As my kids grow up, I find myself the subject of very close observation, which is uncomfortable to say the least. I don't always think very carefully about how I talk, what I listen to on the radio, watch on TV, or about what I eat, but those are basic things that I am trying to teach my kids how to do better than me. It's a challenge for me as a parent to be a good example in many areas of life, to live as I would want my kids to live, rather than how I actually live myself.
It is with that awareness that I would like to challenge all of us collectively to stop doing this one thing: outrage comparisons. Let me explain what I mean by outrage comparisons with the latest example, the bombing in Istanbul where a bunch of people died at the hands of terrorists. It has been noted by some that our collective rending of garments is not quite as enthusiastic as it was for Paris or Brussels. Other examples have been: Orlando to Wounded Knee, how can we spend our time and energy trying to help Syrian Refugees when we have Homeless Veterans in this country; how can we get upset about victims of (insert natural disaster that happened in some other country) when (insert natural disaster that happens here); and of course, any time there is an outbreak of violence, someone, somewhere is going to say it wasn't like 9-11.
Now, I will admit that the reasoning behind these comparisons can seem complicated, there are large geopolitical reasons, there are deep seeded issues of tribalism, there is the simple fact that we're pretty much on tragedy overload, but what they all boil down to is people assuming that our ability to have empathy and compassion for the suffering of our fellow humans is somehow a limited resource. I don't know about you, but every time a terrorist blows up a bunch of people I get a whole new burst of sadness, and while it has changed character as these things have become more common, it doesn't seem to dry up at all.
I'm kind of running out of eloquent things to say in response to this sort of nonsense. My responses are growing less shocked as time goes by, but I'm still grieved, not more, not less, pretty much the same.
So, I'm going to tell you not to judge other people's reaction to tragedy, by judging other people's reaction to tragedy. If your reaction to tragedy is to immediately try to negate the tragedy, all or in part, by comparing it to another "worse" tragedy, you are wrong, that's not how this works. The fact that Hiroshima happened does not make the bombing of some little village in the mountains of Afghanistan where some goat farmer's daughter was the only victim any less of a tragedy.
We have fallen into the grievous error, I would go so far as to call it a sin, of ranking tragedies according to numbers. We are obsessed with how many people died, in doing this we are ignoring the fact that for every individual life that is lost there are families and friends that will mourn for years, there are permanent voids created in countless lives, who cares how many? Who cares whether they're "your" type of person or not?
This is, for me, a Jesus thing. Comes up a lot, I know. He taught us to care for the least of these, and I think that meaning stretches to not just meaning the poor and the oppressed, but extends to victims of violence, even if they weren't particularly poor or oppressed in life. The Gospels tell us rather poignant and surprising stories of Jesus actually learning the lesson at the core of what I'm talking about here, I think particularly of the Syrophoenician woman in Mark 7. She asks that Jesus heal her daughter, Jesus refuses, because in his mind that's not part of his mission, she's an outsider, an other, a Gentile Dog. I don't like the interpretations that have Jesus only "play acting" the part of a prejudiced Jew to prove some point, that to me is far too Gnostic (Docetism specifically, the idea that Jesus was not really a human, but rather some sort of astral projection of God, essentially denying the reality that Jesus could suffer, learn and change). I think he was acting fully consistently with the cultural norms of his human society, it is not necessary to say he was sinning, but he was privileging his group over others. This foreign woman, through her humility and through the action of the Holy Spirit, teaches Jesus that this is wrong. Indeed his mission is to heal the broken and bring the Kingdom of Heaven near to all, that doesn't change but the scope expands. The end result of this is that Jesus again establishes an above and beyond standard of human love and compassion, as he did with the Sermon on the mount, "The law says... but I say..."
This is a difficult move to make for sure, which is why the Gospels and Acts and a good part of Paul's letters spend so much time talking about how grace is supposed to set us free, not just from whatever punitive condemnation we might feel, but free from narrowness and bigotry and the constant pissing matches of the sinful human nature. The Jesus Way is a challenge to all of us to move, as our Lord did, in the direction of love and grace, we don't always get that message, or follow it, but wouldn't it be great if we did?
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Contemplation
I know, I do a lot of complaining here. Even if I try to dress it up as criticism or reflection, it amounts to nothing more than obsessing over all the crap that goes wrong in the world. I try not to get too wrapped up in the small things, like I don't want to constantly be picking apart TV shows or arguing about which Geek Kingdom is the best (though I will entertain arguments on the relative merits of Kirk v. Picard). But no matter how I try to stay positive there is this daily stream of really terrible things happening (bombing in Istanbul yesterday), it makes me wonder sometimes if this level of hyper-informational connectedness is really worth it.
I think maybe one reason why people remember the "good old days," as being so good is that they didn't actually know that much about what was going on in the world. In the world of newspapers and Walter Cronkite, you were more than a couple of clicks away from watching someone get beheaded by a terrorist in a black veil, in fact, even if it was happening somewhere, you would probably never even hear about it let alone see it.
That was probably a good thing. Not the ignorance, but the fact that you were given time to construct a view of the world with markedly less horror in it. There is something about being inundated with bad news, even if it's important, which upsets your spiritual balance. The common critique of the internet is that it is really good for only two things: arguing with strangers and pictures of kittens. And I will admit, after reading through the news of the day at the Post or the Times sites, I am itching to watch some cats do silly stuff, the internet provides the opportunity for both.
But it is actually hard for the good, sweet, funny stuff to outweigh the hatred and fear. Hatred and fear are, by nature, heavier things. I am trying to get into a habit of getting up early and going for a walk around the lake at the local park with my dog. This morning was beautiful, it rained last night and everything was clean and fresh and not too hot at 6:45 AM. The sun was just rising over the hills and it was in that time when the low angles of the light do really magical things. I started with the freshness of the morning and a thankful heart. Then the bugs started to come. Now I wear some pretty serious bug repellent on these walks, because I basically live on the edge of a swamp and the lake shore has some decidedly swampy areas. The 100% Deet stuff keeps me from getting eaten, but it doesn't entirely stop bugs from giving me a hassle. There are those buzzy things that like to just sort of dive at your head, apparently before they get the message that you are covered in a toxic film. I go along sort of swiping at them and then my dog starts pulling at his leash instead of just walking. Over a couple little rises on the steep side of the lake and I'm working up a bit of a sweat. My thoughts, which had been pleasant and serene are starting to take a turn for the worse. I'm starting to envision conflicts that haven't even happened, I'm starting to feel defensive and edgy, most of all, at one point, I realize that I haven't even been paying attention to the glorious creation around me, or the magic of the sunlight poking holes in the dark forest canopy, I've been hating those damn bugs.
But I notice what happened, and I won't say that it changes my attitude towards the pests, I don't suddenly become St. Francis, it is simply that I notice what an effect those nuisances were having on me, and in noticing I am able to re-center myself.
This is how contemplation works, it does not keep you from sinful thoughts and ways, in fact, you may find that your mind wanders off on some rather unholy errands at times. The trick is recognizing, without shame or criticism, what is happening to you, how you are being pulled and manipulated by the negative side of your own mind and soul. Contemplative practice is ever more important in a world where we don't often pause to reflect about all the information we are flooded with daily. It is not in avoiding those bugs that the value comes, it is learning to accept them as part of the journey. Swat at them, swear at them, do what you will, but also look at the light and breath with the trees, feel the blood pumping through you, and remember that God is in all of this.
I think maybe one reason why people remember the "good old days," as being so good is that they didn't actually know that much about what was going on in the world. In the world of newspapers and Walter Cronkite, you were more than a couple of clicks away from watching someone get beheaded by a terrorist in a black veil, in fact, even if it was happening somewhere, you would probably never even hear about it let alone see it.
That was probably a good thing. Not the ignorance, but the fact that you were given time to construct a view of the world with markedly less horror in it. There is something about being inundated with bad news, even if it's important, which upsets your spiritual balance. The common critique of the internet is that it is really good for only two things: arguing with strangers and pictures of kittens. And I will admit, after reading through the news of the day at the Post or the Times sites, I am itching to watch some cats do silly stuff, the internet provides the opportunity for both.
But it is actually hard for the good, sweet, funny stuff to outweigh the hatred and fear. Hatred and fear are, by nature, heavier things. I am trying to get into a habit of getting up early and going for a walk around the lake at the local park with my dog. This morning was beautiful, it rained last night and everything was clean and fresh and not too hot at 6:45 AM. The sun was just rising over the hills and it was in that time when the low angles of the light do really magical things. I started with the freshness of the morning and a thankful heart. Then the bugs started to come. Now I wear some pretty serious bug repellent on these walks, because I basically live on the edge of a swamp and the lake shore has some decidedly swampy areas. The 100% Deet stuff keeps me from getting eaten, but it doesn't entirely stop bugs from giving me a hassle. There are those buzzy things that like to just sort of dive at your head, apparently before they get the message that you are covered in a toxic film. I go along sort of swiping at them and then my dog starts pulling at his leash instead of just walking. Over a couple little rises on the steep side of the lake and I'm working up a bit of a sweat. My thoughts, which had been pleasant and serene are starting to take a turn for the worse. I'm starting to envision conflicts that haven't even happened, I'm starting to feel defensive and edgy, most of all, at one point, I realize that I haven't even been paying attention to the glorious creation around me, or the magic of the sunlight poking holes in the dark forest canopy, I've been hating those damn bugs.
But I notice what happened, and I won't say that it changes my attitude towards the pests, I don't suddenly become St. Francis, it is simply that I notice what an effect those nuisances were having on me, and in noticing I am able to re-center myself.
This is how contemplation works, it does not keep you from sinful thoughts and ways, in fact, you may find that your mind wanders off on some rather unholy errands at times. The trick is recognizing, without shame or criticism, what is happening to you, how you are being pulled and manipulated by the negative side of your own mind and soul. Contemplative practice is ever more important in a world where we don't often pause to reflect about all the information we are flooded with daily. It is not in avoiding those bugs that the value comes, it is learning to accept them as part of the journey. Swat at them, swear at them, do what you will, but also look at the light and breath with the trees, feel the blood pumping through you, and remember that God is in all of this.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Of Fear and Futility
Start to connect the dots and the zeitgeist takes shape, like that cartoon character or zoo animal in your children's coloring book. Globalization is creating anxiety all over the world, whether it is the Brexit or Trump's "great" wall, it would seem that enough people are gripped with anxiety, anger and angst to start doing things, dangerous (maybe) things. For a while I have been wondering exactly what the face of the enemy looked like, and I wasn't having much luck to tell you the truth, it could have been greed, it could have been bigotry or racism, because all of those things seem to certainly be manifest in our political situation. But as is usually the case there is a much more basic instinct underneath all of this, more primal even than greed: fear of the other.
To be realistic about this, we need to understand that family and tribal affiliations, for much of human history have been the basic social structure that provided us with safety, security and meaning. These connections and the instinct to protect and preserve them are practically hardwired into us.
In my line of work, skeptics sometimes ask me (if we get that far into honest conversation) to make sense of the Hebrew Scriptures, where God does (or commands his followers to do) some undeniably violent and brutal things. My answer usually hinges on the fact that God uses the material at hand when it comes to human beings. If Abram is the one who hears God's call to leave his home and his country and go out to a new place, God will work with that, even though Abram and Sarah are beyond child-bearing years. If Moses is a stuttering refugee from Egypt, God will work with that. If David is the youngest son of Jesse, or a murderous adulterer, God can work with that. If Joshua thinks that the only way to deal with Canaanites is to kill em all in the name of God... well you get the idea. We humans can get some pretty shady ideas all on our own, and if we win, it's pretty easy to imagine that God is on our side.
I have seen a bit of shock on the faces of our cousins across the pond as they realized that fearful rhetoric had actually had real life consequences. The people who didn't vote because they assumed the status quo would rule, even the politicians who had been instrumental in pushing the Brexit, they all seem a little shocked that a majority of voters actually did it. Pay attention America, you think it won't happen here, but you very well might be calling The Donald, President Trump before too long.
There is something in our nature to identify the winners as the blessed.
Which is why the Beatitudes matter. Which is why Jesus entire ministry to the least of these is absolutely crucial in shaping Christian ethics. If Trump were elected President with the help of conservative, evangelical Christians, many would anoint him with the very hand of God. And they would probably be on pretty solid footing from an Old Testament angle. God's providence on a metahistorical level includes accepting as divine instruments: Tiglath Pileser (Assyria), Nebuchadnezzar (Babylon), Cyrus and Xerxes (Persia), not to mention good old Joshua who doggedly slaughtered men, women, children and livestock under the Herem (the holy ban), in the very name of God. In that company, I'm not sure the Donald even stacks up.
But he's using their tools: fear, anger, discontent, the will to power, the idea that the "others" are going to come and soak up all the good stuff that is supposed to belong to you. The ground has been well prepared for this moment. We have bought trickle down economics and accepted increasing economic inequality for decades. What's more we have accepted the proposition that protecting the "right" of unbridled capitalism is the same thing as protecting the right of ordinary people to make a living. The economic interests of the middle class will always be more closely aligned with the interests of the poor than they will be with the aristocracy. It would be far more likely for a middle class person to fall back into poverty than would be for them to climb into the upper echelons of wealth, but the myth that most of us have swallowed is just the opposite. Lately the Emperor's clothes have seemed oddly translucent, particularly to the under 50 crowd. Bernie Sanders' message about political corruption and income inequality has struck a raw nerve, as has Trump's bombastic xenophobia, and while they may seem like polar opposites they are resonating with the same problem: we think that problems are solved by power and money.
I am not equating Sanders and Trump, because my personal feeling is that Sanders' approach might actually improve our situation, while I believe firmly that Trump's approach will make things worse. What I am saying is that, from a theological perspective, they're probably both wrong. Bernie's talk of a revolution brings to mind a myriad of failed messianic movements that provided hope, but were squashed by a brutal empire seeking to maintain its power. Trump, of course, sounds like he's trying to make that empire yet more brutal.
What the political realities of the world have shown me recently is that, until our hearts change towards each other, our political systems are always going to be broken to some extent. But that doesn't excuse apathy or give anyone an ethical out to just throw their hands up in frustration. Use your voice, even if you don't win. Be a responsible citizen no matter what nation you call home, and if you need a bit of a boost, remember that God will work no matter what happens.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Once Upon A Time...
Today is the 19th anniversary of my first date with Michele, which I remember because I am married to a person who is absolutely a fanatic about birthdays and anniversaries. It is a date I remember because I, actually we, did nearly everything we could to torpedo the whole experience, and therefore it is no minor miracle that we actually ended up getting married. My dating history, up until June 27, 1997 was checkered to say the least. I blamed it on lots of things, crazy girls mostly, which is partly true, but the deeper truth is that I was simply not very good at the whole process of what some will call romance and others will simply call mating.
I suppose I watched too many John Hughes movies, like many an eighties kid. If you judge by my behavior (I can't claim to remember what was going on in my mind) I expected the prom queen to mysteriously recognize that I was, in fact, the catch of the century, and then utterly transform herself into my ideal woman. There was an episode of Star Trek, which I believe sort of summed up my expectations, it's called The Perfect Mate. There is a woman who is what they call a metamorph, her name is Kamalah and she is being given as a gift of peace between two warring worlds. She is stunningly beautiful and has the rather handy attribute of being wired to sense whatever the nearest male really wants and then to shape her very self to that idea (fantasy maybe?). The idea is that she is supposed to form a permanent bond with her life mate at a very specific time and then become, forever, his "perfect mate." Of course, things do not go according to plan, and Kamalah ends up bonding with Picard rather than her intended, which of course sets up a rather bittersweet resolution where Picard and Kamalah have to choose between love and duty. It is complicated by the fact that Picard, representing modern human values, finds the very notion of giving a person as a gift morally repugnant, and also the fact that, unlike it was for James T. Kirk, the galaxy has not proven to be one enormous snog palace for Jean Luc Picard.
Anyway, Picard and Kamalah make the "right" choice, meaning the choice that doesn't prolong a conflict between two worlds, but which denies the two of them the happiness that was obviously supposed to be implied by a metamorphosis of one person into the "perfect mate" of another. That is apparently what I was actually expecting the whole process to be like, to find a woman who was compatible with me, who liked the same things, who sort of mirrored my thought patterns, who was my perfect mate.
So, when I was thinking about where to take Michele on our first date, it was obviously to the new John Woo movie, Face Off, starring Nick Cage and John Travolta, how could that possibly go wrong? I mean this is John Woo, of The Killer, and Hard Boiled, Taiwanese action movies that are just, well amazing. In Hard Boiled there is this scene that takes place in a hospital between two guys, they get they end up at both ends of a hallway filled with frightened patients, and you think (because you're used to American movies) that they're going to move the violence elsewhere, but no, they don't, they just start shooting up the whole place, innocent people and all. That's John Woo, at least in his original form, willing to go over just about any line. As it turns out, John Woo was capable of being corrupted by Hollywood, and Face Off was not a very good movie. But it was an even worse decision, because I did not yet understand that my wife to be is a sensitive soul, who would probably not have liked The Killer or Hard Boiled, even if she did like Chow Yun Fat in Anna and the King.
I also did not fully comprehend that she was nervous as all get out, because she had been trying to get me to go out with her for a while, and I had been almost comically oblivious. I also did not know that she had not eaten very much at all that day, before we went and had a couple big sugary cappuccinos before the movie. I also did not know that she didn't really drink coffee or very much caffeine at all.
There were several times in the evening when I thought she might be sick. By the time I dropped her back at her house, I pretty much figured that would be the end of us. I had unintentionally sabotaged our date, and was prepared for her to decide that I was not, in fact, her perfect mate, because that's mostly how this goes: you mess up something that bad, you are not "made for each other" obviously. But she wanted to go out again, and this time I had learned some lessons, no more ultra-violence, no more being oblivious to the fact that there was another person who is different from me involved in this relationship. It was an important lesson, and a lesson that I continue to learn after nearly two decades of togetherness.
We have now both learned that we like different things. I don't make her watch Game of Thrones and she doesn't make me watch Nicholas Sparks movies, it's just better that way, it doesn't mean we're not compatible, we're just not like that poor creature on Star Trek who had to form herself into whatever someone else wanted her to be. When we do agree on things, it makes it all that much sweeter to be able to enjoy something from our different perspective.
Diversity in an ecosystem generally means that the system is more stable, more resistant to disease, more able to absorb trauma and maintain it's health, I think that holds true for families as well.
Happy First-Date-a-versary Michele.
I suppose I watched too many John Hughes movies, like many an eighties kid. If you judge by my behavior (I can't claim to remember what was going on in my mind) I expected the prom queen to mysteriously recognize that I was, in fact, the catch of the century, and then utterly transform herself into my ideal woman. There was an episode of Star Trek, which I believe sort of summed up my expectations, it's called The Perfect Mate. There is a woman who is what they call a metamorph, her name is Kamalah and she is being given as a gift of peace between two warring worlds. She is stunningly beautiful and has the rather handy attribute of being wired to sense whatever the nearest male really wants and then to shape her very self to that idea (fantasy maybe?). The idea is that she is supposed to form a permanent bond with her life mate at a very specific time and then become, forever, his "perfect mate." Of course, things do not go according to plan, and Kamalah ends up bonding with Picard rather than her intended, which of course sets up a rather bittersweet resolution where Picard and Kamalah have to choose between love and duty. It is complicated by the fact that Picard, representing modern human values, finds the very notion of giving a person as a gift morally repugnant, and also the fact that, unlike it was for James T. Kirk, the galaxy has not proven to be one enormous snog palace for Jean Luc Picard.
Anyway, Picard and Kamalah make the "right" choice, meaning the choice that doesn't prolong a conflict between two worlds, but which denies the two of them the happiness that was obviously supposed to be implied by a metamorphosis of one person into the "perfect mate" of another. That is apparently what I was actually expecting the whole process to be like, to find a woman who was compatible with me, who liked the same things, who sort of mirrored my thought patterns, who was my perfect mate.
So, when I was thinking about where to take Michele on our first date, it was obviously to the new John Woo movie, Face Off, starring Nick Cage and John Travolta, how could that possibly go wrong? I mean this is John Woo, of The Killer, and Hard Boiled, Taiwanese action movies that are just, well amazing. In Hard Boiled there is this scene that takes place in a hospital between two guys, they get they end up at both ends of a hallway filled with frightened patients, and you think (because you're used to American movies) that they're going to move the violence elsewhere, but no, they don't, they just start shooting up the whole place, innocent people and all. That's John Woo, at least in his original form, willing to go over just about any line. As it turns out, John Woo was capable of being corrupted by Hollywood, and Face Off was not a very good movie. But it was an even worse decision, because I did not yet understand that my wife to be is a sensitive soul, who would probably not have liked The Killer or Hard Boiled, even if she did like Chow Yun Fat in Anna and the King.
I also did not fully comprehend that she was nervous as all get out, because she had been trying to get me to go out with her for a while, and I had been almost comically oblivious. I also did not know that she had not eaten very much at all that day, before we went and had a couple big sugary cappuccinos before the movie. I also did not know that she didn't really drink coffee or very much caffeine at all.
There were several times in the evening when I thought she might be sick. By the time I dropped her back at her house, I pretty much figured that would be the end of us. I had unintentionally sabotaged our date, and was prepared for her to decide that I was not, in fact, her perfect mate, because that's mostly how this goes: you mess up something that bad, you are not "made for each other" obviously. But she wanted to go out again, and this time I had learned some lessons, no more ultra-violence, no more being oblivious to the fact that there was another person who is different from me involved in this relationship. It was an important lesson, and a lesson that I continue to learn after nearly two decades of togetherness.
We have now both learned that we like different things. I don't make her watch Game of Thrones and she doesn't make me watch Nicholas Sparks movies, it's just better that way, it doesn't mean we're not compatible, we're just not like that poor creature on Star Trek who had to form herself into whatever someone else wanted her to be. When we do agree on things, it makes it all that much sweeter to be able to enjoy something from our different perspective.
Diversity in an ecosystem generally means that the system is more stable, more resistant to disease, more able to absorb trauma and maintain it's health, I think that holds true for families as well.
Happy First-Date-a-versary Michele.
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Official Confession
The 222nd General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA) just voted to include the Confession of Belhar in our Book of Confessions. This has been in the works for almost 10 years now, because like most democratic government systems, nothing moves quickly through the denomination. I have been part of two Presbyteries that have dealt with Belhar. The first, Kiskiminetas Presbytery in Western Pennsylvania, voted to reject the recommendation of the 219th General Assembly that would have adopted the Confession nearly five years ago. There were complicated reasons for this rejection, including a general resistance of more conservative leaning Presbyteries to anything that altered or was perceived to alter the confessional standards of the denomination.
Belhar was a casualty of the culture war. It's language of inclusion and equality and it's rejection of doctrine which would further the separation and discrimination within the Body of Christ, made people who were fighting against full inclusion of LGBTQ people in the polity of the Church a little bit nervous. The argument about the Belhar Confession was a bit of an eye-opener for me, as I found myself at odds with colleagues, who up until that point had considered me "like-minded." After rising to speak in favor of Belhar, I was no longer invited to their discussions. It is, to this day, the only time I have ever stood up to speak either for or against something on the floor of a Presbytery meeting. My argument wasn't that great, I simply said that if I had to pick a side, I would rather stand with the likes of Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu and Martin Luther King Jr. in speaking for justice and equality for all of God's children. It wasn't that I was right beyond reproach, I was being admittedly emotional and committing several rhetorical sins (name dropping, false equivalency and straw man fallacy), it was rather that I felt like it wasn't even heard.
It wasn't the dialogue everyone said we should be craving, it was gotcha politics and soundbites, spouting of dogma and rhetorical jousting. I wasn't even saying that Belhar was as good as I now think it is, I was just willing to say that we need to say something, we needed to have a dog in the fight. That moment is also what I would consider the breaking point, where I realized that too many people were willing to split the child in half in order to win the argument. How could we turn away from a statement of racial reconciliation that we, as a nation, need as much as South Africa? Were we that afraid of the "homosexual issue?" Were we that closed off to speaking a new word? Were we that broken?
Belhar did not die with that vote though. The 220th General Assembly sent it back for study, which means they kept it on the table. 221 then recommended it for adoption again and this time around the Presbyteries, including the one I currently serve, enthusiastically adopted it. Thanks in no small part to the fact that the LGBTQ issues that had been such a divisive factor in 2010, are no longer an open question, and many of those offended by the moves we have made towards inclusion have moved on to more "like-minded" pastures. I am trying to honestly wish them well, and hold on to the unity of the Body of Christ, but I've still got some forgiving to do. It's hard when people treat you like a heretic for trying to follow Jesus, but I guess he did warn us.
So what is the Confession of Belhar anyway? And why should anyone other than Presbyterians of the PC(USA) persuasion even care a little bit?
The Confession was a product of the Uniting Reformed Church of Southern Africa (URCSA, Presbyterians love acronyms). It was written and adopted in 1986 in the midst of Apartheid in the nation of South Africa and it is a solid piece of confessional history that represents a specifically Christian response to such an atrocity. Both Godfrey Betha, and Alan Boesak (one of the writers of Belhar) represented the URCSA at GA this year and rejoiced that an American Reformed denomination has finally joined with them in this Confession.
Our cultural addiction to bigotry and racism has reached a critical point, and I think that we need an intervention. The Confession of Belhar is sort of like a 12 step program for institutional racism. The URCSA is sort of like our AA sponsor, they are giving us the benefit of thirty years of sobriety, which they began in an era when their own government was still actively maintaining the system of Apartheid. Too often white churches (which the PC(USA) definitely is) have been complicit in the perpetuation of those sorts of systemic injustices. When we call this a Confession, there is a very real sense in which we can mean it in both senses of the word: a statement of faith, and a statement of repentance for our sins. Racism is not a by gone problem or an issue that has been adequately resolved in our own nation. We trumpet the Barmen Declaration because it was written against the Nazis, and we all know what bad guys they were. But it is too safe to shout at the dead dragons of history, it is much more dangerous and necessary to speak into the face of living, breathing evil.
The Confession of Belhar does that, and even if nobody else really cares, I'm actually proud of General Assembly on this day, so I'm gonna hold on to that feeling.
If you missed the link above, please read the Confession of Belhar right here.
Belhar was a casualty of the culture war. It's language of inclusion and equality and it's rejection of doctrine which would further the separation and discrimination within the Body of Christ, made people who were fighting against full inclusion of LGBTQ people in the polity of the Church a little bit nervous. The argument about the Belhar Confession was a bit of an eye-opener for me, as I found myself at odds with colleagues, who up until that point had considered me "like-minded." After rising to speak in favor of Belhar, I was no longer invited to their discussions. It is, to this day, the only time I have ever stood up to speak either for or against something on the floor of a Presbytery meeting. My argument wasn't that great, I simply said that if I had to pick a side, I would rather stand with the likes of Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu and Martin Luther King Jr. in speaking for justice and equality for all of God's children. It wasn't that I was right beyond reproach, I was being admittedly emotional and committing several rhetorical sins (name dropping, false equivalency and straw man fallacy), it was rather that I felt like it wasn't even heard.
It wasn't the dialogue everyone said we should be craving, it was gotcha politics and soundbites, spouting of dogma and rhetorical jousting. I wasn't even saying that Belhar was as good as I now think it is, I was just willing to say that we need to say something, we needed to have a dog in the fight. That moment is also what I would consider the breaking point, where I realized that too many people were willing to split the child in half in order to win the argument. How could we turn away from a statement of racial reconciliation that we, as a nation, need as much as South Africa? Were we that afraid of the "homosexual issue?" Were we that closed off to speaking a new word? Were we that broken?
Belhar did not die with that vote though. The 220th General Assembly sent it back for study, which means they kept it on the table. 221 then recommended it for adoption again and this time around the Presbyteries, including the one I currently serve, enthusiastically adopted it. Thanks in no small part to the fact that the LGBTQ issues that had been such a divisive factor in 2010, are no longer an open question, and many of those offended by the moves we have made towards inclusion have moved on to more "like-minded" pastures. I am trying to honestly wish them well, and hold on to the unity of the Body of Christ, but I've still got some forgiving to do. It's hard when people treat you like a heretic for trying to follow Jesus, but I guess he did warn us.
So what is the Confession of Belhar anyway? And why should anyone other than Presbyterians of the PC(USA) persuasion even care a little bit?
The Confession was a product of the Uniting Reformed Church of Southern Africa (URCSA, Presbyterians love acronyms). It was written and adopted in 1986 in the midst of Apartheid in the nation of South Africa and it is a solid piece of confessional history that represents a specifically Christian response to such an atrocity. Both Godfrey Betha, and Alan Boesak (one of the writers of Belhar) represented the URCSA at GA this year and rejoiced that an American Reformed denomination has finally joined with them in this Confession.
Our cultural addiction to bigotry and racism has reached a critical point, and I think that we need an intervention. The Confession of Belhar is sort of like a 12 step program for institutional racism. The URCSA is sort of like our AA sponsor, they are giving us the benefit of thirty years of sobriety, which they began in an era when their own government was still actively maintaining the system of Apartheid. Too often white churches (which the PC(USA) definitely is) have been complicit in the perpetuation of those sorts of systemic injustices. When we call this a Confession, there is a very real sense in which we can mean it in both senses of the word: a statement of faith, and a statement of repentance for our sins. Racism is not a by gone problem or an issue that has been adequately resolved in our own nation. We trumpet the Barmen Declaration because it was written against the Nazis, and we all know what bad guys they were. But it is too safe to shout at the dead dragons of history, it is much more dangerous and necessary to speak into the face of living, breathing evil.
The Confession of Belhar does that, and even if nobody else really cares, I'm actually proud of General Assembly on this day, so I'm gonna hold on to that feeling.
If you missed the link above, please read the Confession of Belhar right here.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Phase II
Prophetic thinking is the capacity for healthy self-criticism, the ability to recognize your own dark side, as the prophets did for Israel. Without failure, suffering, and shadowboxing, most people (and most of religion) never move beyond narcissism and tribal thinking (egoism extended to the group). This has been most of human history up to now, which is why war has been the norm. But healthy self-criticism helps you realize you are not that good and neither is your group. It begins to break down either/or, dualistic thinking as you realize all things are both good and bad. This makes all idolatry, and all the delusions that go with it, impossible.
-Richard Rohr, Daily Devotion 6-22-2016
Adapted from Falling Upward, A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life
When I was 20, I honestly had a hard time imagining that I would live to be as old as I am now. Twenty year old me would have found this very scene preposterous: sitting in my comfortable office at the church where I serve as a pastor, where I get up in front of crowds of people and talk about God and stuff, where it is my job to comfort people who are hurting and challenge people to live with a higher awareness of God's purpose in their lives, where it is my job to deal with the weekly (daily) task of exegesis of the text of Scripture and of the life of my congregation. But perhaps more than any of that, 20 year old Mark would have a hard time fathoming the 12 year old boy sitting on the couch playing video games and waiting for me to take him to robotics camp. 20 year old Mark wasn't really interested in having kids, in fact, I would say he was probably considered it to be a fate worse than death, which is why he figured he would probably kick off at around 30 rather than become a father for the second time in two years. 20 year old me didn't know what it was like to lose people you thought would always be around. 20 year old me didn't have any idea what sort of tragedy lurks out there in the world. And yet 20 year old me was a pretty pessimistic and angry young man for some reason, with very little hope for the future.
Twenty year old me had never thought of shadowboxing as a spiritual practice.
Twenty year old me was extremely dualistic.
Twenty year old me was incapable of recognizing let alone being challenged in his own idolatry.
Fortunately, I hope, that young man had a chance to grow up. Thanks to that process, this 41 year old man recognizes, as he peeks over the horizon into middle age, that the process of growth is not always easy, but it is always necessary.
I suppose, if I accept that I'm hitting the transition between first and second halves of life that Rohr is describing, I'm somewhere in the prophetic movement of life, having left the dualism and strictures of the law somewhere in the rear-view mirror. Hopefully I learned those lessons well enough that I can remain a dependable citizen of life while not becoming too rigid. I feel that's where I am, having escaped the conservatism of my youth, which for me was far too rooted in anger and self-righteousness, I have been trying to live and preach a message of grace consistently.
I'm not always sure I'm being prophetic, but I do know that the shift angered some of the people who liked me the way I was, and that probably is evidence of some sort. I feel like being a prophet is more about having questions than answers. I'm pretty sure I have not yet become wise, although I aspire to that someday. Someday I want to be like Eugene Peterson, who just sort of oozes the wisdom of a long obedience in the same direction, and whom I blatantly plagiarize, or Richard Rohr, who afflicts me daily with these devotions that challenge the very foundations of the idols that I apparently still have.
The thing is though, even though I recognize how far I have come in two decades, the main thing that I attribute that growth to is a simple awareness that I am utterly over-matched in almost everything I do. But the remarkable truth that I have come to see is that failure teaches us more and helps us grow faster than success.
So maybe that's where this absurd feeling of hope that I have been having lately comes from. I am looking around at the world, at our church, at our nation, at all the really horrible things that are going on, from Donald Trump to the crisis in the Middle East, and I am thinking that perhaps, as Paul said, these are just the birth pangs. What if our entire world is stuck in the place where I was personally at twenty? Dualistic, idolatrous, violent, angry, hopeless, and what if all of that has to fail in order for something new to be born?
What if the next adaptation in the evolution of our species is not some physical mutation that gives us greater brain size or fewer digits or whatever. What if our next step is a spiritual step? Isn't that essentially what Christ taught us? The way of the cross, moving beyond the small, legalistic categories that constantly lead to conflict and wars, moving beyond self-interest into something called love.
It seems impossible, or at the very best unlikely, that we will ever collectively make such a jump, but then again, me being the father of a 12 year old seemed the same way twenty years ago, and we have so much more time, and God never stops creating.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Cleveland Rocks, Finally.
Every once in a while sports catches me caring about something I didn't know I cared about. Like, for instance, Lebron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers. Last night Lebron led the Cavaliers and the entire City of Cleveland, indeed perhaps the whole northeast corner of Ohio, out of the shadowlands of sports purgatory and into the glorious light of Championship.
Cleveland's sports woes are well chronicled: The Drive by John Elway, The Fumble by Ernest Byner, Michael Jordan stealing Craig Ehlo's face and perhaps even devouring his soul, the actual departure of the Browns to Baltimore, pretty much everything the Indians have ever done, and perhaps most acrid of all: native son Lebron James' own announcement that he would be "taking his talents to South Beach." Cleveland is the poster child for the rust belt and the punchline of jokes about futility. It is Detroit without the tragedy and violence. The thing that really probably stung the most about Cleveland sports is how close they came so many times. It wasn't that they were mired in perpetual losing, the Cavaliers made the finals a few times and lost, the Browns were int he AFC championship games, the Indians probably made the playoffs once or twice, and they did actually get a really funny movie (Major League) made about how pathetic they actually were.
As Philly phan, I can sort of feel Cleveland's pain (four NFC championship games in a row and one Super Bowl loss, can certainly make you forget about all the winning that Andy Reid and Donovan McNabb's Iggles did in the first decade of the new millennium). So last night, after I watched Game of Thrones, I clicked on over to game seven and watched Lebron's Cavaliers complete an unprecedented comeback from a 3-1 series deficit and actually become NBA champions. In the process they defeated the defending champion Golden State Warriors, the new darlings of the NBA, and the harbingers of the future of the league. They beat a team that had only lost nine regular season games four times, including the last three in a row, while facing elimination. Lebron was not Michael Jordan in these games either, he didn't drop 60 points a night and dominate like some sort of mythical basketball god. He played hard though, and he made his teammates better. He defended like a demon, he passed like point guard and he fought for everything, even as he seemed to be battling for his scoring touch.
In the end, when he collapsed on the floor, I felt that he had earned that moment perhaps more than any athlete I can remember. It was the completion of an epic story arc. It started with him being the most talented, most sought after high school player, maybe ever. It followed with him, Akron boy, being drafted by the local Cleveland Cavaliers, and almost immediately making the team that Jordan had gutted in the 1990's relevant again. He got them close, he got them right to the brink, but he couldn't bring it home, so he left. He left like a 20 something year old, who doesn't really know how to go about things. He went to someplace warm and cosmopolitan, a place that is pretty much the antithesis of Cleveland, Miami. Cleveland mourned and burned his jersey, but deep in their heart they knew why he left. Most of them would probably have left too given the chance. In Miami Lebron assembled his super team, there he won, there he gloated, and there he decided he had unfinished business in Cleveland.
When he came back two years ago, he was a savior and all was forgiven, instantly, without a second glance. It would have been a perfect thing to have won last year, he bootstrapped a young, incoherent team into the finals and ran into the three point shooting buzz saw of the Golden State Warriors. His two main supporting players were down and out, and he couldn't quite muscle through the team that has proven to be this year, until last night, an absolute force of nature. I didn't really blame him, and neither did Cleveland, even though the sports writers were pronouncing the demise of Lebron James as a force in the game. If you really paid attention, you would know that the story of him riding back to Cleveland to an instant championship was not really how it goes for that city. It just wouldn't have been right. It would have been too easy. It wouldn't have been right for someone else to take out the Warriors either. Just like Jordan needed to slay the dragon of the Detroit Pistons, Lebron needed to fend off the challenge of Stephen Curry. Cleveland needed to wear its heart on the outside of its body for a week as the Cavs fended off elimination three times in a row. They were the underdogs, which is what Cleveland must be. It was not a fluke that they had to come back from a deficit, it was not a fluke that they were locked up at 89 coming down to the final seconds of game 7, it was not a fluke that Lebron had to fly in with a desperate block on Steph Curry and then crash to the floor after a missed dunk, leaving him clutching his arm and Cleveland holding its breath 2500 miles away, it was exactly as it should be that he winced his way through making one of two free throws to mostly seal the deal, it was absolutely right that the deal never really seemed sealed until the game clock went red. It was all, well, not perfect, but it was exactly what had to happen for Cleveland.
Cleveland's sports woes are well chronicled: The Drive by John Elway, The Fumble by Ernest Byner, Michael Jordan stealing Craig Ehlo's face and perhaps even devouring his soul, the actual departure of the Browns to Baltimore, pretty much everything the Indians have ever done, and perhaps most acrid of all: native son Lebron James' own announcement that he would be "taking his talents to South Beach." Cleveland is the poster child for the rust belt and the punchline of jokes about futility. It is Detroit without the tragedy and violence. The thing that really probably stung the most about Cleveland sports is how close they came so many times. It wasn't that they were mired in perpetual losing, the Cavaliers made the finals a few times and lost, the Browns were int he AFC championship games, the Indians probably made the playoffs once or twice, and they did actually get a really funny movie (Major League) made about how pathetic they actually were.
As Philly phan, I can sort of feel Cleveland's pain (four NFC championship games in a row and one Super Bowl loss, can certainly make you forget about all the winning that Andy Reid and Donovan McNabb's Iggles did in the first decade of the new millennium). So last night, after I watched Game of Thrones, I clicked on over to game seven and watched Lebron's Cavaliers complete an unprecedented comeback from a 3-1 series deficit and actually become NBA champions. In the process they defeated the defending champion Golden State Warriors, the new darlings of the NBA, and the harbingers of the future of the league. They beat a team that had only lost nine regular season games four times, including the last three in a row, while facing elimination. Lebron was not Michael Jordan in these games either, he didn't drop 60 points a night and dominate like some sort of mythical basketball god. He played hard though, and he made his teammates better. He defended like a demon, he passed like point guard and he fought for everything, even as he seemed to be battling for his scoring touch.
In the end, when he collapsed on the floor, I felt that he had earned that moment perhaps more than any athlete I can remember. It was the completion of an epic story arc. It started with him being the most talented, most sought after high school player, maybe ever. It followed with him, Akron boy, being drafted by the local Cleveland Cavaliers, and almost immediately making the team that Jordan had gutted in the 1990's relevant again. He got them close, he got them right to the brink, but he couldn't bring it home, so he left. He left like a 20 something year old, who doesn't really know how to go about things. He went to someplace warm and cosmopolitan, a place that is pretty much the antithesis of Cleveland, Miami. Cleveland mourned and burned his jersey, but deep in their heart they knew why he left. Most of them would probably have left too given the chance. In Miami Lebron assembled his super team, there he won, there he gloated, and there he decided he had unfinished business in Cleveland.
When he came back two years ago, he was a savior and all was forgiven, instantly, without a second glance. It would have been a perfect thing to have won last year, he bootstrapped a young, incoherent team into the finals and ran into the three point shooting buzz saw of the Golden State Warriors. His two main supporting players were down and out, and he couldn't quite muscle through the team that has proven to be this year, until last night, an absolute force of nature. I didn't really blame him, and neither did Cleveland, even though the sports writers were pronouncing the demise of Lebron James as a force in the game. If you really paid attention, you would know that the story of him riding back to Cleveland to an instant championship was not really how it goes for that city. It just wouldn't have been right. It would have been too easy. It wouldn't have been right for someone else to take out the Warriors either. Just like Jordan needed to slay the dragon of the Detroit Pistons, Lebron needed to fend off the challenge of Stephen Curry. Cleveland needed to wear its heart on the outside of its body for a week as the Cavs fended off elimination three times in a row. They were the underdogs, which is what Cleveland must be. It was not a fluke that they had to come back from a deficit, it was not a fluke that they were locked up at 89 coming down to the final seconds of game 7, it was not a fluke that Lebron had to fly in with a desperate block on Steph Curry and then crash to the floor after a missed dunk, leaving him clutching his arm and Cleveland holding its breath 2500 miles away, it was exactly as it should be that he winced his way through making one of two free throws to mostly seal the deal, it was absolutely right that the deal never really seemed sealed until the game clock went red. It was all, well, not perfect, but it was exactly what had to happen for Cleveland.
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