This is the last post you're going to read from me for quite a while. Tomorrow is the day of departure. I'm going to see Michele off to work, put the kids on the bus and then I'm going to go out the door of my comfortable little house in the woods and spend over 40 days wandering. Everything in the next 24 hours is going to be emotionally charged to say the least, because it's all about lasts, last meal together with the family, last night in my own bed, last time cajoling my grumpy children out of bed, last time goofing around with them as they wait for the bus.
Then the steps begin. Home to New Jersey, Parents house to Philadelphia International Airport, Philly to Barajas Airport in Madrid, the metro to Atocha station, Atocha to Pamplona, a bus from Pamplona to Saint Jean Pied a Port in France, then things slow down to walking pace.
It has occurred to me several times that one of the hardest things I'm going to have to do is to pull the front door of my house shut behind me, to leave all that is familiar and comfortable and just walk away. Once I do that, the journey takes on a life of its own, once that step is taken all the other ones are necessary in order to complete the journey.
I have to admit that I have always been a bit of a homebody. There were times, even when I was young, that I would not do things because I would just rather stay home. Some of these things would have been fun or adventurous, but home was safe and comfortable. That's why I think I enjoyed Tolkien's stories about Hobbits so very much, because I understood and valued the life they were trying to save. To this day, the idea of a comfortable little home with a garden and pub down the way sounds much more attractive than any grand estate. It's always been a sort of disappointment to me that the simple life of an agrarian village just isn't really feasible in the modern world, unless you're Amish.
Once you see and experience the world of iphones and automobiles it's hard to go back, in fact, going back seems like a hardship more than an adventure. That's why I think pilgrimage is making a comeback in the 21st century, not because people are going seeking salvation, but because they need some sort of grand vision to pull them out of their comfortable little Hobbit holes. I know I do. I know I wouldn't feel at all the same if I suddenly had to walk 15 miles a day just to get to and from work, but because it's an official adventure, I'll do it.
So here I go, on a big adventure. Away from home, away from safety and security, away from careful plans.
Just away.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Friday, April 3, 2015
Not Getting Over It
Michele reminds me every year that we shouldn't rush through today. We always tend to push the fast-forward button on the darkness of the crucifixion in order to get to the light of resurrection. Of course it's a bit of an exercise in trying to un-know something, but it is important in a lot of ways, especially to a culture that absolutely denies death and wants to avoid suffering at pretty much any cost.
Pretty much anyone who grieves is likely to hear someone, usually a well meaning someone, recommend that they, "just get on with life." So much of our processing of death and dying now involves ideas of a "better" place and some sort of utopian vision of heaven that we are often inclined to just expect ourselves to get over the grieving process with a snap of some emotional fingers. But it doesn't work that way.
I suspect that the lives of the Apostles were forever shaped by their grief over Jesus' death. Yes, I know they experienced the resurrection, but they still talked an awful lot about the cross, I think that their experience of the darkness made their understanding of the light all that more profound. And yet, in most churches Good Friday services are becoming anachronisms. Part of it has to do with the fact that people don't get the day off any more, but I think something has to do with the fact that we would just prefer not to deal with the blood and guts of the crucifixion. Let's get to the flowers and jelly beans already.
But this is wrong, we don't let ourselves grieve. Did you ever consider that even though Jesus was resurrected, the disciples still had to say goodbye? He wasn't going to hang around for very long. Can you imagine that? Not only do you lose your teacher and your leader, you actually get proof that he's something beyond pretty much anything you could have imagined, and then he's still gone.
And you're on your own, to try to figure out what to do without him, which is where grieving really comes in.
It really sets in after the funeral is over and the friends and family have all gone home. It sends a little spike though you on holidays and birthdays. It forms a lump in your throat whenever you're having an otherwise pleasant moment and something reminds you of what you've lost, and what is absent.
Can you imagine what might have been going through Peter's mind on Pentecost as he tells everyone how wonderful Jesus was, and what this all means? What if he was thinking about how much he wished Jesus could be there to hear him, and be with all of them as the Spirit started to burn among them?
I can only compare that to the thoughts that I have about my brother's absence from our family. It's been nearly 10 years since he passed, and I still feel the absence, particularly when things are good. There is a part missing that should have been. By now there should be a wife and kids, by now we should be planning family vacations together, I see it in other families, and I feel that presence of an absence. It hits at holidays and the beach, it can be rather unpleasant, or it can just be like an old acquaintance that stands silently by. I think that Peter and the Apostles probably lived with Jesus like that. There had to be regret about all the things they didn't get when he was there. I think that when they did things like participate in the Lord's Supper or say the Lord's prayer, they had to feel a little sting.
This means that for the church to deny or minimize the grief, is to ignore a fact and a feeling that must have been central to the formation of the community. In John's account of the resurrection, you know the one with Jesus and Mary in the garden, you can feel this connection between the grief and the joy. The resurrection doesn't negate the pain, it just makes it purposeful, it just means its not the last word.
The author Frederick Buechner crystallizes the nature of our existence and God's creation in the following: "Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid."
"Good Friday," is a terrible thing, no two ways about it. Easter is a beautiful thing, a hopeful thing, but it wouldn't be anything without the darkness. They are both necessary, don't be afraid.
Pretty much anyone who grieves is likely to hear someone, usually a well meaning someone, recommend that they, "just get on with life." So much of our processing of death and dying now involves ideas of a "better" place and some sort of utopian vision of heaven that we are often inclined to just expect ourselves to get over the grieving process with a snap of some emotional fingers. But it doesn't work that way.
I suspect that the lives of the Apostles were forever shaped by their grief over Jesus' death. Yes, I know they experienced the resurrection, but they still talked an awful lot about the cross, I think that their experience of the darkness made their understanding of the light all that more profound. And yet, in most churches Good Friday services are becoming anachronisms. Part of it has to do with the fact that people don't get the day off any more, but I think something has to do with the fact that we would just prefer not to deal with the blood and guts of the crucifixion. Let's get to the flowers and jelly beans already.
But this is wrong, we don't let ourselves grieve. Did you ever consider that even though Jesus was resurrected, the disciples still had to say goodbye? He wasn't going to hang around for very long. Can you imagine that? Not only do you lose your teacher and your leader, you actually get proof that he's something beyond pretty much anything you could have imagined, and then he's still gone.
And you're on your own, to try to figure out what to do without him, which is where grieving really comes in.
It really sets in after the funeral is over and the friends and family have all gone home. It sends a little spike though you on holidays and birthdays. It forms a lump in your throat whenever you're having an otherwise pleasant moment and something reminds you of what you've lost, and what is absent.
Can you imagine what might have been going through Peter's mind on Pentecost as he tells everyone how wonderful Jesus was, and what this all means? What if he was thinking about how much he wished Jesus could be there to hear him, and be with all of them as the Spirit started to burn among them?
I can only compare that to the thoughts that I have about my brother's absence from our family. It's been nearly 10 years since he passed, and I still feel the absence, particularly when things are good. There is a part missing that should have been. By now there should be a wife and kids, by now we should be planning family vacations together, I see it in other families, and I feel that presence of an absence. It hits at holidays and the beach, it can be rather unpleasant, or it can just be like an old acquaintance that stands silently by. I think that Peter and the Apostles probably lived with Jesus like that. There had to be regret about all the things they didn't get when he was there. I think that when they did things like participate in the Lord's Supper or say the Lord's prayer, they had to feel a little sting.
This means that for the church to deny or minimize the grief, is to ignore a fact and a feeling that must have been central to the formation of the community. In John's account of the resurrection, you know the one with Jesus and Mary in the garden, you can feel this connection between the grief and the joy. The resurrection doesn't negate the pain, it just makes it purposeful, it just means its not the last word.
The author Frederick Buechner crystallizes the nature of our existence and God's creation in the following: "Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid."
"Good Friday," is a terrible thing, no two ways about it. Easter is a beautiful thing, a hopeful thing, but it wouldn't be anything without the darkness. They are both necessary, don't be afraid.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
That Feel
This thing is unbearably close now.
Everything has started to take on this weird significant feeling.
I will be in Spain one week from now, so that means that every normal little piece of routine is pretty much coming to an end in the next seven days and something new is going to replace it for a good while.
On the one hand, I'm trying to mark that significance, but on the other I'm just trying to keep my stuff together, and the more I think about it, the crazier it all seems.
Every once in a while I remember the Camino. I remember it's feel and the smell of it, and the ancient-ness. And I am less worried, less afraid, because I know that out there on the way there is a clarity of purpose that does not, really cannot exist in anything like an ordinary day.
Yesterday afternoon as the kids and I hiked around the lake, I was thinking that opening scene from Apocalypse Now, where Martin Sheen is in Saigon waiting, reflecting on how he is here in a hotel, "getting soft." There is a sort of dread and an impatience with the waiting. I know for a fact that once the "mission" is underway, a lot of this will evaporate, but for now, I'm trying not to numb up or stifle this feeling, because I think it's important to honor the sanctity of these ordinary moments.
Right now the kids are both absorbed in their own little electronic worlds, sitting on the couch in my office. I can look over at them any time, and I'm finding that I feel like that is a blessing. Why? Because I know, for over a month, I will not see them. I will not have to scold them for being vegetables or not eating their vegetables. I will not be able to tuck them into bed at night or have to drag them out of bed in the morning. It makes me (sort of) cherish even the annoying things about parenthood.
Maybe that is important work for a pilgrim as well, learning to see with an Ecclesiastes sort of realism: "there is nothing better than to enjoy your life and take pleasure in your toil."
Is that it then? Is the first lesson of a grand adventure to truly appreciate all that you leave behind? Or is what I'm feeling now just a reflection of the depth that absence will teach?
Anyway, here we go.
Everything has started to take on this weird significant feeling.
I will be in Spain one week from now, so that means that every normal little piece of routine is pretty much coming to an end in the next seven days and something new is going to replace it for a good while.
On the one hand, I'm trying to mark that significance, but on the other I'm just trying to keep my stuff together, and the more I think about it, the crazier it all seems.
Every once in a while I remember the Camino. I remember it's feel and the smell of it, and the ancient-ness. And I am less worried, less afraid, because I know that out there on the way there is a clarity of purpose that does not, really cannot exist in anything like an ordinary day.
Yesterday afternoon as the kids and I hiked around the lake, I was thinking that opening scene from Apocalypse Now, where Martin Sheen is in Saigon waiting, reflecting on how he is here in a hotel, "getting soft." There is a sort of dread and an impatience with the waiting. I know for a fact that once the "mission" is underway, a lot of this will evaporate, but for now, I'm trying not to numb up or stifle this feeling, because I think it's important to honor the sanctity of these ordinary moments.
Right now the kids are both absorbed in their own little electronic worlds, sitting on the couch in my office. I can look over at them any time, and I'm finding that I feel like that is a blessing. Why? Because I know, for over a month, I will not see them. I will not have to scold them for being vegetables or not eating their vegetables. I will not be able to tuck them into bed at night or have to drag them out of bed in the morning. It makes me (sort of) cherish even the annoying things about parenthood.
Maybe that is important work for a pilgrim as well, learning to see with an Ecclesiastes sort of realism: "there is nothing better than to enjoy your life and take pleasure in your toil."
Is that it then? Is the first lesson of a grand adventure to truly appreciate all that you leave behind? Or is what I'm feeling now just a reflection of the depth that absence will teach?
Anyway, here we go.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Lessons Learned?
This is continued from yesterday.
I have been thinking about the things we might learn from Scientology, and quite frankly, I'm a little worried that perhaps we have already "learned" too much from them. See, the thing that strikes me about the whole mess is not that it has become a monstrosity of weirdness and abuse, but that it reflects so powerfully on the negative capability of religion. Any time religion is divorced from the divine truth it becomes a monstrosity. And I will go out on a Unitarian sort of a limb here and say that most of the time tested religions have some sort of claim on divine truth, and they also have demonstrated that they can sever their connection with that at the drop of a hat.
Christianity included. This is me trying to take the log out of my own eye. I'm going to stop taking swings trying to prove another religious system is crazy until I can fully sort out and repent for my own religious insanity.
If I criticize Scientology for being too utilitarian (meaning they emphasize results regardless of methods), I must admit that Christianity has often "converted" people by force. We explain it away, we say, "Well at least they're not pagans anymore, and at least they now seem to really embrace the faith." It's a highly colonialist argument: perhaps they're slaves but at least they're not savages.
If I'm going to criticize Scientology for insisting that their moral and behavioral system is the the only way to enlightenment, and that everyone critical of that is an SP (suppressive person), then I'm going to have wrestle with the fact that we Christians are rather constantly labeling each other heretics and apostates.
If I'm going to call Scientology out for basically making all about the almighty Cash Flow, I'm going to have to admit that churches can get all too wrapped up in dollar signs and the all too closely connected statistical idol: attendance numbers. You want to know the ugly truth behind why churches can't be the true communities of the faithful that most of them would actually want to be? It's all about the ducats, either not enough of them or too many, either way it can make you sick.
It's tempting to adopt the techniques of promotion and selling, because we wonder how else the church is going to grow. It's tempting to try and smooth things over and avoid difficult conversations because we don't want to turn over the apple cart. It's tempting to run prophets and reformers out of the kingdom, because we like the kingdom the way it is. It's tempting to sort of retreat into an over-realized eschatology that focuses on how things are all going to be better on the "other side," because things obviously aren't according to God's will on this one.
Obviously.
The word of defeat.
Obviously the reason why we constantly pray for God's will to be done "on earth as it is in heaven," is because we want God to ride in on a white horse and rescue us. We obviously can't think that we're the ones who are supposed to actually make that happen. That's just crazy talk.
Obviously Jesus actually intended us to limit who we love to our closest friends and associates. He didn't, he couldn't seriously expect us to actually love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us.
Obviously he intended us to forsake the mystical for the merely supernatural.
Obviously he wanted us to insist on seeing the world in a dualistic fashion instead of inching towards a unitive perspective, because dualism is the only way to get things done. Divide and conquer, sort things out, find the answers, all the answers, leave no room for questions, questions cause trouble, just get moving.
Obviously we ought to understand parables and indeed, all of Scripture, as authoritative truth, that clearly says the thing that we find most comforting, instead of constantly discovering new things that will most likely just cause trouble.
You get the idea.
I think we would all do well to remember the testimony of the Pharisee Gamaliel, which is recorded in Acts 5. The Apostles have been arrested and are in front of the High Priests, they are being accused of blasphemy for proclaiming Christ after being told not to. Gamaliel says, "I tell you keep away from these men and let them alone; because if this plan or this undertaking is of human origin, it will fail; but if it is of God you will not be able to overthrow them - in that case you may even be found fighting against God!" I think we need to really trust that wisdom. Understand that God doesn't need us to stick up for him. If Scientology, or any of the radical fundamentalist sects we often fear, are against God's purposes, they will fall, they won't need our help to explode on their own.
It's pretty obvious from history that things eventually get sorted, and it's probably not our job to try and defend orthodoxy, we should just spend more time trying to help one another. You know, "do justice, love mercy, walk humbly," that sort of thing.
It starts with us, not "them."
I have been thinking about the things we might learn from Scientology, and quite frankly, I'm a little worried that perhaps we have already "learned" too much from them. See, the thing that strikes me about the whole mess is not that it has become a monstrosity of weirdness and abuse, but that it reflects so powerfully on the negative capability of religion. Any time religion is divorced from the divine truth it becomes a monstrosity. And I will go out on a Unitarian sort of a limb here and say that most of the time tested religions have some sort of claim on divine truth, and they also have demonstrated that they can sever their connection with that at the drop of a hat.
Christianity included. This is me trying to take the log out of my own eye. I'm going to stop taking swings trying to prove another religious system is crazy until I can fully sort out and repent for my own religious insanity.
If I criticize Scientology for being too utilitarian (meaning they emphasize results regardless of methods), I must admit that Christianity has often "converted" people by force. We explain it away, we say, "Well at least they're not pagans anymore, and at least they now seem to really embrace the faith." It's a highly colonialist argument: perhaps they're slaves but at least they're not savages.
If I'm going to criticize Scientology for insisting that their moral and behavioral system is the the only way to enlightenment, and that everyone critical of that is an SP (suppressive person), then I'm going to have wrestle with the fact that we Christians are rather constantly labeling each other heretics and apostates.
If I'm going to call Scientology out for basically making all about the almighty Cash Flow, I'm going to have to admit that churches can get all too wrapped up in dollar signs and the all too closely connected statistical idol: attendance numbers. You want to know the ugly truth behind why churches can't be the true communities of the faithful that most of them would actually want to be? It's all about the ducats, either not enough of them or too many, either way it can make you sick.
It's tempting to adopt the techniques of promotion and selling, because we wonder how else the church is going to grow. It's tempting to try and smooth things over and avoid difficult conversations because we don't want to turn over the apple cart. It's tempting to run prophets and reformers out of the kingdom, because we like the kingdom the way it is. It's tempting to sort of retreat into an over-realized eschatology that focuses on how things are all going to be better on the "other side," because things obviously aren't according to God's will on this one.
Obviously.
The word of defeat.
Obviously the reason why we constantly pray for God's will to be done "on earth as it is in heaven," is because we want God to ride in on a white horse and rescue us. We obviously can't think that we're the ones who are supposed to actually make that happen. That's just crazy talk.
Obviously Jesus actually intended us to limit who we love to our closest friends and associates. He didn't, he couldn't seriously expect us to actually love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us.
Obviously he intended us to forsake the mystical for the merely supernatural.
Obviously he wanted us to insist on seeing the world in a dualistic fashion instead of inching towards a unitive perspective, because dualism is the only way to get things done. Divide and conquer, sort things out, find the answers, all the answers, leave no room for questions, questions cause trouble, just get moving.
Obviously we ought to understand parables and indeed, all of Scripture, as authoritative truth, that clearly says the thing that we find most comforting, instead of constantly discovering new things that will most likely just cause trouble.
You get the idea.
I think we would all do well to remember the testimony of the Pharisee Gamaliel, which is recorded in Acts 5. The Apostles have been arrested and are in front of the High Priests, they are being accused of blasphemy for proclaiming Christ after being told not to. Gamaliel says, "I tell you keep away from these men and let them alone; because if this plan or this undertaking is of human origin, it will fail; but if it is of God you will not be able to overthrow them - in that case you may even be found fighting against God!" I think we need to really trust that wisdom. Understand that God doesn't need us to stick up for him. If Scientology, or any of the radical fundamentalist sects we often fear, are against God's purposes, they will fall, they won't need our help to explode on their own.
It's pretty obvious from history that things eventually get sorted, and it's probably not our job to try and defend orthodoxy, we should just spend more time trying to help one another. You know, "do justice, love mercy, walk humbly," that sort of thing.
It starts with us, not "them."
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Systems of Belief
I watched the HBO documentary Going Clear, about the Church of Scientology, because as I told my wife, "I like to look in on the competition." Scientology is rather more widely known than it's actual size warrants. By some estimates they only have about 50,000 adherents world wide, which may seem like a lot until you realize that there are approximately 600,000 Rastafarians, and they're sort of on the low end of the list (Judaism: 14 million, Islam 1.6 billion, Christianity: 2.2 billion, according to Wikipedia, but those numbers seem pretty on target). Scientology is a fairly new religion founded by L.Ron Hubbard, a man who was a failure as a Science Fiction writer but whom you would have to say, started a fairly successful religion, at least if you judge by dollar signs.
And that seems to be the thing about Scientology, they are a religion that is all about success and straight cash money. They attract a handful of super-wealthy, super-famous people: notably Tom Cruise and John Travolta, and they put on a show, about how they can help everyone succeed like those two have succeeded. Of course, there's a bit of dark side to the whole thing as you can imagine, but if you want to know about that, watch Going Clear.
What I want to think out loud about here is the spectrum of religious practice, where Scientology occupies a clear (pun intended) end point. This end point is the type of religion that starts with methods and only reveals it's "secrets" to the initiated. One of the points that a former Scientologist made in the documentary was that if you ask your average Christian or Jew or Muslim what they believe, they will be able to tell you, roughly, in a couple of minutes. Christians will say something that can be as simple as: Jesus is Lord, or get a little more complicated. Muslims actually have a slogan: There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. Atheists (yes they're a religious group) basically require their adherents to say there is no god, if you start talking about a god or gods or even the possibility of a god or gods, you're technically an agnostic and out of the club.
Scientology however, starts with a whole bunch of practical instructions for living and succeeding, and never tells you anything about overlord Xenu until you're an Operating Thetan level III (or something like that). Want to know what that means? Actually you probably don't, particularly if Scientology has been working out pretty well for you so far, and by that I mean, it's methods and it's system of expensive audits has been helping you acquire wealth and live the "good life," which is actually their major selling point.
Scientology is a creation of the modern/postmodern mindset, it's mythos is founded in the writings of science fiction writer, its evangelists are celebrities, its practice, if we are to believe the growing number of ex-scientologists, are dystopian on an Orwellian scale. But none of that is really getting to the core of the matter, which is the method. Scientology does something for people, from the very beginning: it teaches them how to organize, how to communicate, how to focus, basically how to become successful in the world. Once it establishes its value, and once it earns the acceptance and loyalty of its adherents, then it springs the ideas, the audits, the engrams, becoming clear, thetans, Xenu,,, all that stuff that sounds just absolutely crazy to outsiders. To those inside though, it doesn't seem crazy because they have accepted that it all works, and often would rather not challenge the crazy for fear of upsetting a system that has real benefits for them.
In modern Protestant Christianity we tell you our "secret" on day one. We tell you it's about a relationship with God, which is mediated by Jesus Christ, who is our savior and our example. We have varied ways of expressing this truth, but it essentially comes back to the triune God, who is the same God that made covenant with the people of Israel, and thus connects us to Judaism. It comes back to Jesus of Nazareth who was a Jewish teacher, healer and miracle worker, who was crucified by the Romans at the urging of the Sanhedrin (Jewish religious establishment/ruling class). And we will tell you, most of us anyway, that Jesus was resurrected on the third day after his crucifixion and then ascended into heaven.
Some people will find that last part implausible, perhaps even impossible, and I will have to admit, given a scientific understanding of the world, it is, in fact, unlikely. But that's what makes it an article of faith. It cannot be proven or dis-proven, it can only be believed or not believed. The thing about it is, you don't have to learn any secret handshakes or subscribe to any secret pact to be able to hear about our faith. You don't have to follow our rules or worship in our community, you don't have to go on a mission or join a special group, you just have to hear and accept the love of God in Jesus.
There are some within the church who think we're giving away our truth a little too easily. There are some who look at the commitment evoked by more strenuous disciplines in say Buddhism or even within Roman Catholicism (after all I'm going on a pilgrimage next week, you don't get much more Catholic or committed than trying to walk 500 miles to a cathedral where they supposedly have the bones of a Saint), and say that perhaps we've just made it too easy.
Maybe we have.
I realize, at about this point, that I have opened a large can of worms, this is going to have to be continued.
And that seems to be the thing about Scientology, they are a religion that is all about success and straight cash money. They attract a handful of super-wealthy, super-famous people: notably Tom Cruise and John Travolta, and they put on a show, about how they can help everyone succeed like those two have succeeded. Of course, there's a bit of dark side to the whole thing as you can imagine, but if you want to know about that, watch Going Clear.
What I want to think out loud about here is the spectrum of religious practice, where Scientology occupies a clear (pun intended) end point. This end point is the type of religion that starts with methods and only reveals it's "secrets" to the initiated. One of the points that a former Scientologist made in the documentary was that if you ask your average Christian or Jew or Muslim what they believe, they will be able to tell you, roughly, in a couple of minutes. Christians will say something that can be as simple as: Jesus is Lord, or get a little more complicated. Muslims actually have a slogan: There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. Atheists (yes they're a religious group) basically require their adherents to say there is no god, if you start talking about a god or gods or even the possibility of a god or gods, you're technically an agnostic and out of the club.
Scientology however, starts with a whole bunch of practical instructions for living and succeeding, and never tells you anything about overlord Xenu until you're an Operating Thetan level III (or something like that). Want to know what that means? Actually you probably don't, particularly if Scientology has been working out pretty well for you so far, and by that I mean, it's methods and it's system of expensive audits has been helping you acquire wealth and live the "good life," which is actually their major selling point.
Scientology is a creation of the modern/postmodern mindset, it's mythos is founded in the writings of science fiction writer, its evangelists are celebrities, its practice, if we are to believe the growing number of ex-scientologists, are dystopian on an Orwellian scale. But none of that is really getting to the core of the matter, which is the method. Scientology does something for people, from the very beginning: it teaches them how to organize, how to communicate, how to focus, basically how to become successful in the world. Once it establishes its value, and once it earns the acceptance and loyalty of its adherents, then it springs the ideas, the audits, the engrams, becoming clear, thetans, Xenu,,, all that stuff that sounds just absolutely crazy to outsiders. To those inside though, it doesn't seem crazy because they have accepted that it all works, and often would rather not challenge the crazy for fear of upsetting a system that has real benefits for them.
In modern Protestant Christianity we tell you our "secret" on day one. We tell you it's about a relationship with God, which is mediated by Jesus Christ, who is our savior and our example. We have varied ways of expressing this truth, but it essentially comes back to the triune God, who is the same God that made covenant with the people of Israel, and thus connects us to Judaism. It comes back to Jesus of Nazareth who was a Jewish teacher, healer and miracle worker, who was crucified by the Romans at the urging of the Sanhedrin (Jewish religious establishment/ruling class). And we will tell you, most of us anyway, that Jesus was resurrected on the third day after his crucifixion and then ascended into heaven.
Some people will find that last part implausible, perhaps even impossible, and I will have to admit, given a scientific understanding of the world, it is, in fact, unlikely. But that's what makes it an article of faith. It cannot be proven or dis-proven, it can only be believed or not believed. The thing about it is, you don't have to learn any secret handshakes or subscribe to any secret pact to be able to hear about our faith. You don't have to follow our rules or worship in our community, you don't have to go on a mission or join a special group, you just have to hear and accept the love of God in Jesus.
There are some within the church who think we're giving away our truth a little too easily. There are some who look at the commitment evoked by more strenuous disciplines in say Buddhism or even within Roman Catholicism (after all I'm going on a pilgrimage next week, you don't get much more Catholic or committed than trying to walk 500 miles to a cathedral where they supposedly have the bones of a Saint), and say that perhaps we've just made it too easy.
Maybe we have.
I realize, at about this point, that I have opened a large can of worms, this is going to have to be continued.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Last Things
I spent time this morning sifting through the narratives of Jesus' last days with his disciples before the crucifixion. I also bought train tickets for a trip from Madrid to Pamplona. I am thinking about Maundy Thursday service, and Easter Sunday, and leaving my family and my church for forty days. I am sitting here flipping back and forth between the journey of Lent as it comes to a close and the journey that will absorb most of the Easter season. What do I need to say and do in the next week?
I'm feeling the urgency of Jesus' prayer for his disciples, I'm feeling a little bit of his anxiety about something really big coming up (though my big event is decidedly of a different character).
I also know I'm coming back again!
And that's part of what I'm wrestling around with as well. What about this whole experience is going to be transformative? Jesus probably had a better idea on that one than me. At least according to the Gospels, he sort of knew what this was going to accomplish, but I think he had some doubts and anxiety of his own. What if he was wrong? What if this cross incident was every bit as foolish as it looked from this vantage point 2000 years ago? What if God's plan really was to give the whole Messiah thing one more try, and Jesus was just missing his big chance?
Let's face it, the crucifixion makes walking five hundred miles seem like a trip to Disney World. There was absolutely no guarantee that his death was going to accomplish anything. Even after the resurrection, and for quite a long time actually, the way of Jesus sort of hung on by a thread. An awful lot depended on random moments and what can only be described as an ongoing revelation of the Holy Spirit. The story took shape, the Gospels were told and then written down. People came to call Jesus Lord in the strangest places and when they did they seemed willing to devote themselves to that proposition, even if it meant putting themselves in harm's way.
Dad and I are sort of going through this flip-flop routine about how much to plan, how many reservations to make, how prepared to be. For us, this pilgrimage is not about earning salvation (that's a verboten idea for a couple of die hard Protestants). It's not even about earning some special favor or blessing (our theology doesn't permit that either). But it is about more than just curiosity, and it is about more than just a particularly long walk. It's a microcosm of the Christian story and the journey of faith. We must give up a lot of our comfort and security, and join Jesus on the way. Like the disciples, we don't exactly know what that's going to be like. I'm quite sure that if we knew what change the Camino was going to bring to each one of us and if we could somehow just sort of learn those things without putting our bodies, minds and spirits through this ordeal, we probably wouldn't find this thing compelling enough to do.
Jesus faces the events this week with a knowledge that, while he doesn't really want to go, he must. While he holds out some hope that there is another way, he knows that there is not.
Heaven, earth and the salvation of humanity do not hang in the balance when it comes to my father and I taking this journey, but we are going to find out some things.
The first of those things is what it's like to leave.
I'm feeling the urgency of Jesus' prayer for his disciples, I'm feeling a little bit of his anxiety about something really big coming up (though my big event is decidedly of a different character).
I also know I'm coming back again!
And that's part of what I'm wrestling around with as well. What about this whole experience is going to be transformative? Jesus probably had a better idea on that one than me. At least according to the Gospels, he sort of knew what this was going to accomplish, but I think he had some doubts and anxiety of his own. What if he was wrong? What if this cross incident was every bit as foolish as it looked from this vantage point 2000 years ago? What if God's plan really was to give the whole Messiah thing one more try, and Jesus was just missing his big chance?
Let's face it, the crucifixion makes walking five hundred miles seem like a trip to Disney World. There was absolutely no guarantee that his death was going to accomplish anything. Even after the resurrection, and for quite a long time actually, the way of Jesus sort of hung on by a thread. An awful lot depended on random moments and what can only be described as an ongoing revelation of the Holy Spirit. The story took shape, the Gospels were told and then written down. People came to call Jesus Lord in the strangest places and when they did they seemed willing to devote themselves to that proposition, even if it meant putting themselves in harm's way.
Dad and I are sort of going through this flip-flop routine about how much to plan, how many reservations to make, how prepared to be. For us, this pilgrimage is not about earning salvation (that's a verboten idea for a couple of die hard Protestants). It's not even about earning some special favor or blessing (our theology doesn't permit that either). But it is about more than just curiosity, and it is about more than just a particularly long walk. It's a microcosm of the Christian story and the journey of faith. We must give up a lot of our comfort and security, and join Jesus on the way. Like the disciples, we don't exactly know what that's going to be like. I'm quite sure that if we knew what change the Camino was going to bring to each one of us and if we could somehow just sort of learn those things without putting our bodies, minds and spirits through this ordeal, we probably wouldn't find this thing compelling enough to do.
Jesus faces the events this week with a knowledge that, while he doesn't really want to go, he must. While he holds out some hope that there is another way, he knows that there is not.
Heaven, earth and the salvation of humanity do not hang in the balance when it comes to my father and I taking this journey, but we are going to find out some things.
The first of those things is what it's like to leave.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
The Morning After
It is rare that I find myself still thinking about a Presbytery meeting the morning after. Presbytery meetings are mostly business, with a thin veneer of worship and community, but yesterday was different. National Capital Presbytery gathered for our meeting, where one of the most visible and crucial issues of the past 40 years was going to be decided. Except it wasn't, because basically it had already passed the requisite number of Presbyteries to be ratified.
For those of you who are not Presbyterian, I'm talking about amendment 14F, which changes the language in our constitutional definition of marriage from "between a man and woman" to "between two people." A constitutional change is moved by Presbyteries, voted up or down by General Assembly (the national governing body) and then sent back to Presbyteries for ratification. Well, the change has been ratified. Last week I talked about the change as a whole, today I want to talk about the process and the movement of God's people in the PC(USA).
If I had to pick one word to describe the process it would be gracious. People were actually listening to each other, and hearing each other for real. Maybe it was because the pressure was off, and the change was pretty much already a done deal, maybe it was because in an urban/metropolitan presbytery like NCP, there really wasn't ever very much doubt that it was going to pass by a landslide (217-55-6, was the final vote if I remember correctly).
But I would like to think it's because even those who disagree now recognize that the really important thing about all this is what we do now. Do we continue to listen to each other? Or do we retreat into our citadels of like-mindedness? Do we continue to seek understanding of the other? Or do we just redraw the battle lines and go at something else? Do we live up to our bright hopes? Or do we live down to our darkest fears?
We have choices to make and directions to choose, but for the first time in a long time, I'm not waiting for the other shoe to drop. And that is a relief.
I also had the pleasure of attending this meeting with the youngest member of our session, it was her first Presbytery meeting, and it made me proud that it pretty much illustrated the best of what we can be. In a church where we are constantly wringing our hands about what to do about young people, I saw something with fresh eyes: let's just trot out our good side a little more often. Let's demonstrate that we can have mature and difficult conversations without getting steamed up like a bunch of posturing teenagers.
I think we forget that most kids and young people look to adults to set an example, at our table last night we had a male and a female pastor, we had a young single woman and two middle aged married women, and we had a man who had just celebrated his 60th wedding anniversary (for those of you who are into math that makes him at least 80). We talked about what makes for a good marriage, and we learned from each other. We had diversity, and it was good, and it was the church, and while I may not understand all the mysteries of God, I am absolutely sure that he found nothing wrong with what we were and what we are.
Amen.
For those of you who are not Presbyterian, I'm talking about amendment 14F, which changes the language in our constitutional definition of marriage from "between a man and woman" to "between two people." A constitutional change is moved by Presbyteries, voted up or down by General Assembly (the national governing body) and then sent back to Presbyteries for ratification. Well, the change has been ratified. Last week I talked about the change as a whole, today I want to talk about the process and the movement of God's people in the PC(USA).
If I had to pick one word to describe the process it would be gracious. People were actually listening to each other, and hearing each other for real. Maybe it was because the pressure was off, and the change was pretty much already a done deal, maybe it was because in an urban/metropolitan presbytery like NCP, there really wasn't ever very much doubt that it was going to pass by a landslide (217-55-6, was the final vote if I remember correctly).
But I would like to think it's because even those who disagree now recognize that the really important thing about all this is what we do now. Do we continue to listen to each other? Or do we retreat into our citadels of like-mindedness? Do we continue to seek understanding of the other? Or do we just redraw the battle lines and go at something else? Do we live up to our bright hopes? Or do we live down to our darkest fears?
We have choices to make and directions to choose, but for the first time in a long time, I'm not waiting for the other shoe to drop. And that is a relief.
I also had the pleasure of attending this meeting with the youngest member of our session, it was her first Presbytery meeting, and it made me proud that it pretty much illustrated the best of what we can be. In a church where we are constantly wringing our hands about what to do about young people, I saw something with fresh eyes: let's just trot out our good side a little more often. Let's demonstrate that we can have mature and difficult conversations without getting steamed up like a bunch of posturing teenagers.
I think we forget that most kids and young people look to adults to set an example, at our table last night we had a male and a female pastor, we had a young single woman and two middle aged married women, and we had a man who had just celebrated his 60th wedding anniversary (for those of you who are into math that makes him at least 80). We talked about what makes for a good marriage, and we learned from each other. We had diversity, and it was good, and it was the church, and while I may not understand all the mysteries of God, I am absolutely sure that he found nothing wrong with what we were and what we are.
Amen.
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