag the heavenly down to Sheol?
Recently, I heard a colleague say (self-effacingly) about his co-workers, "They give me more mercy than I deserve." And, for the first time, it began to dawn on me that what I mean by mercy is not what other Christ-followers mean by mercy. The difference (may I be so bold to claim) is as wide as heaven and earth, sacred and profane.
Notice the presumption. To some (perhaps many?) there is such a thing as deserved mercy. And what would that look like? Well, in America, mercy is deserved when you try hard and still fall short. Or, when you have good intentions but don't measure up. Or, when you say you're sorry. Or, when you promise to do better. Or, when you make the same mistake twice. But, what about those who don't try hard, or have evil intentions (like being selfish), or always blame others, or only make empty promises. Three strikes and you're out.
The problem, of course, is that our American definition of mercy (which has leavenously seeped into the sacred vernaclar of the forgiven) is not biblical. It's not Christian. Literally, it's not of Christ. When mercy is deserved it ceases to be mercy. Deserved mercy is an oxymoron. There's no such thing as giving someone "more mercy than they deserve." What's possible on earth is impossible in heaven.
How do I know that? Because God doesn't operate that way. His definition of mercy (Jesus Christ!) is sacred, even for the profaned.
When will we learn to freely give what we've freely received?
In one respect, Jesus tore down the binary world of sacred and profane by virtue of the Incarnation. God moved into all space when Jesus walked among us (this was the lesson learned by the anonymous "samaritan woman"). The kingdom of God invades every corner of the earth because God's work is irrepressible. Jesus compared it to weeds and leaven. Once it takes root, saturates one little corner, there's no stopping it. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven . . . This is an invasion, a reclamation project, a retroactive decree, an undoing of the undone. When two worlds collapse into one, it is apocalyptically sacred. God is at work everywhere.
But, when it comes to words, we seem to lose what we gained when The Word became flesh. Indeed, we may claim the sacred renovation of all things seen. We speak of visions and dreams. But, what of audition? What about the things we hear, the words we speak? Does God's kingdom invade every corner of our conversation? When we dare to speak for God do we speak of God? Is there such a thing as divine grammar? Are words the stuff of heaven or earth? Can common words ring a celestial bell? Or, are we just as able to drag the heavenly down to Sheol?
Recently, I heard a colleague say (self-effacingly) about his co-workers, "They give me more mercy than I deserve." And, for the first time, it began to dawn on me that what I mean by mercy is not what other Christ-followers mean by mercy. The difference (may I be so bold to claim) is as wide as heaven and earth, sacred and profane.
Notice the presumption. To some (perhaps many?) there is such a thing as deserved mercy. And what would that look like? Well, in America, mercy is deserved when you try hard and still fall short. Or, when you have good intentions but don't measure up. Or, when you say you're sorry. Or, when you promise to do better. Or, when you make the same mistake twice. But, what about those who don't try hard, or have evil intentions (like being selfish), or always blame others, or only make empty promises. Three strikes and you're out.
The problem, of course, is that our American definition of mercy (which has leavenously seeped into the sacred vernaclar of the forgiven) is not biblical. It's not Christian. Literally, it's not of Christ. When mercy is deserved it ceases to be mercy. Deserved mercy is an oxymoron. There's no such thing as giving someone "more mercy than they deserve." What's possible on earth is impossible in heaven.
How do I know that? Because God doesn't operate that way. His definition of mercy (Jesus Christ!) is sacred, even for the profaned.
When will we learn to freely give what we've freely received?
Monday, July 23, 2012
A Time for Reticence
I used to have a little resentment toward the blogsphere. It seemed too accessible to be helpful. It invited expression without reflection. It encouraged anonymity. It seemed to empower lazy thinking.
Recently, my marginal resentment has turned into grave concern.
I used to say sarcastically, "Want to see the underbelly of the human condition exposed to the world? Read the comments section of any article on the major news websites." Now, the same applies to so-called "Christian" blogs. The hateful poison that seems to flow so quickly from the keyboards of posters is breath-takingly grievous. It wounds my soul. I used to think I wanted to eavesdrop on these "conversations." Not anymore.
So, here's my bold proposal (ironically issued on my blog). It's time for us to stop talking--or at least take a sabbatical. Think about what that would mean? In the sixties we impetuously burned vinyl records. What if Christ followers refused to enter the fray of social discourse for a while? Would anyone notice?
Jesus didn't act like he had much to say until he turned thirty. Thirty years is a long time to think about what you're going to say. We might choose our words more wisely if we had to wait thirty years to speak our mind. What if we followed his example? What if we said, "You don't have anything to say until you're thirty"?
Of course, such an attempt would be ludicrous. The blogsphere is equally patrolled by the plus-thirty crowd--the older folks can dish out hate speech just as effortlessly as the twenty-somethings. Age is no guarantee of temperance. But, I have found the mature (regardless of age) to be a little more circumspect, a little more reflective, a little more reticent to speak their mind. I wonder why.
Honestly, the older I get the more I'm convinced I have little to say. Perhaps it's apathy ("he's shirking his responsibility to speak out"). Maybe it's a sign of the approaching, typical curmudgeonly ways of the elderly ("I've turned into a grouch"). It could be that I'm too proud to be associated with the cacaphony of voices competing for attention ("he acts like he's above it all"). All I know is I used to think everyone was entitled to my opinion. Now, not so much.
I'm going off the grid for a while. I need rest for my weary soul.
I used to have a little resentment toward the blogsphere. It seemed too accessible to be helpful. It invited expression without reflection. It encouraged anonymity. It seemed to empower lazy thinking.
Recently, my marginal resentment has turned into grave concern.
I used to say sarcastically, "Want to see the underbelly of the human condition exposed to the world? Read the comments section of any article on the major news websites." Now, the same applies to so-called "Christian" blogs. The hateful poison that seems to flow so quickly from the keyboards of posters is breath-takingly grievous. It wounds my soul. I used to think I wanted to eavesdrop on these "conversations." Not anymore.
So, here's my bold proposal (ironically issued on my blog). It's time for us to stop talking--or at least take a sabbatical. Think about what that would mean? In the sixties we impetuously burned vinyl records. What if Christ followers refused to enter the fray of social discourse for a while? Would anyone notice?
Jesus didn't act like he had much to say until he turned thirty. Thirty years is a long time to think about what you're going to say. We might choose our words more wisely if we had to wait thirty years to speak our mind. What if we followed his example? What if we said, "You don't have anything to say until you're thirty"?
Of course, such an attempt would be ludicrous. The blogsphere is equally patrolled by the plus-thirty crowd--the older folks can dish out hate speech just as effortlessly as the twenty-somethings. Age is no guarantee of temperance. But, I have found the mature (regardless of age) to be a little more circumspect, a little more reflective, a little more reticent to speak their mind. I wonder why.
Honestly, the older I get the more I'm convinced I have little to say. Perhaps it's apathy ("he's shirking his responsibility to speak out"). Maybe it's a sign of the approaching, typical curmudgeonly ways of the elderly ("I've turned into a grouch"). It could be that I'm too proud to be associated with the cacaphony of voices competing for attention ("he acts like he's above it all"). All I know is I used to think everyone was entitled to my opinion. Now, not so much.
I'm going off the grid for a while. I need rest for my weary soul.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Sympathy for Politicians (or, unmasking the pretense of infallibility among the righteously indignant)
I was preaching last Sunday from Matthew's gospel, talking about how Jesus tried to get the Pharisees to "go and learn what this means: 'I desire mercy and not sacrifice'" because Jesus shared table with Levi and his treasonous tax-collector friends. Then, a few stories later, after the Pharisees called Jesus on the carpet for the grain-forraging ways of the twelve, Jesus said (loosely paraphrased), "You didn't do your homework. If you knew what it meant--'I desire mercy not sacrifice,'--you wouldn't have a problem with my disciples." We explored a more nuanced view of the three groups--tax collectors, Pharisees, and the twelve--in order to appreciate the storied-level of the inclusio.
Toward the end of the sermon, I asked the congregants, "So, now that we know these people in more charitable terms, who would qualify today as traitors, beyond hope of God's mercy?"
Their nearly unanimous response floored me. "Politicians!"
I'm becoming more convinced that we are completely blind to our own self-righteousness. All of us are politicians. It especially shows up in social discourse over political issues. (Now, I'm not even going to jump into the quagmire of sorting out why politics/power tends to turn gray issues into black-and-white realities--"choose a side: it's us versus them!") Notice how often we work with the unquestionable presumption that our politics are indivisible. Our cause is righteous. Our argument is undeniable. And, if you disagree, you'll discover the indignation of those who are right . . . about everything.
I marvel over this. Take the issue of gay marriage (those who are facebook friends are expecting this). Recently, I tried to enter the social discourse by making a comment about the politics of social discourse. But, it took a while for most to see my point. Of course, gay marriage is a charged issue. Of course, everyone is convinced they're right. But, whenever this happens, I become immediately suspicious. Usually in conversations (I use the word very loosely) like these, there is no giving ground. No benefit of the doubt. No humility. It's amazing how "absolutely" correct we can be in this post-modern world. After all, when a righteous cause is at stake, don't we all operate with an infallible position? Such is the nature of the politics of holiness . . . but, who will go to the sinners and eat at their table?
"You say, 'Love is the answer. Love the highest call. Love is the answer. Love the highest call.' You ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl. But, I can't keep holding on to what you've got, when all you've got is hurt" (to paraphrase Bono).
Jesus, I'm so glad to know you even came to the table of Pharisees when invited. Please come and eat with me and my self-righteous friends.
I was preaching last Sunday from Matthew's gospel, talking about how Jesus tried to get the Pharisees to "go and learn what this means: 'I desire mercy and not sacrifice'" because Jesus shared table with Levi and his treasonous tax-collector friends. Then, a few stories later, after the Pharisees called Jesus on the carpet for the grain-forraging ways of the twelve, Jesus said (loosely paraphrased), "You didn't do your homework. If you knew what it meant--'I desire mercy not sacrifice,'--you wouldn't have a problem with my disciples." We explored a more nuanced view of the three groups--tax collectors, Pharisees, and the twelve--in order to appreciate the storied-level of the inclusio.
Toward the end of the sermon, I asked the congregants, "So, now that we know these people in more charitable terms, who would qualify today as traitors, beyond hope of God's mercy?"
Their nearly unanimous response floored me. "Politicians!"
I'm becoming more convinced that we are completely blind to our own self-righteousness. All of us are politicians. It especially shows up in social discourse over political issues. (Now, I'm not even going to jump into the quagmire of sorting out why politics/power tends to turn gray issues into black-and-white realities--"choose a side: it's us versus them!") Notice how often we work with the unquestionable presumption that our politics are indivisible. Our cause is righteous. Our argument is undeniable. And, if you disagree, you'll discover the indignation of those who are right . . . about everything.
I marvel over this. Take the issue of gay marriage (those who are facebook friends are expecting this). Recently, I tried to enter the social discourse by making a comment about the politics of social discourse. But, it took a while for most to see my point. Of course, gay marriage is a charged issue. Of course, everyone is convinced they're right. But, whenever this happens, I become immediately suspicious. Usually in conversations (I use the word very loosely) like these, there is no giving ground. No benefit of the doubt. No humility. It's amazing how "absolutely" correct we can be in this post-modern world. After all, when a righteous cause is at stake, don't we all operate with an infallible position? Such is the nature of the politics of holiness . . . but, who will go to the sinners and eat at their table?
"You say, 'Love is the answer. Love the highest call. Love is the answer. Love the highest call.' You ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl. But, I can't keep holding on to what you've got, when all you've got is hurt" (to paraphrase Bono).
Jesus, I'm so glad to know you even came to the table of Pharisees when invited. Please come and eat with me and my self-righteous friends.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Craving applause
I recently spoke during a retreat at the Laity Lodge near Leaky, Texas. It's a great place that always seems to attract great people. But, what happened this time took me by surprise. I learned a lesson about myself (is that being reflective or merely narcissistic?) that I'm a little disappointed to admit.
We all enjoyed the beautiful music of two, well-known musicians. A brilliant children's author shared her story through her clever stories. Every time they finished their part, the intimate crowd of 60 participants applauded. Whenever I stopped talking, there was always an awkward silence. It happened over and over again. Music, applause. Speaker one, silence. Speaker two, applause.
I was walking with one of the participants to the favorite spot of most retreaters, "The Blue Hole" (a spring-fed swimming pool encased by beautiful rock formations of the Rio Frio). She said, "Well, Rodney. You sure have stirred up a lot of conversation--made us wrestle with many questions." I said, "Yeah. I get that a lot."
"It's been really good, though. Your talk is unsettling, then Sally tells one of her stories and everyone laughs."
(Laughing) "Oh, I get it. I'm the irritant and she's the balm. I like that."
"Yeah. No, wait, that's not what I meant. It's just that we need both, don't we?"
"Yes, I think we do."
Then I shared my observation regarding the "irregular" applause and made her promise not to tell anyone. At which point this young lady, being a kind and sensitive person, tried to cheer me up: "Well, I've never really heard many preachers get much applause when they finish speaking. Besides," she said perceptively, "you probably wouldn't want it." "Yes. You're right. Applause would make me feel like I'm not doing my job."
But, deep down, sometimes I wish there were applause. Then, the pretentious "prophetic voice" rises within me and says, "What are you whining about? Just be glad these days they don't kill you."
"Yeah. Who needs applause, anyway?"
But sometimes one gets weary of the calling.
I recently spoke during a retreat at the Laity Lodge near Leaky, Texas. It's a great place that always seems to attract great people. But, what happened this time took me by surprise. I learned a lesson about myself (is that being reflective or merely narcissistic?) that I'm a little disappointed to admit.
We all enjoyed the beautiful music of two, well-known musicians. A brilliant children's author shared her story through her clever stories. Every time they finished their part, the intimate crowd of 60 participants applauded. Whenever I stopped talking, there was always an awkward silence. It happened over and over again. Music, applause. Speaker one, silence. Speaker two, applause.
I was walking with one of the participants to the favorite spot of most retreaters, "The Blue Hole" (a spring-fed swimming pool encased by beautiful rock formations of the Rio Frio). She said, "Well, Rodney. You sure have stirred up a lot of conversation--made us wrestle with many questions." I said, "Yeah. I get that a lot."
"It's been really good, though. Your talk is unsettling, then Sally tells one of her stories and everyone laughs."
(Laughing) "Oh, I get it. I'm the irritant and she's the balm. I like that."
"Yeah. No, wait, that's not what I meant. It's just that we need both, don't we?"
"Yes, I think we do."
Then I shared my observation regarding the "irregular" applause and made her promise not to tell anyone. At which point this young lady, being a kind and sensitive person, tried to cheer me up: "Well, I've never really heard many preachers get much applause when they finish speaking. Besides," she said perceptively, "you probably wouldn't want it." "Yes. You're right. Applause would make me feel like I'm not doing my job."
But, deep down, sometimes I wish there were applause. Then, the pretentious "prophetic voice" rises within me and says, "What are you whining about? Just be glad these days they don't kill you."
"Yeah. Who needs applause, anyway?"
But sometimes one gets weary of the calling.
Tuesday, July 03, 2012
Circus fatigue
I'm not going anymore.
The barkers may make it sound so intriguing. The people drawn to the big tent may incite the herd instinct within me. The sights and sounds may lead me to believe I'll miss out on something delicious if I take a pass. But, I must say I'm done. The thrill is gone. The game is over. Don't want to be the sucker to P.T. Barnum's exhibition anymore.
Our circus culture feeds on revelation--the unveiling of secrets, the sensational drama thrust upon an "unsuspecting" world, the shocking news of the latest gossip. "Step right up, see the most amazing thing you've ever seen . . . "
The script is so old, so tired, so predictable. The television personality announces his gay and all the world is a twitter. "Who knew?" The famous atheist declares she's converted to Christianity and everyone's buzzing. "Who would have thought?"
But, I don't care. I really don't. Is that unChristian of me? I don't know these people. They're "coming out" has nothing to do with my little world. So, I have no opinion about the latest, greatest, sensational news. It doesn't matter to me. I have nothing to say about whatever is going on under the big top. Rather, I have enough to talk about, think about, care about within my little tent.
The teenage son of a former student of mine was seriously injured in a car wreck. My father-in-law has a brain tumor. A friend's house may have burned down in Colorado. I have enough drama in my little life.
"Step right up, see the most amazing thing you've ever seen . . . ." No thanks. I've got a life of my own.
I'm not going anymore.
The barkers may make it sound so intriguing. The people drawn to the big tent may incite the herd instinct within me. The sights and sounds may lead me to believe I'll miss out on something delicious if I take a pass. But, I must say I'm done. The thrill is gone. The game is over. Don't want to be the sucker to P.T. Barnum's exhibition anymore.
Our circus culture feeds on revelation--the unveiling of secrets, the sensational drama thrust upon an "unsuspecting" world, the shocking news of the latest gossip. "Step right up, see the most amazing thing you've ever seen . . . "
The script is so old, so tired, so predictable. The television personality announces his gay and all the world is a twitter. "Who knew?" The famous atheist declares she's converted to Christianity and everyone's buzzing. "Who would have thought?"
But, I don't care. I really don't. Is that unChristian of me? I don't know these people. They're "coming out" has nothing to do with my little world. So, I have no opinion about the latest, greatest, sensational news. It doesn't matter to me. I have nothing to say about whatever is going on under the big top. Rather, I have enough to talk about, think about, care about within my little tent.
The teenage son of a former student of mine was seriously injured in a car wreck. My father-in-law has a brain tumor. A friend's house may have burned down in Colorado. I have enough drama in my little life.
"Step right up, see the most amazing thing you've ever seen . . . ." No thanks. I've got a life of my own.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Life is more than words
While driving recently, I noticed several bumper stickers that seem to follow the same pattern: a summing up of life in three words. "Eat. Sleep. Fish." was on the back of a pick-up truck. Another read, "Live, Laugh, Garden." Of course, these three-word mantras made me think of the recent best-seller: "Eat, Pray, Love." All of the sudden, it's become trendy to reduce life to three simple words.
Why? Most of us wish life were that simple, tidy, clean (wink, wink). By our word smithing, we make the complexities of every-day living sound poetic, pure, elemental (wink, wink again). The triplet evokes a rhythm, an underlying premonition that all things must be triadic. Indeed, the formula for the oldest jokes in the world followed a three-fold pattern: 1, 2, punchline. By telling the story of our lives in threes, we unknowingly claim the last word(s)--a superlative description for which there is no argument. Imagine how funny it would sound to say, "Oh yeah? Well life is more than eat, pray, love. There's also work and hobbies and fun and . . . ." No one wants to be that guy.
But here's my problem: I don't want my life to be reduced to words, especially only three. I want a life for which there are no words. I want mystery and wonder and confusion and hope and questions and challenge and . . . . In fact, if life could be summed up with mere words, I don't think I would want it. I think I would lose too much: a sense of curiosity, an aching for more, an inclination for the divine, a restlessness that is holy. That's why I need music. That's why I hanker for silence. I crave taste and touch, sight and intuition. Sometimes I need . . . I need . . . I don't know what I need. But, I do know this: I need a life that is more than words.
But, how do I put that on a bumper-sticker?
While driving recently, I noticed several bumper stickers that seem to follow the same pattern: a summing up of life in three words. "Eat. Sleep. Fish." was on the back of a pick-up truck. Another read, "Live, Laugh, Garden." Of course, these three-word mantras made me think of the recent best-seller: "Eat, Pray, Love." All of the sudden, it's become trendy to reduce life to three simple words.
Why? Most of us wish life were that simple, tidy, clean (wink, wink). By our word smithing, we make the complexities of every-day living sound poetic, pure, elemental (wink, wink again). The triplet evokes a rhythm, an underlying premonition that all things must be triadic. Indeed, the formula for the oldest jokes in the world followed a three-fold pattern: 1, 2, punchline. By telling the story of our lives in threes, we unknowingly claim the last word(s)--a superlative description for which there is no argument. Imagine how funny it would sound to say, "Oh yeah? Well life is more than eat, pray, love. There's also work and hobbies and fun and . . . ." No one wants to be that guy.
But here's my problem: I don't want my life to be reduced to words, especially only three. I want a life for which there are no words. I want mystery and wonder and confusion and hope and questions and challenge and . . . . In fact, if life could be summed up with mere words, I don't think I would want it. I think I would lose too much: a sense of curiosity, an aching for more, an inclination for the divine, a restlessness that is holy. That's why I need music. That's why I hanker for silence. I crave taste and touch, sight and intuition. Sometimes I need . . . I need . . . I don't know what I need. But, I do know this: I need a life that is more than words.
But, how do I put that on a bumper-sticker?
Thursday, June 07, 2012
The Bad Samaritan
The scandalous quality of Jesus' parables are lost on us. We've become too accustomed to the stories, domesticating the plot to the point where we no longer wrestle with the subversive intent.
Take, for example, the story of the "Good Samaritan." Notice, no where in the parable does Jesus call the Samaritan "good." But, we have labelled the hero "good" because of his compassionate behavior, showing mercy to an enemy. We know a little about the ethnic hatred between the Jews and the Samaritans. We delight in the juxtapostioning of the religious elites (they do nothing--so typical, huh?) and the outsider (what a great guy!) as they pass by the victim on the side of the road. We like the part where the Samaritan is so generous, he not only takes the wounded man to the inn, but pays the inn-keeper for future expenses and promises to return to settle up the bill. We are inspired to "go and do likewise" by helping stranded motorists, giving hitch-hikers a lift, or perhaps even paying for an evening's stay in a hotel for a homeless man. The privileged helping the under-privileged.
But, that's not the whole story.
It looks perfectly normal to us--perhaps even extraordinary--when the Samaritan pays for the wounded man to stay in the inn. We picture a comfortable place (not the Hilton, but at least a Holiday Inn Express?) between Jerusalem and Jericho. We envision the Samaritan taking care of the man, nursing him back to health, then leaving for a while--only to return to check on his progress and pay the hotel bill. What a guy.
But, this is exactly where we misread the story. First, a Samartian bringing a wounded Jewish man into a Jewish town was incredibly risky (a point made by Kenneth Bailey). Second, there was no "inn" between Jerusalem and Jericho (modern tourist site claims notwithstanding). The "inn" was probably located on the outskirts of Jericho. Third, what the story assumes is what we miss. Hospitality was never purchased; it was earned by honor. In Jewish culture, a traveler looking for accomodations would simply go to the city gate or the city well and wait for someone to recognize him as an honorable man and take him home (the Old Testament is filled with stories like this). If you had to pay for a place to stay, it meant you were a low life. Indeed, "inns" also doubled as houses of "ill repute" (for example, in Jewish literature, Rahab "the harlot" is called an "inn keeper"), which is why inns were often located on the edge of town. All kinds of riff-raff showed up there. Roman philsophers condemned these public houses as moral degradation. "If you don't have enough honor to stay in our fair town, move on!" This Samartian wasn't "good" by any standard. He was a bad man. Fourth, why did the Samaritan leave? More than likely he feared for his life--he was in hostile territory. And, finally, what was a Samaritan doing on the Jericho road anyway? He was probably a merchant, a travelling man who ignored traditions to make a buck. You know the kind--will set aside family loyalities and religious devotion at the drop of a hat if there's money to be made.
This was no "Good Samaritan." This was a bad man, who for some unexplained reason, took pity on a complete stranger and relied upon socially unacceptable practices to save a man's life.
The scandalous quality of Jesus' parables are lost on us. We've become too accustomed to the stories, domesticating the plot to the point where we no longer wrestle with the subversive intent.
Take, for example, the story of the "Good Samaritan." Notice, no where in the parable does Jesus call the Samaritan "good." But, we have labelled the hero "good" because of his compassionate behavior, showing mercy to an enemy. We know a little about the ethnic hatred between the Jews and the Samaritans. We delight in the juxtapostioning of the religious elites (they do nothing--so typical, huh?) and the outsider (what a great guy!) as they pass by the victim on the side of the road. We like the part where the Samaritan is so generous, he not only takes the wounded man to the inn, but pays the inn-keeper for future expenses and promises to return to settle up the bill. We are inspired to "go and do likewise" by helping stranded motorists, giving hitch-hikers a lift, or perhaps even paying for an evening's stay in a hotel for a homeless man. The privileged helping the under-privileged.
But, that's not the whole story.
It looks perfectly normal to us--perhaps even extraordinary--when the Samaritan pays for the wounded man to stay in the inn. We picture a comfortable place (not the Hilton, but at least a Holiday Inn Express?) between Jerusalem and Jericho. We envision the Samaritan taking care of the man, nursing him back to health, then leaving for a while--only to return to check on his progress and pay the hotel bill. What a guy.
But, this is exactly where we misread the story. First, a Samartian bringing a wounded Jewish man into a Jewish town was incredibly risky (a point made by Kenneth Bailey). Second, there was no "inn" between Jerusalem and Jericho (modern tourist site claims notwithstanding). The "inn" was probably located on the outskirts of Jericho. Third, what the story assumes is what we miss. Hospitality was never purchased; it was earned by honor. In Jewish culture, a traveler looking for accomodations would simply go to the city gate or the city well and wait for someone to recognize him as an honorable man and take him home (the Old Testament is filled with stories like this). If you had to pay for a place to stay, it meant you were a low life. Indeed, "inns" also doubled as houses of "ill repute" (for example, in Jewish literature, Rahab "the harlot" is called an "inn keeper"), which is why inns were often located on the edge of town. All kinds of riff-raff showed up there. Roman philsophers condemned these public houses as moral degradation. "If you don't have enough honor to stay in our fair town, move on!" This Samartian wasn't "good" by any standard. He was a bad man. Fourth, why did the Samaritan leave? More than likely he feared for his life--he was in hostile territory. And, finally, what was a Samaritan doing on the Jericho road anyway? He was probably a merchant, a travelling man who ignored traditions to make a buck. You know the kind--will set aside family loyalities and religious devotion at the drop of a hat if there's money to be made.
This was no "Good Samaritan." This was a bad man, who for some unexplained reason, took pity on a complete stranger and relied upon socially unacceptable practices to save a man's life.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Driving the Wrong Direction on a One Way Street
I keep having the same conversation with different people. They ask, "What does the Bible say about __________?" And, I'm reticent to answer this particular question--especially in the way it is often asked--because I come off sounding like your typical elite who seems only to make things worse, obfuscating what should be clearly understood. (See? Even the word "obfuscate" contributes to the problem.) By the time I'm finished, my recent conversation partner has lost all interest. Their boredom is obvious. They stare at me with that "oh-you-really-don't-want-to-answer-this-question-because-you-like-to-make-simple-things-difficult" look I've come to recognize so well. Their blank expression screams, "Just give me the answer, you moron."
Here's my problem: the Bible doesn't say anything. It must be read. And, we all are readers. Yet, some read more than others. In fact, I've come to the recent conclusion that most Christ believers don't read the Bible. They consult it. They peek into it. But, they don't read it. Why? Because to them it's boring. It's verbose. It's not handy. It doesn't get to the heart of the matter soon enough. It doesn't answer their question. And therein lies the rub.
I think most Christ followers come to the Bible with their questions, expecting the Scriptures to serve them. We are the masters of meaning. We demand answers. So, we go to the Bible to find them. Then, one of two things usually happens: we go to the small parts of the Bible familiar to us, the passages we love the most, and find our answers. Or, when we can't find what we're looking for, we go to a so-called "expert" so we don't have to do the work ourselves--which leads to the second problem.
The Bible was never meant to be read that way--as a slave to the mastery of our demands for an answer. If it were, it certainly would have been put together by God more accessibly. Rather, the Scriptures were meant to inform our questions. Better yet, the Bible was inspired to form our questions. Rather than ask, "What does the Bible say about homosexuality?" it rather prods us to wonder, "Who is my neighbor?" Indeed, one might be able to answer the first question if we were to ask the second.
I keep having the same conversation with different people. They ask, "What does the Bible say about __________?" And, I'm reticent to answer this particular question--especially in the way it is often asked--because I come off sounding like your typical elite who seems only to make things worse, obfuscating what should be clearly understood. (See? Even the word "obfuscate" contributes to the problem.) By the time I'm finished, my recent conversation partner has lost all interest. Their boredom is obvious. They stare at me with that "oh-you-really-don't-want-to-answer-this-question-because-you-like-to-make-simple-things-difficult" look I've come to recognize so well. Their blank expression screams, "Just give me the answer, you moron."
Here's my problem: the Bible doesn't say anything. It must be read. And, we all are readers. Yet, some read more than others. In fact, I've come to the recent conclusion that most Christ believers don't read the Bible. They consult it. They peek into it. But, they don't read it. Why? Because to them it's boring. It's verbose. It's not handy. It doesn't get to the heart of the matter soon enough. It doesn't answer their question. And therein lies the rub.
I think most Christ followers come to the Bible with their questions, expecting the Scriptures to serve them. We are the masters of meaning. We demand answers. So, we go to the Bible to find them. Then, one of two things usually happens: we go to the small parts of the Bible familiar to us, the passages we love the most, and find our answers. Or, when we can't find what we're looking for, we go to a so-called "expert" so we don't have to do the work ourselves--which leads to the second problem.
The Bible was never meant to be read that way--as a slave to the mastery of our demands for an answer. If it were, it certainly would have been put together by God more accessibly. Rather, the Scriptures were meant to inform our questions. Better yet, the Bible was inspired to form our questions. Rather than ask, "What does the Bible say about homosexuality?" it rather prods us to wonder, "Who is my neighbor?" Indeed, one might be able to answer the first question if we were to ask the second.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Cursed Christians
It's a sad tendency in the Body of Christ: Christ believers who see themselves as "cursed by God." They feel like they have the anti-Midas touch, whatever they do turns golden opportunities into rusty results. They've lost a sense of God's blessing (something that Paul was adament to claim--for himself as well as his converts--despite his detractors, see Gal. 4:12-15). According to Paul, this happens when Christians fall under the spell of believing we are supposed to earn God's blessing, deserve His favor, by keeping the law. Therefore, these law-abiders believe they're getting what they deserve when bad things happen to them. Break God's law and you endure divine punishment. It's as if God were playing "whack the mole" in the game of sin managment. But, after a while, suffering the body blows of life's disappointments, many give up trying to please the impossible standard of God's reciprocal love. "I'm cursed by God."
There's so much wrong here, I don't know where to begin. But, let me start with this: God's love cannot be earned. He loves us regardless. We call it grace (Paul's favorite way of describing the economy of God's salvation). Since we cannot earn His blessing, neither can we incite His wrath--as if He loses patience and finally "let's us have it." How do I know this for certain? Because, if that's the way God works, on a quid pro quo basis, then the cross means nothing.
It's sad how many Christ believers cannot see the cross of Jesus as a blessing, the grace of God that changes everything. In loss we find gain, in weakness we are strong, in giving power away we are empowered, in death we live. Because of Christ, none of us are cursed by God. Period.
What's even sadder to me is how many Christians point out the weaknesses of other believers and call it a curse, the failures of others and call it divine punishment. "Look. She's getting what she deserves." To which Paul would reply: "On the contrary, none of us deserve the cross of Jesus. It is the sheer, blessed grace of God."
It's a sad tendency in the Body of Christ: Christ believers who see themselves as "cursed by God." They feel like they have the anti-Midas touch, whatever they do turns golden opportunities into rusty results. They've lost a sense of God's blessing (something that Paul was adament to claim--for himself as well as his converts--despite his detractors, see Gal. 4:12-15). According to Paul, this happens when Christians fall under the spell of believing we are supposed to earn God's blessing, deserve His favor, by keeping the law. Therefore, these law-abiders believe they're getting what they deserve when bad things happen to them. Break God's law and you endure divine punishment. It's as if God were playing "whack the mole" in the game of sin managment. But, after a while, suffering the body blows of life's disappointments, many give up trying to please the impossible standard of God's reciprocal love. "I'm cursed by God."
There's so much wrong here, I don't know where to begin. But, let me start with this: God's love cannot be earned. He loves us regardless. We call it grace (Paul's favorite way of describing the economy of God's salvation). Since we cannot earn His blessing, neither can we incite His wrath--as if He loses patience and finally "let's us have it." How do I know this for certain? Because, if that's the way God works, on a quid pro quo basis, then the cross means nothing.
It's sad how many Christ believers cannot see the cross of Jesus as a blessing, the grace of God that changes everything. In loss we find gain, in weakness we are strong, in giving power away we are empowered, in death we live. Because of Christ, none of us are cursed by God. Period.
What's even sadder to me is how many Christians point out the weaknesses of other believers and call it a curse, the failures of others and call it divine punishment. "Look. She's getting what she deserves." To which Paul would reply: "On the contrary, none of us deserve the cross of Jesus. It is the sheer, blessed grace of God."
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
Take a look in the mirror
It's become rather trendy for Christians to criticize the Church. Most books, articles, blogs do well--attract a bunch of readers--if they take a pound of flesh in their biting critique of all things ecclesial. (One opportunistic blogger feigned surprise when her blog post, which explained why she "left the Church," received so many hits.) The so-called "emergents" got the ball rolling. Now, it's headed downhill so fast no one dares to get in the way and stop it. Can you imagine what it would sound like to defend the Church today? Shrill, self-serving, obscurantist, proud, denial.
But, here's the problem: when we criticize the Church we're criticizing ourselves. I don't hear that sentiment in most of the self-appointed prophets who are out to bash the Church. It sounds to me more as if they think they're pointing out the faults of others. "Those people over there--they are the problem." But, the truth of the matter is the "other" is always "us" in the Body of Christ. You're never going to straighten out the people who "don't get ________ right" (fill in the blank, "gospel" or "community" or "faith" or "doctrine" ad infinitum, ad nauseum). Why? Because our faith, our gospel, our doctrine, our community is a shared experience.
Think of it like this: we're family in the Body of Christ. Apply the same concept to your biological family. Do we ever believe we're going to "straighten out" our brother? Sister? Parent? Even child? And, don't we automatically know that when we're criticizing our family we're criticizing ourselves? Due to our shared DNA we own up to the fact: "You know, I got that from my father," or "You're just like your sister."
At the risk of sounding sentimental, our shared spiritual DNA in Christ should make us all own up to the fact that we belong to each other, whether we admit it or not. That should inject a little humilty into the critical conversation about the failings of the Church.
After all, we are talking about ourselves.
It's become rather trendy for Christians to criticize the Church. Most books, articles, blogs do well--attract a bunch of readers--if they take a pound of flesh in their biting critique of all things ecclesial. (One opportunistic blogger feigned surprise when her blog post, which explained why she "left the Church," received so many hits.) The so-called "emergents" got the ball rolling. Now, it's headed downhill so fast no one dares to get in the way and stop it. Can you imagine what it would sound like to defend the Church today? Shrill, self-serving, obscurantist, proud, denial.
But, here's the problem: when we criticize the Church we're criticizing ourselves. I don't hear that sentiment in most of the self-appointed prophets who are out to bash the Church. It sounds to me more as if they think they're pointing out the faults of others. "Those people over there--they are the problem." But, the truth of the matter is the "other" is always "us" in the Body of Christ. You're never going to straighten out the people who "don't get ________ right" (fill in the blank, "gospel" or "community" or "faith" or "doctrine" ad infinitum, ad nauseum). Why? Because our faith, our gospel, our doctrine, our community is a shared experience.
Think of it like this: we're family in the Body of Christ. Apply the same concept to your biological family. Do we ever believe we're going to "straighten out" our brother? Sister? Parent? Even child? And, don't we automatically know that when we're criticizing our family we're criticizing ourselves? Due to our shared DNA we own up to the fact: "You know, I got that from my father," or "You're just like your sister."
At the risk of sounding sentimental, our shared spiritual DNA in Christ should make us all own up to the fact that we belong to each other, whether we admit it or not. That should inject a little humilty into the critical conversation about the failings of the Church.
After all, we are talking about ourselves.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Why Sermons Need More Bible
I just finished a six-month promotional tour (sounds trendy, doesn't it?) of my book on Paul's Spirituality (IVP). I spoke in churches, during conferences, at retreats--and I'm so grateful to God for the warm reception I received. I continue to get affirming comments, emails, and letters about the book. But one off-handed comment nearly floored me. Even after hundreds of conversations, this single remark continues to rumble around in my head.
A few months ago after speaking at a church, a very well-dressed, middle-aged man asked me if the sessions had been recorded. He explained how he had missed the event due to other obligations--half apologizing, half justifying--but wanted to know what I had said because he was intrigued by the subject.
"I don't know if they recorded the talks. I guess you'll have to check with the pastor." He replied, "Well, if they didn't that's too bad. I really want to know what you said." (Of course, at this point, you know what I'm thinking. I'm expecting him to ask if they still have copies of the book available at their bookstore.) So, after an awkward bit of silence, I sheepishly held up the book and said, "you could get a copy. I think they still have a few for sale." To which he dismissively replied (without an ounce of shame), "Oh, I don't read."
Now, you might think the man was illiterate or had poor vision. Neither was the case. He explained that he read sports magazines every now and then. But, he never could get into reading a book. I'm a little ashamed of what I did next, but I couldn't help it. I said, "Oh. You don't read?" then motioned to the Bible he held in his hand, with a quizzical look on my face. He replied by offering a nervous giggle and said something like, "Yeah. For a group of people who rely upon a book, it sure makes being a Christian hard."
It's an amazing irony. We live during an age when written information is more accessible than any other period of human history. Same is true for the Bible. It's everywhere. More people have more access to multiple copies/versions of the Bible than ever before--not to mention all of the books/literature written to help readers make sense of Scripture. And yet, despite the literary flood, our world is becoming more biblically illiterate every day. The reason? "I don't read."
Two observations: for a writer, this is depressing--especially for a guy like me. My target readership--evangelical Christians--don't read. The guy said so without any embarassment at all. Said it to the author, straight faced. I really can't get over that. But, then again, my heart is strangely warmed when I remember Christianity got its start during a time when nearly 80% of the population was illiterate. The first Christ followers depended upon the public reading of the Scriptures in order to hear God's Word. Then the light came on inside my head.
If there were ever a time when preachers need to spend more time (say, 10 minutes of their sermon?) reading the Scriptures to their listeners, it is now. Rather than focus on the memorable illustration or the clever, real-life anecdote, perhaps it's time to read the Bible to Christians. Why? Not only because reading Scripture should be an important part of our worship, but for the more obvious reason. Like the man said, "I don't read."
I just finished a six-month promotional tour (sounds trendy, doesn't it?) of my book on Paul's Spirituality (IVP). I spoke in churches, during conferences, at retreats--and I'm so grateful to God for the warm reception I received. I continue to get affirming comments, emails, and letters about the book. But one off-handed comment nearly floored me. Even after hundreds of conversations, this single remark continues to rumble around in my head.
A few months ago after speaking at a church, a very well-dressed, middle-aged man asked me if the sessions had been recorded. He explained how he had missed the event due to other obligations--half apologizing, half justifying--but wanted to know what I had said because he was intrigued by the subject.
"I don't know if they recorded the talks. I guess you'll have to check with the pastor." He replied, "Well, if they didn't that's too bad. I really want to know what you said." (Of course, at this point, you know what I'm thinking. I'm expecting him to ask if they still have copies of the book available at their bookstore.) So, after an awkward bit of silence, I sheepishly held up the book and said, "you could get a copy. I think they still have a few for sale." To which he dismissively replied (without an ounce of shame), "Oh, I don't read."
Now, you might think the man was illiterate or had poor vision. Neither was the case. He explained that he read sports magazines every now and then. But, he never could get into reading a book. I'm a little ashamed of what I did next, but I couldn't help it. I said, "Oh. You don't read?" then motioned to the Bible he held in his hand, with a quizzical look on my face. He replied by offering a nervous giggle and said something like, "Yeah. For a group of people who rely upon a book, it sure makes being a Christian hard."
It's an amazing irony. We live during an age when written information is more accessible than any other period of human history. Same is true for the Bible. It's everywhere. More people have more access to multiple copies/versions of the Bible than ever before--not to mention all of the books/literature written to help readers make sense of Scripture. And yet, despite the literary flood, our world is becoming more biblically illiterate every day. The reason? "I don't read."
Two observations: for a writer, this is depressing--especially for a guy like me. My target readership--evangelical Christians--don't read. The guy said so without any embarassment at all. Said it to the author, straight faced. I really can't get over that. But, then again, my heart is strangely warmed when I remember Christianity got its start during a time when nearly 80% of the population was illiterate. The first Christ followers depended upon the public reading of the Scriptures in order to hear God's Word. Then the light came on inside my head.
If there were ever a time when preachers need to spend more time (say, 10 minutes of their sermon?) reading the Scriptures to their listeners, it is now. Rather than focus on the memorable illustration or the clever, real-life anecdote, perhaps it's time to read the Bible to Christians. Why? Not only because reading Scripture should be an important part of our worship, but for the more obvious reason. Like the man said, "I don't read."
Friday, April 13, 2012
Dress Code for Pharisees
It's happening more everyday. I walk into class and at least one male student makes a comment--usually positive--about what I'm wearing. They don't believe me when I say, "Thanks." It seems a simple response isn't enough. They want some commentary about my clothes. So, this is what they get . . .
"In my day, a guy would never make a comment about what another guy was wearing. Girls, however, commented on girls fashion often. Is this another bit of evidence of the feminization of our culture?" [Read the article that came out last year, "The End of Men," in the Atlantic Monthly.]
"I don't care what you think--whether you like what I'm wearing or not" (usually said with a smiling smirk--but they still don't believe me).
"I've been wearing stuff like this for a long time" (in this case, a student thought I was being fashionable because I was wearing a v-neck t-shirt).
"I'm sorry. I don't understand."
I say that a lot. I really don't understand the interest--does it border on obsession?--with fashion.
I told my son about the time I was in San Francisco last year for the SBL conference. Twenty-somethings were lined up outside, on the sidewalk, with their tents and sleeping bags. I thought that, perhaps, I happened to walk by the Occupy Movement in San Fran. But, the crowd seemed too dressed up for such an anti-establishment cause. The next morning, they were still there, but the line was much longer. "I guess some concert is about to start soon???" After attending several sessions that morning, I walked by the crowd again. By this point, the line was two-blocks long. Curiosity got the best of me.
"Why are you all here?" A young lady dressed very fashionably said, "Versace is opening their new line today!" "You mean all these people have been waiting all night and day for that?" She, looking very quisically at me, said, "Of course."
My son wasn't surprised at all by the episode. I was incredulous.
I showed up recently in church wearing a suit and a tie. A friend asked, "What's the occasion?" I said, "Nothing." "Are you preaching somewhere?" I said, "No. Just wanted to wear this today." He quipped, "So, are you playing the role of the 'rich man' expecting to get the best seat in the house?"
All of this got me to thinking, "What would it take to dress like a Pharisee today?" Fine clothes? Rags? Suit and tie? Hoodies and torn jeans?
I don't know because I don't understand.
It's happening more everyday. I walk into class and at least one male student makes a comment--usually positive--about what I'm wearing. They don't believe me when I say, "Thanks." It seems a simple response isn't enough. They want some commentary about my clothes. So, this is what they get . . .
"In my day, a guy would never make a comment about what another guy was wearing. Girls, however, commented on girls fashion often. Is this another bit of evidence of the feminization of our culture?" [Read the article that came out last year, "The End of Men," in the Atlantic Monthly.]
"I don't care what you think--whether you like what I'm wearing or not" (usually said with a smiling smirk--but they still don't believe me).
"I've been wearing stuff like this for a long time" (in this case, a student thought I was being fashionable because I was wearing a v-neck t-shirt).
"I'm sorry. I don't understand."
I say that a lot. I really don't understand the interest--does it border on obsession?--with fashion.
I told my son about the time I was in San Francisco last year for the SBL conference. Twenty-somethings were lined up outside, on the sidewalk, with their tents and sleeping bags. I thought that, perhaps, I happened to walk by the Occupy Movement in San Fran. But, the crowd seemed too dressed up for such an anti-establishment cause. The next morning, they were still there, but the line was much longer. "I guess some concert is about to start soon???" After attending several sessions that morning, I walked by the crowd again. By this point, the line was two-blocks long. Curiosity got the best of me.
"Why are you all here?" A young lady dressed very fashionably said, "Versace is opening their new line today!" "You mean all these people have been waiting all night and day for that?" She, looking very quisically at me, said, "Of course."
My son wasn't surprised at all by the episode. I was incredulous.
I showed up recently in church wearing a suit and a tie. A friend asked, "What's the occasion?" I said, "Nothing." "Are you preaching somewhere?" I said, "No. Just wanted to wear this today." He quipped, "So, are you playing the role of the 'rich man' expecting to get the best seat in the house?"
All of this got me to thinking, "What would it take to dress like a Pharisee today?" Fine clothes? Rags? Suit and tie? Hoodies and torn jeans?
I don't know because I don't understand.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
For those who may not know
Dr. Scot McKnight is blogging on Spirituality According to Paul. Here's the link to his fourth post: Paul’s Spiritual Vision 4
I'm grateful to God for Scot's generous review of my work. And, I think he's raising some good points for discussion.
As I've mentioned before, Scot's blog, Jesus Creed, is one of the few blogs I read every day (another is by Mark Roberts: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/markdroberts/).
What makes the Jesus Creed blog so unique is the gracious manner in which he engages a variety of topics--it especially shows up in the comments section. Here's a first-class NT scholar dialoguing with all kinds of posters, engaging arguments in a non-threatening way. Honestly, sometimes I marvel over his patience--especially when a poster takes advantage of Scot's graciousness by dismissing substantive dialogue with nonchalence. All kinds of voices show up at this "round table," and I've found many of Scot's posters to be very insightful. Imagine, a blog where persons don't shout past one another but actually talk to each other with respect and dignity. Is this what some people mean by "virtual Church"?
Dr. Scot McKnight is blogging on Spirituality According to Paul. Here's the link to his fourth post: Paul’s Spiritual Vision 4
I'm grateful to God for Scot's generous review of my work. And, I think he's raising some good points for discussion.
As I've mentioned before, Scot's blog, Jesus Creed, is one of the few blogs I read every day (another is by Mark Roberts: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/markdroberts/).
What makes the Jesus Creed blog so unique is the gracious manner in which he engages a variety of topics--it especially shows up in the comments section. Here's a first-class NT scholar dialoguing with all kinds of posters, engaging arguments in a non-threatening way. Honestly, sometimes I marvel over his patience--especially when a poster takes advantage of Scot's graciousness by dismissing substantive dialogue with nonchalence. All kinds of voices show up at this "round table," and I've found many of Scot's posters to be very insightful. Imagine, a blog where persons don't shout past one another but actually talk to each other with respect and dignity. Is this what some people mean by "virtual Church"?
Monday, December 12, 2011
A Bloody Christmas
There are so many add-ons to the Christmas story, it's hard to tell what's real and what's make-believe. I'm not talking about Santa, Frosty, or Rudolf. Rather, I'm referring to the ways we have spiced up the story of Jesus' birth, as if it were a rather boring story without our embellishments.
Of course, there are the obvious fictive parts that everyone recognizes, like there was no drummer boy, talking donkey, or even "three kings" from the orient. Other additions sneak in without our noticing: there was no stable, no inn keeper, no angels singing (they chant), no magi visiting the baby in the manger (every year, when my wife would bring out the nativity scenes, my children would hear their father rattle on and on about how "wrong" the ideallic scene really is). But, what really bothers me are the parts we ignore, especially Matthew's version of the Christmas story, where he relates the story of how Joseph and Mary became refugees because a paranoid King ordered genocide for Bethlehem.
I've never seen that scene recreated during a Christmas play. Can you imagine? Herodian soldiers enter stage right, bearing swords, and slaughtering all the two-years on the Bethlehem stage. Parents would shriek in horror, "Don't look, Johnny. I don't know what they're trying to do up there. Never seen the like."
But, there it is in Matthew's story. In all of its glory. And, we turn our eyes away from the tragedy because everyone knows Christmas is about warm feelings, nostalgic recollections, and serenity in the midst of chaos (often a chaos of our own creation).
And yet, somehow I find myself drawn to Matthew's story. Not because I have some peculiar desire for dwelling on the macabre realities of life. No, somehow I find hope knowing that, even when Jesus was born, there were people in Bethlehem screaming, "Where is God?" Rachel mourning for her children.
Mary probably grieved over the news down in Egypt. After all, these women were a part of their little community; friends who shared stories and daily chores. Their children played together. Such news may have even compelled Mary to ask the same question in the face of such human suffering, "God, where are you?"
He's a vulnerable baby, hiding out in Egypt, waiting for a wicked king to die.
For some reason, I love that part of the story that nobody tells.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Bridging the Gap
Darryl, Ben, and Matt have asked some very good questions that all seem to revolve around one issue: the nasty problem of interpreting the Bible as God's Word. I say, "nasty" because it is not only a difficult issue, but it also creates difficulties between us.
To answer the question, let me say at the outset that this problem is not unique to the free church tradition (although you'd think that churches taking a more magisterial approach would not have to deal with such problems--hardly, members of the RCC or the Anglican communion have members who do not share the interpretation of their leaders).
At the risk of over simplification, I think the solution is recognizing that interpretation of the Bible belongs to the community of faith (both now and then, both clergy and laity). John writes that his church should "test the spirits" to see if interpretations are true. Peter writes that no Scripture/prophecy can be interpreted by one person. In other words, if the Spirit is responsible for leading us to understand the Scriptures, and since no single person (or group) controls the Spirit, then the only way we can understand the Scriptures is to interpret them together (Ben's suggestion is relevant here).
So, what happens if we disagree? Are some interpretations more important than others?
What I think would help our discussions is to categorize which doctrines are primary, secondary, tertiary, and quadriary. I know that sounds risky to some; it makes it appear that we think some Scriptures are more important than others. That's not what I'm saying. Rather, since all doctrine is of human invention, then we are merely recognizing some of our interpretations are more important than others.
Here's how I would break it down: primary doctrines are of eternal significance, secondary doctrines are of temporal significance, tertiary doctrines are of cultural significance, quadriary doctrines are of personal significance.
Honestly, most scholarly work is done on the second and third levels. Most lay people don't think beyond the first (I think that's what Matt is getting at) and the fourth levels. Therefore, a discussion that acknowledges a rubric like this I think would help us get beyond the ivory tower work of scholars and clergy, and the isolationist/obscurantist views of the laity.
What do you think?
Darryl, Ben, and Matt have asked some very good questions that all seem to revolve around one issue: the nasty problem of interpreting the Bible as God's Word. I say, "nasty" because it is not only a difficult issue, but it also creates difficulties between us.
To answer the question, let me say at the outset that this problem is not unique to the free church tradition (although you'd think that churches taking a more magisterial approach would not have to deal with such problems--hardly, members of the RCC or the Anglican communion have members who do not share the interpretation of their leaders).
At the risk of over simplification, I think the solution is recognizing that interpretation of the Bible belongs to the community of faith (both now and then, both clergy and laity). John writes that his church should "test the spirits" to see if interpretations are true. Peter writes that no Scripture/prophecy can be interpreted by one person. In other words, if the Spirit is responsible for leading us to understand the Scriptures, and since no single person (or group) controls the Spirit, then the only way we can understand the Scriptures is to interpret them together (Ben's suggestion is relevant here).
So, what happens if we disagree? Are some interpretations more important than others?
What I think would help our discussions is to categorize which doctrines are primary, secondary, tertiary, and quadriary. I know that sounds risky to some; it makes it appear that we think some Scriptures are more important than others. That's not what I'm saying. Rather, since all doctrine is of human invention, then we are merely recognizing some of our interpretations are more important than others.
Here's how I would break it down: primary doctrines are of eternal significance, secondary doctrines are of temporal significance, tertiary doctrines are of cultural significance, quadriary doctrines are of personal significance.
Honestly, most scholarly work is done on the second and third levels. Most lay people don't think beyond the first (I think that's what Matt is getting at) and the fourth levels. Therefore, a discussion that acknowledges a rubric like this I think would help us get beyond the ivory tower work of scholars and clergy, and the isolationist/obscurantist views of the laity.
What do you think?
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Questions?
I'd like to take a different direction for this blog for a while.
Honestly, I run out of ideas to talk about. I struggle over whether to post something simply because it passes through the gray matter between my ears. There's a lot of chatter going on and I'm not sure I have the time or the energy to keep up with it.
I think I'm turning into an old man.
So, since I love questions (more than answers), I'd like to open up this blog to anyone who'd like to post a question for us to consider.
Ask and you shall receive (at least one man's opinion, as well as those who weigh in with their responses).
I'd like to take a different direction for this blog for a while.
Honestly, I run out of ideas to talk about. I struggle over whether to post something simply because it passes through the gray matter between my ears. There's a lot of chatter going on and I'm not sure I have the time or the energy to keep up with it.
I think I'm turning into an old man.
So, since I love questions (more than answers), I'd like to open up this blog to anyone who'd like to post a question for us to consider.
Ask and you shall receive (at least one man's opinion, as well as those who weigh in with their responses).
Monday, October 10, 2011
I Need God
I know it's too simple to write about it. But, I can't help but say it, "I need God." Don't we all?
We need Him to see life.
We need Him to feel death.
We need Him to know love.
We need Him to spoil hate.
We need Him to sleep.
We need Him to stay awake.
We need Him to eat.
We need Him to share.
We need Him to hurt.
We need Him to care.
We need Him to give.
We need Him to take.
We need a merciful God who relentlessly gives grace to those of us who know we don't deserve one little crumb that falls from His table of sacrifice.
Oh how I need God.
I know it's too simple to write about it. But, I can't help but say it, "I need God." Don't we all?
We need Him to see life.
We need Him to feel death.
We need Him to know love.
We need Him to spoil hate.
We need Him to sleep.
We need Him to stay awake.
We need Him to eat.
We need Him to share.
We need Him to hurt.
We need Him to care.
We need Him to give.
We need Him to take.
We need a merciful God who relentlessly gives grace to those of us who know we don't deserve one little crumb that falls from His table of sacrifice.
Oh how I need God.
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