One of the versions of this week's sermon that didn't get preached

We like to take the Bible in small chunks, maybe just a verse, maybe a little more, a story, a chapter, an idea. If we’re really ambitious we may tackle a whole book of the Bible, but we take it in isolation, with no idea of how one book lends to a coherent whole. A particularly cranky Old Testament professor I once endured referred to it as “cross-stitch it on a pillow syndrome.”
But the Bible, all sixty six books written over centuries and by many human hands was inspired of one Holy Spirit, and makes one coherent whole, one narrative, one history. And Luke was quite aware of that when he told the story of a young woman and an angel and a moment that would shatter the reality we think we know.
Luke surely remembered another young woman who was visited by an angel. Like this Mary, she was an innocent, and the angel took a harmless and common enough form, enticing her to take and eat. And as Father Paul is known to say, her day did not end well. When Eve ate the apple and gave it to her husband and he ate, the very fabric of the universe was changed. Human kind had been given the power to introduce sin into perfection, and that’s exactly what they did. But in God’s love, right there in the Garden the woman was also promised the power to introduce perfection into the world of sin. That fallen angel, that serpent of old, was forewarned… the offspring of the woman would be the one to crush his head.
Luke would have known the stories of other women, young and old, women like Hannah and Sarah who had no children. Barren women are a theme in Scripture; fruitlessness attributed to the eating of that first fruit. A barren woman was unworthy, to be scorned, presumed overlooked by God. And if she should be left a widow, she had nothing. It happened that an angel visited Sarah, a promise was made, with God all things were possible. Hannah called out to God, a prayer was heard, and not one but seven children were born to her.
And it happened that in the city of Jerusalem, somewhere about 5 or 6 BC that angel visited Zechariah and promised him that his barren wife would have a child. And half a year later, another woman, not barren by physiology but having no business bearing children in her unmarried state, would learn that she, too, was to bear a son.
The Bible, you see, is like a symphony, each movement repeating its theme, each theme contributing to the whole, slowly building until that point where, with the crash of symbols (pun not intended) and the frantic hum of winds, the symphony reaches its great moment, where it all comes together, where the music makes sense.
The incarnation, in the life of the church, is that moment.
Isaiah had promised, seven hundred years before, that a young, unmarried woman would conceive and bear a child. Of course it was assumed at she’d conceive in the normal way, get married and birth babies. But how much greater when we find that a woman, engaged but quite biologically a virgin (you can doubt the Hebrew word in Isaiah means virgin, but there’s no questioning Luke’s Greek… the good doctor that St. Luke was, is pretty certain of the medical meaning of what he’s putting forth here) conceives a child by the mere power of the Holy Spirit.
And so an angel once again visited a young woman, and Mary was rightly afraid. This was no cute cuddly little cherub from some Renaissance painting, this was one “who stands in the presence of God.” This was God’s own messenger, of the ilk that carried flaming swords before the entrance to Eden and would charge forth to cast Satan out of heaven at the end of time. And here one was, right there in the room.
And there are a million reasons for Mary to run. A million reasons to say no. A million reasons. It’s a horrible time to bring a child into the world, occupied Israel, Romans everywhere. She’s betrothed to a man who knows for a fact the baby isn’t going to be his. The punishment for adultery is death by stoning, Joseph could have her publicly shamed, or even executed.
But for some reason, Mary only asks “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” And the angel tells her, your child will be the very son of God. Your child shall be holy, the Holy One himself. And just so you know my words are true, your cousin Elizabeth, who could not conceive a child, is now outgrowing her clothes with pregnancy.
Luke knows the story, how a woman known as the mother of all living saw fruit that looked pleasing and denied the will of God in favor of her own will. Now he tells the story of a woman who saw fruit that looked quite difficult indeed and answered “let be to me according to your will.” God’s will, not hers.
And the world as we fallen people know it began to unravel that day.
There is a word in Hebrew, which we usually translate “visited.” But as my favorite Hebrew professor used to say, “its not like visited for tea.” The best translation of the word is to break into the timeline and change the destiny of the one being visited. In this way, the angel visited Mary, and God visited humanity, and the destiny which began at the fall began to be changed.
And it was a terrible time to have a baby, just like every time in which every baby since the Fall had been born. The Jewish king would try to kill this baby, the Roman Emperor would send the young family on a desperate pilgrimage, the world would whisper about his paternity, even his earthly father would for a while consider ridding himself of the whole mess. He would be born in an occupied country, far from home, in a world hostile to him.
And yet, “he will be great,” says the Angel. “And he will be called the son of the Most High. And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever and of his Kingdom there will be no end.”
And, as if that were not enough, because every baby ever born is born into the same fallen world as he has emptied himself of the splendor of heaven to visit, his name shall be called Jesus.
Which means “God saves.”

Preaching on Mary this weekend...

One of the difficult things in preaching is the familiar story, the one that everyone knows so well they could recite it in Sunday School terms in their sleep so that it feels like there's nothing new to say.

One of the difficult things in preaching is to realize that when we have something "new" we think we want to say that it's usually heresy. Orthodox Christianity has been around a while and there's not much that wasn't said in the last two thousand years.

One of the difficult things in preaching is the temptation to be entertaining.

Damn. That is a problem.

And clever.

And a crafter of lovely sermon-art.

Because those things are narcissistic.

So I'm preaching on Sunday, on the BVM, aka Our Lady, aka Mother Mary. And I'm thinking of starting out with a Hebrew word and some Greek.

Which is usually just a sign that the preacher is full of herself.

But I think its cool that Jesus came to change our destiny (that's the crux of the sermon, for the curious sneak-peeker (Dave)) and that Jesus more than fulfills the prophecy about him and that his identity is clear and clearly articulated by some gentile doctor who ran around with St. Paul.

And I think its cool that angels aren't fat little babies with wings, but rather fierce. And I'm thinking of bringing my husband's grandmother's batik on silk of Gabriel who looks like he might be just a little feral. Or at least tough.

I've torn a lot of pages out of my notebook trying to figure out how to structure this thing. I like to type out ideas, but I'm changing my note style for a season, in part because there is no pulpit at St. Elizabeth's to hide behind, or at least to hold my notes. So I'm writing this one by hand, at least for now I think I am. But percolating all these ideas into one is a rough road right now. Biblical theology is like a salad, all sorts of good stuff jumbled up together but hard (right now) to string into a sermon.

Part of it is that the people are new to me still. And part may be that I'm not preaching as often as I was in previous parishes. And part of it is that I think I have lost the overinflated estimation I once had of my own preaching. Rats. It was fun thinking I was good.

On Poverty and Charity

"Some people wonder why we don’t take care of our own poor first. Why send money and resources half way around the world when we have poor people living in our own communities? Here is the simple answer: America does not have poverty. Compared to the poverty in Africa, Asia and South America, what we call the American poor are actually people, for the most part, enjoying a quality of life superior to the middle class in much of the rest of the world.

According to the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and the CIA Fact Book average per capita income differs greatly between the United States and much of the Third World. In Kenya, for example, the average person lives on $775 per year. The average American lives on $47,184 per year."

Please go read the rest over on my friend Fr. Scott's blog.

People say "charity begins at home." But friends, what happens at home is self-service. True charity is reaching out a little further, a little care for strangers or even (oh the thought of it!) for an enemy. There is no faceless, distant "other" in the eyes of our God. Thanks, Scott, for telling it like it is.

On "Ignorance"

A friend of mine posted this article on the Kentucky congregation which will not allow membership for interracial couples. She wasn't the only one to post this to Facebook today, apparently a lot of people are shocked and appalled and want to tell the world via Facebook. Fine. But this particular friend was perhaps the most interesting person to post the article, as she is a Korean adoptee to Caucasian parents now married to a Caucasian husband and raising two adorable Korean kids. So she knows she's got a horse in this race. No problem.

I read the article. I have several horses in this race too. My youngest, as most of you know, is adopted from Korea. Our family is of mixed ethnic heritage. My kids may grow up to marry someone of another race or not, but either my youngest marries transracially or I get a Korean daughter-in-law some day. Either way is fine, but you know how folks will talk!

I read the article, and I saw in it people I know. My own grandmother, the only time I ever heard the infamous "N-word" used in actual person to person conversation, freaked out at the idea of interracial marriage. She'd been born and bred in those same Kentucky mountains, but a few decades out of those hills didn't change her ideas about interracial marriage. She wasn't being mean, she wasn't being hateful, but boy the idea rocked her world.

I posted a response to my friend on Facebook saying, "I understand this... not saying its right, but I understand. Culturally these Kentucky mountain pockets are very clan-oriented. They come out of the Scottish highlands a few hundred years ago and have been isolated and inward looking ever since. Outsiders come to be seen as a threat to their culture. They're not hateful people but their worlds are very closed. My grandmother was dead set against interracial marriage, even decades after she moved out of those mountains. Add to that the idea that they come from a tradition that takes the Bible as word-for-word literal without demanding interpretation within context (both narrative and historical context) and that early on God tells the Hebrew people not to marry outside their race.... of course he told them that because to do so was to marry outside the faith (which the church still discourages for obvious reasons) at the risk of introducing foreign gods to Israel. When Jesus came for all people, this idea of race shifted radically, but these folks don't realize that. They want to do the right thing, they just have no idea what that is. You or I would probably genuinely like some of these people, they just wouldn't have the tools for understanding us and our families."

In other words, we may not agree with this, but we do need to understand what motivates the idea. We can't communicate with people if we just label them ignorant and backwards, as so many people were doing in the Facebook marketplace. Someone else wrote back that the problem wasn't racism so much as bad theology, and on that I agree.

But I was shocked that others responded to this by stamping feet, calling people ignorant and declaring the "rationalization" of this behavior to be wrong and equally ignorant. I had thought that the root of ignorance is having the information available and choosing to ignore it, and ignorance here seems to fall to those who are told that this is why a small group of people is behaving in this way but choose instead to label that group as somehow less than themselves.

Members of my own family, a mere generation ago, would have agreed with this, not because they were ignorant, but because they simply did not have all the data available to them. And yet they would be called ignorant by those who do have the data today. They would be called hateful too, although these same people would give anyone of any race the very shirt off their backs. There's a deep hospitality in those mountains, very little hate for the stranger (though the nosy neighbor and those who would trespass on perceived privacy and rights best watch their back) in those hills. Its not hate, just clan behavior. But there's also a deep spirituality, not of ignorance but of devotion. Unfortunately its a spirituality that's fallen prey to some of the worst teaching in Christendom.

This is the problem of much of Protestantism, the idea that we're all theologians, me and my Jesus, and there's no canon for measuring the good theology from the bad. But the thing about Christianity is that we recognize that we have problems and that these who have been so poorly taught are not to be scorned but loved, they are our brothers. Jesus died for such as these. The same is true when we look at Christians of other races, Christians who hold to differing opinions, Christians of other nationalities.

To cast off a brother as "ignorant" and "intolerant" without attempting to understand the root of the error, to walk a mile or two in their shoes, is, in the Christian way of thinking, to do unto others exactly what we accuse them of doing. And to watch it happen is utterly, shockingly, horrifying.

China Boycott, year two, day one.....

Thus begins my "Black Friday" to Christmas boycott of everything made in China, for the second year. I strongly encourage you all to participate in this! Last year resulted in fewer gifts, but all thought out, fun to give and interesting, elegant offerings. It made sense, to think about what we're doing, do less of it, and offer gifts to our loved ones which reflect our love for them rather than expressing our credit limits.

I drove by the local WalMart on the way back to my mother's house from my inlaws' Thanksgiving dinner. We'd stayed late at auntie-in-law's house (because my inlaws are frankly too much fun for words; these folks should have to come with a warning label) and as we drove by the WalMart parking lot at almost 11:00 pm on Thanksgiving we could see that the lot was already full, not just crowded or busy but space by space from close to the farthest corner of the concrete jungle, full. Full of people mindlessly giving up a relaxing family time, replete and mellow with dinner's afterglow, whose families are obviously not fun enough to wear warning labels in their estimation, who failed to take the time to enjoy one another. Full of people mindlessly looking for deals, submitting to marketing, being flooded with Christmas mutations that scream over stuff. Full of people pouring dollars into China, forced abortions, environmental sabotage, sweatshops, and abused North Korean refugees, in order to buy cheap plastic junk that will collect dust until it breaks and joins the rest of the holiday hoorah in the local landfills. Greedy people encouraging greedy industry at every level.

Whatever your political drum, mindless merchandise is societal death. It brings out the worst in us.

Will I shop today? probably not. But I might venture out. My mother has found a small local shopkeeper, a candle seller here in Knoxville, who expressed to her in casual conversation that she's no longer carrying merchandise made in China. I don't know about buying anything, but I think we may venture over. I'd like to meet her. Thank her. And if the product suits, I might even financially support her courage by buying a few appropriate gifts there.

Other gifts, for those of you who would like to follow in my tracks from last year, have come from the Hunger Site for lovely gifts that give back and Shepherd's Flock a locally grown business where you can actually get to know the people who make the things that keep your toes and ears warm.

So happy hunting. Enjoy the sport of it. Give gifts that give back. Think about those you love. And glorify God in the giving. Anything less is not worthy of the joy and mystery of the Christmas that's coming.

Miles to go before we sleep....

Well, we're taking our show on the road again. They say that in England a hundred miles is a long way and in America a hundred years is a long time. Very well. A hundred miles doesn't seem like much to the American road-tripper, but oh five hundred miles in a station wagon with three kids sure does wear thin. I dread the trip, I complained about it before we were even a hundred miles from home. I got bored, and I got silly. I'll spare you the video I made as we were headding down the endless highway.

There's nothing like a good old American road trip to remind us how big our world is. We may say the world is getting smaller, with our cars, computers and jet airplanes, but slowed down to daily life, we see very little of the world. Our scope is so limited. Slowed down to the speed of a walk, a horse, we're small indeed.

Anyway, I dread the ride back. I'll likely get bored. But for now here I am. And maybe I'll figure some great cosmic truth out on the way home.

Or maybe I'll just go out of my mind with boredom and start watching the kids' cartoons on my iPod and let them fend for themselves. They're strapped down back there; how much damage can they possibly do?

(Don't answer that!)

Pleasant Surprises

I had forgotten; church planting is all about surprises. Some of them not so pleasant, like the police showing up at Edgeworth one fateful night or the multitude of forgotten items that are not where they're supposed to be when they're needed. Those surprises are somehow more easily remembered, they're the stuff of stories. And when the parish is ten years old, they're told at reunions and celebrations over bad parish coffee in the undercroft. But the pleasant surprises fade too quickly and need more to be recorded.

Today we had a visit from Dave (aka OlDave who kindly comments from time to time) and from a friend of the organist who had poked his head in at the old place a few times in recent weeks. I had felt that we weren't ready for guests, we hadn't gotten our liturgical space down quite and things still went bump at the altar. I'd been reluctant to invite folks because we weren't polished.

Too many years in theater in my misspent youth.

Worship isn't a show. It isn't going to be polished. Its about us coming before God's altar to be polished up. And its pride which stands between us and inviting friends to church, almost always.

And I had forgotten that until guests did show up. And no, things weren't polished (one of the -- brand spankin' new first time we'd managed to get candles on the altar ever -- candles almost made more of a light than we had intended (thanks we think to a localized draft from the main doors) and there's still that typo in the service book that I keep forgetting to mention to the rector, and I'm sure any number of other blips that mean nothing to God. The bigger blips are in us, not things that just happen.

Anyway, I guess that means the parish is open for business... we're not hanging out a sign just yet, but if you want directions, you know how to ask. :)

Veterans' Day, Prosperity, and Just Not Getting It.

We get told a lot that we should support our troops. And I'm on board with that. But as a GenX American, I don't have any clue about how supporting our troops is accomplished. It doesn't seem to me that waving our flag and rah-rah'ing America supports much of anybody except our self-congratulatory self-esteem, self-serving feelings.

Everyone's pretty clear that hollering "bring them home" isn't support, although I'm pretty firmly convinced that wasting their lives in foolish wars is neither supporting them nor preparing our country in the event a not-so-foolish war breaks into our common life. But in an all volunteer army, I can see how shouting "bring them home" is almost insulting, how it says to the manliest men America has that they're not able to figure out what is a wise use of their lifeblood and what is a fools errand.

In wars of old the people rationed stuff. Maybe that's part of the problem. We have too much stuff. Civilians don't have to sacrifice for our troops. And it is all too clear to those who are risking and sacrificing daily that we wouldn't, as a nation, be willing to sacrifice. We're glad to have a military class go off and sacrifice, we have people to do that, daaaahling.

Yellow Ribbon Girls are a sweet organization that sends useful stuff to soldiers, like sunscreen and snacks and encouraging letters. I guess that is support and I'm sure its appreciated. But it seems kind of paltry compared to the Greatest Generation's war rations and rubber drives and so forth. And how many people have even heard of the Yellow Ribbon Girls? Yeah. Figured.

I don't know. I think its cool that we have an all volunteer military. I don't believe that countries that can't muster an army without coersion have any business going to war. A volunteer army is a passionate army and that's the stuff real leadership is made of.

But I don't believe that most of the wars we fight are just wars or even "protecting our way of life" these days. Our leaders seem to expend life foolishly, though I admit that they know much that I don't know. I know I would never have sent men off to fight and die in Korea, if I'd been alive in the Fifties, but I also know in that hindsight that's 20/20 that the US Alliance with South Korea bore tremendous fruit on that penninsula (and my youngest kiddo is part of that fruit).

I do have little patience with the icon going around facebook right now that says "Thanksgiving is a day when we pause to give thanks for what we have; Veterans' Day is a day when we pause to give thanks to the people who fought for the things we have." Way to trivialize our lives to our stuff. I hope nobody ever feels called to fight and die for my "things."

I'll admit, I don't say the Pledge or wave the flag. I have one allegiance and my earthly country isn't it. But I do think we can do a heck of a lot better as Christians in loving the people who are called to the military life; men who feel the need to put their lives on the line (whether we think foolishly or not) for the sake of others. But I look around me and I see a bunch of people who wag flags around (and make them into such things as shirts and swimsuits... is patriotism really about wearing your flag on your butt?? That makes no sense to me!) and hoot and holler but sacrifice nothing and love little.

And frankly, I just don't get it.

Begin-againdings

I am one of those unfortunate souls who rather likes to let everything pile up on my desk until it becomes such an overwhelming mess that I knock the whole thing into the trash bin and start over. I said to my husband tonight, wouldn't it be nice to throw out everything we own and start again? Partly that's because I have that intuitive perceiver personality type that just goes with the moment until the moment arrives that things have gotten out of control. Partly its due to my personal value for running life lean enough to turn on a dime. I'm not good at it (as my body shape and house clutter both attest) but I value it.

Its rare, in life, that you get the opportunity to knock everything off the table and start over. A major move, perhaps, but that's about all I can think of. And since throwing out the baby with the bathwater is patently unhealthy, I suppose its right that the opportunity be rare.

But that is, vocationally, what a friend and I have done. Sunday was our last Sunday in an established church, one with a real roof and floor, a mailing address and place to keep our stuff. After years of telling the congregation that they had to be willing to let the building and all its contents go, we did just that. We dared to walk away. We now store the entire inventory of our congregation's stuff in a box under the table in my hallway.

Its been ten years since I lived this lifestyle, passing off 'the mobile sacristy' from one car to another, making checklists of what needed to be in 'the box' each week, forgetting things and making do, watching after one another in the event the forgotten stuff wasn't mine, doing all the weird tasks of the church because there's not yet someone who likes to do the behind the scenes stuff like baking bread and buying wine (although we have a lady who washes the linens, may God grant her many years).

But its easier this time, in some ways. There's no mother church to split our time with (though I wouldn't trade the years at Grace in both places for anything). There's heat and light (though Grace in the Mausoleum was utterly wonderous beyond words). But I feel, without that mother church, profoundly that we're on our own out there. Its just us and our meager gifts and the grace of God. And I tend to see the grace of God as if through the wrong end of a telescope, sometimes, as further away and smaller than reality would indicate.

Its different and kind of free-floating. I've served a couple of parishes that spoil their clergy, picking up after me as I go along. There's no one to pick up after me here.

But everythings is fresh and new. I'm good at beginnings. Its endings that I don't do so well. I resonate well with a God who makes all things new.

Anyway, that's the long way of saying, wish us luck. We're church planters again. And that's kind of groovy.

Eastern Orthodox News: Quick Someone Get That Man a Terrible Towel

Found here!

Appointment humbles new Orthodox bishop

Saturday, November 05, 2011

By Ann Rodgers, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette


A tech-savvy scholar and commentator on popular culture has been elected metropolitan bishop of the Greek Orthodox Metropolis of Pittsburgh.

Bishop Savas of Troas, a 54-year-old native of Gary, Ind., will succeed Metropolitan Maximos, who resigned Sept. 1 for health reasons after 32 years as bishop.

"I'm humbled. It's a very big thing to be entrusted with a metropolis, but especially to follow in the footsteps of such a good and holy man as Metropolitan Maximos," Metropolitan Savas said Friday.

The bishops at the Ecumenical Patriarchate in Constantinople, Turkey, elected him Thursday from atop a list of three candidates chosen by the bishops of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America.

Despite his monastic garb and Oxford University doctorate, he said, "I'm from a steel town in Indiana, so I have an affinity for places like Pittsburgh."

He offered to forsake his NFL team in New York, citing the presence of Steelers defensive back Troy Polamalu.

Welcome to Pittsburgh Metropolitan Savas.

Diocesan Convention

This morning the diocese of Pittsburgh welcomed 21 new parishes, missions, and mission in formation congregations. More of them are beyond the "Burgh" than local, and it must be an overwhelming thing to meet with the "beyond the Burgh" district caucuses. Pittsburgh is everywhere, and with tipping our balance a little outside the local Pittsburgh village, everywhere is coming to be Pittsburgh.

We got the first peep of a church that will be leaving us to be joining their own diocese, and by this time next year we may be bidding them fare-well. And as mutterings come to fruition, I expect more church plants to be accepted next year.

On the legislative front, the convention is, as was said of last year's event, 'boring.' But relationally, dynamically, in our character and fellowship, we're anything but boring. I spent lunch today with Pittsburgh leaders from California and Wisconsin, break with Springield, MO. We're raising up churches (and therefore deacons) from coast to coast. And we're faced with how to export our resources and successes and grow because of who and what are being imported, however temporarily.

It is cool to be in Pittsburgh.

Taking one for the team

My son plays flag football. He's fourteen, fast and agile. Not much of a real football player type, but he's a good flag puller. The top six teams are in the play-offs tomorrow, and fifth place Allison Park is on the field bright and early.

And in the last few minutes of the last practice, guess who got smacked in the face, hard, against another player's shoulder. He's being good natured about it, but he's got a good sized knot and is guaranteed a bruise to match by morning. He does not want to play tomorrow morning.

But he's going.
He's going so his teammates can see that he's okay. He got hit hard and an injured teammate is bad for morale. They need to know he's fine.
He is going so that he can be there for his team. If he'd broken both legs, he'd still be going. They need to know he's there for them.
He is going so that the teammate he collided with can see that there are no hard feelings. They'll see each other in class on Monday, but sooner is always better for such things.
He's going, hopefully, to play in the tournament. He needs to know that he's not as injured as he feels and that he can shake it off with the best of them.

So my young'un is going to play football tomorrow, with a bruised up face, and hopefullly a black belt attitude. He's probably still going to have that bruise a week later when he competes in a martial arts tournament.

And whether he brings home a trophy or not, once that bruise fades, he'll have lasting reminders in who he is becoming, how he handles crisis, and how he remembers to put a team first.

And it seems that is a good lesson for the adults around him, too. In crisis, turmoil, on the rough waters the church is sailing, every man for himself is a doomed philosophy. But catholicity, unity, the things the church is to be, will make us better through and in response to the adversity, once all is said and done.

Fifteen authors, for good or ill

There's this thing going around on Facebook... its been there for ages, where you are supposed to take no more than fifteen minutes to list the fifteen authors you find most influential. I thought I'd bring this over here, though, because I like the question and want to spend a little more time with the idea, not just making a list but thinking about why. So here's my list:

1. John the Evangelist-- I think it would be cheating to say "the Bible" or to list other biblical writers in the next fourteen spaces, so I'm boiling down the expected Bible entry to just this one. Why John? Well, because with John (who I firmly believe is the writer of not only the Gospel, but also the Epistles and Revelation, modern scholars can say what they like to the contrary, but I don't buy it) its not just about his content but about the way the mind is shaped to soar to new heights in theologically shaped devotion. The language of John is rich and lush and vibrant, just like the whole incarnation and resurrection, kingdom and creation that John spreads out at our feet.
2. Ephrem the Syrian-- his poem "On the Death of a Deacon" defines the order of deacons, a fourth century voice every deacon should hear. I know, that's the least of Ephrem's wonderous written works, but for me, its everything.
3. Victor Hugo-- unabridged, thank you. Les Miserables is almost cliche, but the full version of Hunchback of Notre Dame is hautning and deep and, well, miserable. I was so offended when Disney sank their claws into Hugo's work.
4. Thomas Hardy-- Similar reasons, only the Jude the Obscure, Mayor of Casterbridge... Hardy plumbs the depth of human desperation
5. Gustav Flaubert-- because Madame Bovary taught me, when I was only seventeen, that our own problems always seem huge in our own eyes and maybe it is a bad plan to idealize what we think other people have.
6. Elisabeth Fiorenza-- Because the overly verbose waste of time that is entitled In Memory of Her that so awed my classmates, taught me to question people with PhD's and that maybe, just maybe, the biggest windbag in the room wasn't the smartest and a twenty year old undergraduate might just be able to shoot holes in the writer's argument.
7. Thomas Aquinas-- Summa Theologica, nice and all, but for me its about the hymnody.
8. Linda Sue Park-- a peek into the history and people of Korea, in story and suitable for children.
9. Cranmer-- Book of Common Prayer... 'nuff said
10. Arthur Miller-- the Crucible. My first introduction, as a high school freshman, to the meaning of the word witch hunt, the importance of going against the tide, and the possibility of mass hysteria, and how the good guys are really never all good and the bad guys never all bad.
11. Douglas Wilson-- Angels in the Architecture and a lot of good stuff on homeschooling and culture and the tools of classical education. But he also makes me scream for his uberpresbyterianism. But the word is influential, not necessarily favorite. Althought Angels in the Architecture is definitely a favorite. Everyone should read that.
12. Susan Wise Bauer and Jessie Wise-- because I bought into the classical education model. And because I've used their stuff to teach my kids. And because I wonder how or if Bauer really does have the life I dream of or if she fakes it.
13. Allen Ross- Because exegesis is beautiful, like music or painting and literal doesn't mean closed minded or ignorant and serious scholarship can be joyful.
14. Abraham Joshua Heschel and Chaiam Potok-- they share this spot because, between the two of them, Hasidism captured my imagination. And suddenly Christianity didn't have to exist in a vacuum.
15. Jodi Picoult-- I disagree vehemently with her politics, with which she infuses every single book, but she's not afraid of controversy and she sure can weave a story. I read her when my brain wants to take a little vacation.

There you have it... I wonder what this says about me. I have a few honorable mentions too:
David Mills, Saints' Guide to Knowing the Real Jesus
Simon Winchester, Korea, a Walk through the Land of Miracles
Matthew Polly, American Shaolin
Sharon Shinn's Archangel series
Heilie Lee, Still Life with Rice
Simon Weisenthal, The Sunflower

These didn't change so much how I think, but they made me think a little bigger somehow. And isn't the mark of a good book the captivity of the imagination?

Reminders of what interesting times looked like

Re-posting from Kendall Harmon.... just go read it, ye watchers of Anglicanism.

Homeschool Mom Prepares for Two Days Away....

Its an overnight, how hard is this? Throw a clean outfit and toothbrush in a bag and walk out the door. Not, definitely and profoundly not rocket science.
Except that my kids are home schooled. At vastly different grade levels. And Dad gets stuck with their pianolessonfootballpracticespanishgreekandkorean flashcardshomeschoolstudycenteronlineclasstaekwondoprojectstoemailtoteachertesttostudyfornewbooktoreadforhomeschoolgroup insanity routine. Most of which rattles around in my head and never sees its way to paper. Ever.

So I'm leaving my husband the usual two days worth of lesson plans. Writing down the plan itself is easy. We all do that. Its the sorting out of how he should record the work, where he can find the online and study center assignment sheets, and passwords for online classrooms that takes a while. I'm sure I've forgotten something. To date I have left him the following notes, all in a haphazard pile to be enjoyed tomorrow... while most wives leave little love notes I've left the following:

ALL OF ISAAC'S ASSIGNMENTS ARE IN THE WHITE NOTEBOOK. LOG HIS HOURS!!!!

(This is an easy note since Isaac is 14 and better be able to figure out his assignments for himself. Except his Art History project, which can wait until I get home. Its a necessary note though, because the white notebook is, conviently and thoughfully, otherwise totally unlabelled. Yup. It makes sense to me... it only needs to make sense to me, right? Right??)

N: FLL#63,64, S.W. two pages, Math 1 less./day, Ginger Pye, SOTW5B, VP>> EVERYTHING ELSE IS IN HIS CARS BINDER!!!

M: WORKBOOKS IN DESK, Math 1.5 less/day, Ginger Pye, S.W. two pages, 100EASYLESS#37-38

Does any of this make sense to anyone who doesn't homeschool? Its like a super secret code. I bet the Taliban is trying to crack this sucker as we speak. My world is a pile of books that only my mind ties one to the other.

And crud, I forgot to remind him to make N practice the Gettysburg Address. Daily. Ratz.

And I'm going to be behind when I get back. There's no mention above of any of their language studies, except Isaac's Spanish (in the white notebook!).

But to those readers who might homeschool it does make sense... I bet you can see exactly how my day goes from those lines of familiar initials used in internet speak so frequently you almost forget what the actual programs and titles they represent are. Add to that the Wednesday piano lesson and Tae Kwon Do lesson and the Thursday football practice and I can account for almost every significant chunk of time between when I wake the yard apes and when they're done with school. Its like a secret Homeschool Handshake... Most people ask "what do you do?" homeschoolers ask "what curriculum do you use?" "FLL/SOTW, SWB is my homie!" "Oh,yeah, us too! Are you using OPGTTR for your kindie?" "Nah, we have been using EZLESS. since the eldest learned."

Its like a blinkin' secret handshake to know which homeschool tribe you belong to. Classical, Unschool, Traditional School at Home, Online, Charolotte Mason??? Or maybe there ought to be a flow chart...

On Anger, Charity, Politics, and Sin.

A friend of mine posed the question on Facebook, why are Americans so angry at the poor? He was responding to a very well written piece found here.

I like the article, particularly the first part, because the writer articulates well the human sin behind the anger that the middle class is expressing toward the poor right now. We're angry because we guard our wealthy, basically, those treasures where moth and rust consume and thieves (and governments) break in and steal.

What the article fails to articulate is that most people are not angry at the poor directly but at the government who is taking their hard won possessions and distributing them without their consent. The poor are, more precisely, caught in the crossfire.

I remarked to my friend that: Before "entitlement" spending and welfare initiatives, the poor had faces and charity demanded love and relationship. We've taken a lot of those opportunities away with government control of welfare.

And here is where the crux of it lies. Its not in defending one's own wealth, we're supposed to give it away. What the welfare state has truly taken from the "rich" is the opportunity to give freely. When giving is forced, it becomes a begrudged burden. When giving is forced and then given to someone whose need is never truly seen by the giver, it becomes faceless and sterile. And love is lost. And relationship is lost.

Jesus said anyone can give good gifts to his friends. He's right. It is much harder to give to our enemies, strangers, the sterile, faceless need. But when we don't even have an opportunity for relationship to enter into giving, the fallen world becomes resentful and downright angry, not only at the government that takes and mandates but at the one who, often innocently, receives.

My political bias is libertarian. But I also understand that in a fallen world, libertarian becomes libertine and eventually anarchy. I know that we can't maintain a true libertarian utopia. We're too broken, and outside of the liberty of Christ's Kingdom, which comes from true unity and submission, it will never work. And so pragmatically I figure that governments will do what they will do, and rather fatalistically and cynically I figure there's not much point in political rhetoric.

But I do see a real unhealth in taking the responsibility for charity from the hands of the people. Charity should be the result of libertarian sort of giving. Taxation giving isn't giving at all, and both the modern democrats and republicans would rather take what is not their and use it for their own agendas, rather than consider how to return financial management (including giving) to the hands of the people.

Have we grown that lazy and irresponsible towards our brothers and our resources that a giant impersonal government thinks it can step in and take that responsibility from us entirely?

The Close of the Fair

The county fair is officially over! I'm thankful. Every day we've had to haul out to the fairgrounds and feed my middle child's show rabbit. Today required two trips, one to feed and one to close out the rabbit barn. I'm very glad to have the time back in my day now that the fair is done.

But its a little sad, too. I don't much care for the hoorah of a county fair, but the quiet of the day is a nice time to go visit. And the end of the fair means the end of the 4H season. While 4H drives me nuts most of the time, the kids are good kids and my kids will miss them until summer. Summer friends are interesting friends, on for a while and never with hard feelings apart for most of the year.

And I was proud of my kiddos tonight. The eldest helped the bunny club leader's husband haul rabbits and cages back and forth between barn and car, even though he's had nothing to do with bunnies all year. The youngest was the most enthusiastic cage cleaner I ever met, sweeping and chatting with the other bunny owners. He made a huge impression tonight as he cleaned cages for bunnies that weren't his own. The whole idea was for his bunny club leader, who's given so much to the kids all year, not to have to spend all night in the bunny barn.

Middle boy now wants to run a bunny kennel, so people who go on vacation can board their rabbits. Its a cool idea, since its easy to board the dog, but we always have to wrangle a friend to watch the bunnies. But mostly middle boy just likes to play with rabbits and wants to be around hundreds of them. I'm sure he envisions a booming business!

There's something neatly mature an entrepreneurial about the county fair. Its cool to see people showing their skills, winning prizes, demonstrating the talent hiding in our little corner of the world. For one week, amazing skills, not just in farming but in art and baking and whatever else lurks at county fairs, come out of the woodwork. And you know, people seem to go back in time to a kinder age. Especially during the day, when the midway is closed.

Thanks again Big Knob Fair. See you next year, I'm sure.

County Fair

My children seem set to take home a bundle (by kid standards) from the county fair. We went by today and saw all the blue ribbons on the 4H projects (mostly for lack of competition... 4H has a lot of ribbons and not always a lot of kids) and entered the usual photography for the youth open. Littlest guy entered a pumpkin. We'll see how he does, but he's the only one that did any garden weeding anyway, so I say he's the only one who has rights to enter the one thing that's ready in our garden... a almost ripe pie pumpkin.

And middle boy will be showing a rabbit on Wednesday.

There's a lot that a kid can learn from the 4H skill of showing a rabbit: how to talk to adults while handling a sqirmy little animal, how to make eye contact and enunciate, remembering to ask if there are any questions. And then there are the random facts about the animal, breed, variety, length of gestation, common diseases. He's learned a little bit about compassion (as rabbits can be fragile little fuzzy creatures) and firmness (as they try to get away when you turn them onto their backs). He now has one of his rabbits well trained to tolerate being handled and he's much more confident in the handling.

Which makes me think that county fairs are just plain good for kids. Not the hoorah and glitz of the evening, with its rides and games and noise, but the day to day goings on, judgind (winning and losing), a sense of accomplishment and presenting a product, performance, and skill.

I have to haul my bunny boy out to the fair grounds every day this week to feed that rabbit, but its worth it. He'll be cleaning the cage, and making sure the bunny is comfy and well cared for, but its mostly worth it because in the end, he's gotten to grow a bit this summer. I never knew a rabbit could help a boy become a man, but for a certain red headed nine year old, the rabbit has helped him take a step or two in that direction this year.

And one must wonder what next year will bring.

For those who want to come on out, the Big Knob Fair runs from now until Saturday. Rabbit show is Wednesday at 6:30. The kids and the bunnies are all impressive.

Serenity Prayer for Meyers Briggs Types

INFP: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to sing in the shower if there's someone else in the house, and the wisdom to, oh forget that last bit, okay, God?"

INTP: “God grant me the serenity to think of a viable plan for how to solve these problems, the courage to get the ball rolling, and the wisdom to remember what we were talking about in the first place.”

ESFP: “God, oh, hi God!  How are you today?  I was wondering, God, if you’re not too busy and all, there’s a lot of stuff in my life right now that gives me some anxiety and makes me kind of nervous about the future and there’s nothing I can do about it and all, so if you could just help me have, I don’t know, some sense of being not so worried or something.   And maybe help to stand up to some problems that, oh look a puppy! and um, what were we talking about again?  Sorry, I lost track.”

INTJ: “God, the prayer says I’m supposed to ask you to grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference, so could you do that for me?  Thanks.”

I started this in a conversation with a friend, it seemed like a fun idea to blog them out.  But being an Intuitive Perceiver, I’m feel no deep personal need to finish all sixteen types, so I’ll leave it for the reader to add on.  I think I like the first two best… but since I’m borderline between INFP and INTP, they’re the types I know best.  Write what you know, right?

Norris With Adult Eyes

Of course we took it all for granted. Growing up way out in the country, Norris was the Mecca of places to see and be seen... by other kids of course. All the cool kids lived in Norris, hung out together, walked to each other's houses, didn't ride the hideous school bus. Norris was where the kids were.

This week was the first week of school in Norris and as I came back into my old hometown with my own kids in tow, it seemed really weird that the streets were empty of kids. Probably, when the middle school let out, there were plenty of kids at the old-fashioned soda fountain, kind of Mayberry style, buying chocolate malted drinks and whatever sugary thing they could afford with their pocket money. But in the late morning when I went in for a cup of coffee, only my own were spinning on the stools.

We drove past Norris Elementary School yesterday and my husband casually remarked that he never went to school there. I did, even though it wasn't our district. I was there from first grade through fifth, before moving across the Commons to Norris Middle.

Homeschoolers are we, so off we went to the old Norris Grist Mill. Its kind of iconic, timeless, the destination of at least half a dozen school field trips in as many years that I was in Norris Elementary. My husband notes that he'd never been in the nearby museum. "That's because you didn't go to Norris Elementary," I replied. He notes that he'd never been inside the grist mill building. "That's becasue you didn't go to Norris Elementary."

I can't say I'm all that nostalgic about Norris Elementary, and my thoughts on the Midddle School are far from warm and fuzzy. (Still, Norris Middle School was in 1960 Norris High School, from which my father graduated, and he had fonder memories, I suppose.) Still, its interesting how the places and experiences of our childhoods shape us. Part of me expected to be able to walk right into those schools and still find the same teachers, and the only one to have aged would be me. But now its my friends' children who grace those halls, and some of my friends, the former students of those schools, are back as teachers. And most, though not all, of those teachers I knew are now retired. The ones that aren't retired turned out to have been surprisingly young when they were my teachers, tenured and experienced teachers who we thought had been there since the dawn of time but were really closer to the age I am now.

My husband remarked that maybe you can't go home again; but I don't think its that. You can go back to the places and see some of the same people and intuitively know how to find what you need to find. And it is the sameness that strikes you as pleasantly out of place, not the difference. The man who lived next to my grandmother still lives next to her old house, why is he still there? My same cousin still teaches at the elementary school; her great-grandson is going to be graduating from there this year, will she finally retire?

Its kind of cool how time marches in uneven phases, how some things zip ahead and some get left behind. Admittedly disturbing, but still, kind of cool.

Why It Pays to Talk to the Locals

Today we took the boys swimming at Raccoon Creek State Park.  Admittedly, that was not our first plan of action.  We had intended to rent a people-powered boat, but since there were five of us and the bigger boats were not available, we couldn’t get a boat we’d all fit in unless we got a motor-boat.  No thanks.  But we had a nice chat with the boathouse guy, about this and that, mostly about how boats have to have certain weight ratings and how those ratings have changed to account for so many obese people in the world. 

In the course of our not renting a boat the guy, whose name I don’t even know, said “keep your eyes open, not a day this week has gone by that that bald eagle hasn’t been by.”  He seemed pretty serious, not like he was trying to talk us into a boat, but that he was just saying what he’d seen.

We gave up on the boat and went down to the swimming hole so the kids could splash about some.  And I had no sooner stepped foot in the water than this big old bird of prey comes circling around the swimming area, diving first to the right of the swim area, then circling about and diving on the left.   I probably wouldn’t have paid it much mind, if it weren’t for the guy at the boathouse. 

I looked closer, and I thought I saw a flash of white as it went across the swimming area to dive in the fishing waters on the other side.  Again, it crossed, and my husband confirmed my identification.  For twenty minutes the eagle swooped and hunted fish just yards from where we stood watching.  I have never seen an eagle hunting in its natural habitat!  I may never see it again.  (Gosh, I wish I had my camera!!)  My kids stood and watched.  Several people in the swimming hole stood and watched.  But most folks missed it, or thought it was a hawk.   They hadn’t talked to the boathouse guy, I guess.

Little Girls Everlasting

Admittedly, my friend Ann is old enough to be my mother. Her son and I were born the same year. She doesn't seem to mind, and neither do I, that we're part of different generations. She thinks like an Xer, at least in the ways that are commendable.

She likes to swim, and when it suits, she will treat us to a day at the pool in her town. Its an hour's drive up, a little more than that because I take the back roads and enjoy the scenery (and inevitably get caught behind an Amish buggy along the way). I could take the interstate, but it would only save about ten or fifteen minutes. Instead, I take the way that winds past the old train station turned country store turned private home, a few farms, a state park, a train museum (with real train cars), and more cows than I care to count. My youngest moos dutiffuly at them as we pass.

We got to the water today, and we visited the kiddie pool first. In it is a giant mushroom shaped waterfall, which was turned off as we arrived. I stood under it and then realized that if it came on I was in for a dousing. My southern blood wasn't sure I wanted to be in a pool today anyway, as it wasn't agonizingly hot out, so I figured I'd best step out from under the mushroom. Not so my friend, she sought her shade under the 'shroom, and when the water came on, there she was. She dashed in and out of the water with my kids, just as delighted as they were. As I sat on the side of the pool and watched, I was sure I could see a glimpse of my friend as a ten year old girl, delighted with the water, playful and small.

My husband's grandmother once had an embroidered pillow (I don't know if it was really hers or not, as things were always coming and going for her antiques store) that said "grandmothers are antique little girls." The same grandmother had a liking for teddy bears and a sense of whimsy that defied age.

And I guess that's what I saw today. We carry our little selves with us as we grow, and if we are wise the things that delighted us then can delight us again, and let our little child emerge. And if we watch carefully we might just see that delighted child in the eyes of our adult friends. It is like a window into an inner world.

Some where in all of us is a ten year old child.

On Meyers-Briggs and Marriage

Young idealistic couples planning to get married, listen up. Sit down together and take the Meyers-Briggs and find out which one of you is a J (Judging) and which is a P (Perceiving). And if you're both J's, more power to you. But if you both happen to be P's, draw straws or vote or play Rock, Paper, Scissors and decide which one of you is going to be the J in the household. Somebody needs to be a grownup.

J's for those of you who don't know the MBTI language, are those bizarre people who keep their desks clean, finish what they start, show up on time for things and can work with a plan. P's are the rest of us. The aimless mental wanderers of the world. One of my friends is noted for saying "J's get more done, P's have more fun."

My household is what it looks like when two P's have children. Dinner time is a prime example. It is currently 5:30 PM and all the good little J mommies are making dinner for their happy little families. If I'm in the kitchen at 5:30,I'm as likely to be making play-dough as dinner... with every pot and pan and dish out and dirty, because it seemed like a good idea at the moment. Dinner gets made when someone gets hungry and makes it. Sometimes that's not until 8:00 or so, when we realize its an hour until theoretical bedtime and we ought to feed our kids. Bedtime doesn't usually happen at bedtime either, because that's when we realize they haven't done their music practices and so bedtime comes after that.

Sometimes dinner simply consists of me asking when my husband walks in the door: "What did you bring me?" And if that's groceries or pre-prepared, I'm cool with that.

My husband, theoretically, is the short-straw, the elected J of the family. He pays the bills and does the requisite griping about how I leave everything scattered about on "every flat surface in the house." Not true, the ceilings are perfectly clear. But his J-fu is not nearly as strong as my P-fu. I overcome his attempts to organize.

Not sure if this all has any point... P's don't need a point. But it was what I was thinking about at 5:30 with the kitchen torn up, non-dinner food in the oven, the husband coming in the door with a grocery bag of something, and an evening playdate in a hour. Maybe we'll eat something. Or maybe dinner IS banana bread.

Who cares, I drew the long straw.

True Confessions of a Mean Mother

I have never bought a girl scout cookie from an actual girl scout. Once upon a time, when my kids were little and only one or two of my friends had kids of scouting, schooling, selling random stuff, age, I thought I would simply require that the kids be the ones to ask me to buy something. I really don't have an easy time saying no to kids anyway.

But then the actual phone calls started coming. I failed to insist that the kids make the calls. I realized that to do so required correcting the adults. No, I'm not interested in you selling me gift wrap on behalf of your kid. So if its girl scout cookies, I buy. If not, I tend to think of a reason to just say no (or ignore an email! Email! not even a phone call) and not buy whatever some poor parent is trying to sell me. Frankly, I don't care about you kid's school fundraiser. I may care about your kid, but since your kid isn't actually the one asking me...

My kids are homeschooled, and one of the things I've always liked about it is not selling overpriced garbage that nobody needs. And so, in fourteen years of parenting, we have, this week, encountered our first peer-pressure enforced fundraiser. For 4H. Bunny Club. At least they're only selling those $1 candy bars that actually are pretty good.

Nathaniel was the one assigned with selling these things, since he's the bunny boy. My husband's first response: "I'll take them to work."

No way, no how. I love my husband, but I shut him down hard on that one. He knew I was right, too. No way were we selling those candies for our kid. He was the one who wanted to be in bunny club, he can sell the candies. I bought my obligatory parental allotment of three bars. (One for the kids to share, one for my purse, one for my desk drawer.)

The next day, I took my younger two to the local "splash pad" (a sprinkler park). Middle boy was armed (and actually eager) with his candy bars. No splashing for him until he'd worked the crowd. We set some rules (stay where I can see you, don't approach anyone with little kids nearby (we moms have to stick together and I don't want to start some kid on an "I want one" whine) and remember your manners. I watched from a distance as my little redhead chatted up every single person at the splash pad. When he came back, he had two bars left. My friend bought one, I bought the last one for his little brother. Sold out and off to splash!

My kid was so proud of himself! He had exercised a new social skill (not like this kid is lacking, he's my chatty one) and found himself successful. And while other parents may cry stranger danger, my kid had no irrational fears and was never at risk. He earned his bunny money.

And while you won't find me signing up for any fundraisers any time soon, I'm thankful I didn't rob my child of the opportunity to try on a new role and succeed. And I may still buy a box of girl scout cookies from a 45 year old mommy, but unless your kid calls me himself, you can keep your gift wrap catalogues, candies, and entertainment books.

A Poem for the Diaconate

When I die, I want one of the deacons of my diocese to read this at my funeral. I love this poem by fourth century saint Ephrem of Syria. How clearly he shows his heart, his love of the order, the ideal of the deacon's ministry. Surely he wrote this poem, in part for himself. Ephrem was bold with his poetry, even daring to tell his new bishop how to be a bishop, I read his poem "On the Death of a Deacon" as a note to himself.

But this beautiful poem is out of print, not published in any currently printed volume of Ephrem's poetry that I know of. Its not even on the internet (until now). But I wanted to share this with my deacon friends, so here it is.

On the Death of a Deacon by Ephrem the Syrian
Behold! Our member is departed
From this troubled world,
To that tranquil light;
On his departure let us pray-
That his Guide may have mercy on him!

Well disciplined in public duties
He was chaste in private life,
In gentleness and peace
He abounded toward his brethren-
Make him happy in Thy tabernacle!

His eyes were watchful
In standing before Thee:
And they wept in prayer,
And made entreaty for his sins-
May they see thy loving-kindness!

Thou didst count him worthy
To minister in thy sanctuary,
And to distribute thy body
And thy blood to thy flock-
Nourish him with thy lambs!

He was cheerful and full
Of affection to his brethren:
And his hospitality
Was fervent in its tenderness-
Number him with thy beloved ones!

He loved to proclaim
The words of thy doctrine,
And delighted to listen to
The utterances of the Spirit-
Let him hear the sound of the trumpet!

He wondered at and admired
The riches of thy oracles;
And his heart exulted
In the words of the Holy Ghost-
Unite him with thy glorified ones!

He despised worldly pleasures
And slighted ease:
Let him rest at thy table-
Let him find enjoyment in thy light-
With the upright who have loved thee!

Talking into the air

I am teaching a course this summer which has an online format. Such a strange and disconnected way to teach. I feel as if, every time I lecture, I am talking off into the air. When students emerge from the airwaves with a question, it often on a lecture I recorded days or even a couple of weeks prior and no longer in my mental context.

Technology has come a long way, but the context and the relationship still lack in an online course. I have to work twice as hard on encouraging them to talk to one another, not just to get their information from me and go home. While I long for the days when professors would actually profess something, students must feel encouraged and capable of interacting with the material, owning it, and maybe even becoming teachers themselves someday.

I don't like talking (or writing) into the air. Maybe I have a bizarre need for attention. But it is funny that the modern blogger can fulfill some of that need for attention by (often exihibitionist) blogging whether or not anyone reads or responds. (Not so for me, I would rather people respond.) And it is strange that the reader can comfortably invade those thoughts, take what he needs, and leave, without ever feeling an urge for relatioship. Sad and bizarre.

Don't get me wrong, I like that information is so readily available and geography is no longer such an obstacle. I just find the experience of it all rather, well, weird.

Talking back..

I am spending this week at Trinity School for Ministry for the Ancient Wisdom, Anglican Futures conference. As I've always been the type to talk back, there's plenty of blog fodder here. How tempting to (as I am doing right now) sit in lectures and use this space to talk back to the lecturers, to think out loud a bit, to percolate.

An unintentional theme of the conference seems to be the need to know. Its that Protestant, Enlightenment, Baptized Humanistic viewpoint that just wants to know. So we seek and ask (great stuff there) and expect that somehow our small finite minds have some hope of understanding. Two temptations then emerge, the desire to explain away what we don't understand and the subconscious humanism that believes we have, as a human family, grown in our understanding from generation to generation. The latter problem is epidemic in the west, where we value our own learning so greatly that we dismiss the African as ignorant and backwards, and quietly assume our ancestors were uneducated and underenlightened.

Across the screen this afternoon have appeared the words "the Age of Reason" in the speaker's notes. And even this common title is a symptom of the disease, for it implies that the ages before were unreasonable, underdeveloped. Enlightenment assumes a dark age, the Academy seeks to add to the body of knowledge, further our common understanding.

But in reality it is not an adding on, progress, but in fact an exchange of goods. For our modern technology we have exchanged our connection with the cycles and seasons of earth. For our knowledge of facts and figures, sciences and such, we have exchanged our comfort with mystery and true magic. And we come to assume that cycles and rhythms, magic and mystery are primative, that these are not things we need.

But the life of the church shows otherwise. A rationalized faith is one that is just as easily rationalized away. When we let our opposition set the rules, we are destined to lose the game; yet we consistently allow the world, the secular culture, humanism and darwinism and rationalism set the rules. And in doing so we lose the magic, we strip away the mystery. And when we have done so, we are reduced to pointless rationalization or empty emotionalism, and the heart is separated from the head.

But the point of mystery is to unite the rational mind and the emotional heart. To experience something with the senses that can be explained only partly to the mind, to be consumed in a sense of "wonder and radical amazement" (to borrow the words of Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel). For we cannot begin to understand the infinite without also beginning to understand that we are finite. We cannot rationalize the mystery, the creation of our God, because it is bigger than we are, always expanding, growing faster than our own minds can catch. How much less can we control the Creator, who was and is and is to come.

We do theology in community, but even the "hive mind" cannot fully grasp the mystery. This is what we signed on for, something bigger than ourselves.

Pentecost Sermon

This turned out to be a much better sermon in the study than in the pulpit (bummer) but here it is. Win some, lose some I guess.

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I like to shop down at the Korean grocery store in Oakland. It’s a little mom and pop shop that does most of its business selling ramen noodles to college students and niche market ingredients to Asian immigrants. Only once have I ever seen another non-Asian customer in that store. And the first time you go in, it’s intimidating. All the labels are in Korean or Japanese, some have an English translation on the package, some don’t. I once bought something there that looked tasty and got it home to realize I had no idea how to prepare it. The little line drawings that substituted for non-Korean instructions didn’t help.
The owners are first generation immigrants, and while they speak English passably well, some days are clearly better than others. On any given occasion, I’ve heard Korean rattled off joyfully between shopkeeper and customer, but I am often greeted with a friendly silence as I bring my items to the register. Of course, their English is far better than my Korean, but usually I try out my handful of Korean words – hello, thank you, good bye—when I see them. On one such day, clearly not the best of English days for the lady at the counter, I quietly waited while she checked out my items, and then offered “thank you” in my surely mangled Korean. She lit up, stepped back, flung her arms wide, and said in exuberant Korean “Yes yes! Thank you!” Somehow, I seem to have made her day.
I know what’s like to be shy about your language abilities. My sophomore year in college, I lived with a French woman. Since she knew I was studying French, she suggested early on that we speak French in the dorm room (this was intended to be for my benefit, since she was fully and comfortably, bilingual). Ashamed of what I suspected to be a truly horrid French accent, I declined. Perhaps, if we had spoken French among ourselves, I would remember the language today; instead, I let six years of language study slowly waste away.
The visitors to Jerusalem in the Acts passage today would have been like my French friend or our Korean grocer; able to understand the language of the land they were visiting, even though it wasn’t the language of their innermost thoughts. Most everyone in the Roman Empire at the time of the New Testament would have understood Greek in addition to their native tongue. Most Jews would have understood Hebrew for Temple use. The people who had come to the Temple would have been Jews who had been scattered into many foreign lands during the Exile and the movements of the centuries after. They would have retained their Jewish heritage by learning Hebrew, even though it was not the language they used for everyday life.
Pentecost was one of the primary pilgrimages of the Hebrew calendar, and the visitors to the city would have saved and prepared for months or years to make the long journey from foreign lands. Many would have simply stayed in Jerusalem for the fifty days after the Passover festival in order to participate in the Pentecost celebration of the first fruits of the grain harvest without enduring a second journey. For many of the far flung people, this may be the only chance they have to visit the Temple, to worship God in the only place that was believed to be truly his home.
Most of them would have been Jews, one people scattered by geography and separated by the details of native language and culture. Others, however, were converts, “God-fearers” who had given up paganism to seek the one God of the Jews, outsiders with neither a common ancestry nor a common covenant to bridge the gaps of distance and ethnicity.
And while the scattered peoples were gathered, the disciples were huddled together all in one place, awaiting further instructions now that they had seen Christ ascend. “And suddenly there came down from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. And divided tongues as of fire appeared to them and rested on each one of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit.” Soon the huddled disciples will be the ones scattered to out into the world, in order to bring the good news to all people that God is calling every tongue and tribe and nation to become his people.
There’s a word play here that is worth noting. In Greek, the word pneuma means “breath, wind, or Spirit.” The same is true for the Old Testament word nephesh, which we’ll see in a moment. So suddenly there is a great rushing wind, breath, spirit, in the room, and the disciples are filled with the Holy Spirit.
And in the beginning, the spirit, the breath, of God was hovering over the face of the deep, dark, chaotic waters. And after God had tamed the chaos and brought forth light and order, God used the same creative breath that spoke all things into being to breathe life, spirit, breath into the man and woman. The disciples were filled with the Holy Spirit because this is what, at the beginning of Creation, man was intended to be.
After humankind rebelled against God in the garden, the Holy Spirit seemed to be in much more limited supply. A prophet here, a prophet there, maybe a king or two along the way might have the Holy Spirit; but the gifting was restrained. It was so restrained, in fact, that ever since the Hebrew people returned from Exile centuries before, they believe d that the Holy Spirit had ceased to be given at all. And here, suddenly, the spirit comes like a rush, a flood, poured out in abundance. And the disciples begin to speak in languages they had never studied, so that the people could hear the Gospel in their own language.
After humankind decided to turn from God in the Garden, men and women began to try to make themselves like gods, building a tower into the heavens. But because we are not nearly so godlike as we wish to believe, those plans were thwarted. The effect of sin included the confusion of languages, so that one person could not easily communicate with another, and the scattering of people to the distant parts of the earth. But now, as the Kingdom of God begins to enter into creation, the effects of sin begin to unravel and man can hear the Gospel clearly, and the scattered peoples are drawn together to worship God.
Three thousand people were baptized that day. Three thousand! If you want the unbeatable model for church growth, here it is: just follow the Great Commission, to go into all the world and make disciples of all nations and let the Holy Spirit do the work. Every Christian has access to this marvelous gift, and while we don’t all have speaking in tongues and other shazaam moments, the Spirit will work through each of us if we are faithful and willing. The disciples had only taken the first baby steps into “all the world” and already a handful of disciples had become thousands. And that was not all, for day by day “the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.”
The Lord chose to do this miracle on Pentecost, the ancient celebration of the first fruits of the grain harvest as a sign to us that the harvest is indeed plentiful and that these thousands are really just a drop in the bucket. God desires that all men and women be saved, Jesus has promised that by his being lifted up on the Cross he would draw all men to himself. Its your job, brothers and sisters, not to grow this church, but to grow God’s kingdom. And while that feels like a tough job, all we really need to do is to be willing to make those baby steps out into the world, offer the unblemished Gospel in a language the people can understand, and let the Holy Spirit do the work.

Being the woman at the well.....

Okay, I admit that we're spoiled. We have hot and cold water at the turn of a faucet. Or at least, we're supposed to. When we have it (which really is so much of the time we take it for granted) our water is clean, convenient, and whatever temperature we want it.

Except that today, and yesterday, we don't have it. Yesterday morning, our water meter sprung an enthusiastic leak. After ten hours of convincing the local water authority that they might want to come out and take a look at it, they admitted that the problem was theirs. Another eleven hours later, they actually did come out and look at it. And they replaced the meter. yippee.

But our water is pumped to the top of our hill because the borough does not maintain enough water pressure to get it here on its own. And there's a giant bubble in the line, which means the pump can't pump anything. And the borough had no idea how to fix it.

So here we sit, for a second night with no water.

Actually, I shouldn't say no water... I was raised in the country and the pioneer girl gene is not entirely extinct from my DNA. I'm not one to sit back and take not having water. So, thanks to some good friends, I gathered up a sink full of dirty dishes, a smelly teenager, and two large buckets (well one is a nine-gallon wine fermenter complete with lid... thanks be to God... if needed I do have a second one, but they're a bear to move when full) and trotted over to the "well." The well, of course is our friends' house, where I did my dishes, sent my teen to shower, and pilfered 15 gallons of clean water. We can use that for drinking and washing for tomorrow and maybe the next day if we need to.

On the way back, I told my teen that I felt like some ancient (or not so ancient in some parts of the world) village woman, hauling to the well in the evening cool to fetch home the water for the next day. Then I quickly corrected myself... I don't have to carry the water, I have a car. (In fact, I was even able to park closely enough that I just stretched the hose right to my trunk and filled that big fermenter there... some guy rode by on a bike and kind of stared a little. I smiled and said "alternative fuel" and let him wonder. My fun for the evening.) I can fetch the water in with very little actual heavy lifting. Elsewhere in the world women and children haul heavy loads just to meet the day's needs.

But one way I was like the village woman. As I stopped off at the well, I was offered a drink, a bit of hospitality, friendly faces, a conversation. The well was a communal experience. I may be seeing a lot of my friends if my water does not come back on soon (though I probably ought to mooch off different friends each day so nobody gets tired of me) but that's only unusual in a world where the conveniences of a modern tap mean I don't have to live in community in order to meet my daily needs. Women in particular are prone to feeling isolated in our culture, and perhaps the common well is part of why women doing the mundane chores at home with the kids don't seem so heavy with the task as we western women do. The phone, email, these aren't the same thing.

And while its a small kindness to let me fill my pail from your hose, it means a great deal to me. The common well is about small kindness that suits great need. Giving a drink, a hand with a heavy load, a kind word.

And the woman who cannot enjoy that community at the well cannot truly live. Her needs go unmet. And alone she slogs back to her home bearing her burdens in the heat of the day.

I'm grateful to my friends at the well.

But I'll be darned grateful when the water's back on too!

Life Unrehearsed

I admit, I hate rehearsal. I'm one of those people who likes to get the general idea of something and run with it. Art over science. Spontaneity over rehearsal. Improvision over precision.

I also like projects where I can see big sweeping changes. I love to paint a room, as long as it isn't the same color as it was before. I'm process oriented with no patience for tedium. If its not fun to do, its not worth doing.

And in the immortal parental curse, I've been blessed with a child who is very much like his mother. And the one thing I secretly hate as much as he does is his piano practice. Plowing away at the same song day after day with tiny imperceptable progress and a kid who doesn't want to practice in the first place (and will find every excuse in the book to avoid work) is mental torture.

Tonight, as I type, its "The Witches' Dance" one of the little songs in John Thompson's Third Grade Book. I can look at that book cover and remind myself of progress through three books. I can listen to real music coming from his hands and remember the days when scales were the impossible obstacle. And still, somehow, part of me thinks I'm going to be a little old lady telling him not to rush the easy parts on that blasted "Witchy Song."

But I suppose life is like that. Progress comes in baby steps. Patience is a virtue. The journey of a thousand miles, and all that. Skills are built, churches are grown, children are raised, all one small step at a time.

But I want to see progress, movement. Stagnant water is good for nothing but mosquitoes. Maybe that's why I have three children, so I can look at one and see how far he's come, look at another and know he won't always be small and making me crazy all afternoon (no that I have any particular child in mind there, of course). I know that when my firstborn was little I had no concept of him ever being as grown up and capable as he is now. In my mind he'd always be small and helpless, unable to communicate his needs or solve his own problems. Now we talk about things like college, chores, jobs, and that blasted piano (he'll be filling in for our parish organist on Sunday, he's really not half bad).

I guess where I'm going is this: we all want big shazaam moments and miracles and the parting of the waters... but mostly God works in tiny little things. His attention span is longer than ours, and when he moves fast and furious, it may still be hard for us to notice. And so we are reminded that he is not slow in coming to us, as some reckon slowness, but has withheld his return so that not one who would be saved would be neglected.

A Poem

I walked the graveyard of my soul,
And called upon my ghosts,
Amid the graves, the weeds, and stones,
Among the heavenly host.
I walked among the church at rest,
Alive amid the green,
The faithful ‘round to right and left,
And I alone between.
I walked beneath the striking sun,
And momentary breeze,
The rustling stirring in my heart,
As echoed in the trees.
And each step further as I walked,
I heard the gentle sounds
Of saints triumphant, saints at rest,
Of Christ in all around.
-- Anonymous

Cross Cultural Dining, Banana Cheetos, Gratitude, and Friendly Faces

Every time I walk into the local Korean market, the gentleman who runs the store asks "Where's your baby?"  Nevermind that my baby is now five years old.  Nevermind that I may clearly be dropping in just to pick something up while I'm on that side of town for some church event.  Nevermind that the other two children are notably absent, too.  It's my little guy he asks about. 

We're not regular visitors over there; the store is across town.  But I guess we're memorable.  I've only once seen another caucasian person in that store.  The first day we dropped in it was like a visit to a foreign country; I was able to find what I needed, but only slowly and with painful attempts to sound out the Korean letters to make sure what I thought I was buying was really what I was buying.  

The owner greets all the customers in cheerful Korean.  Except the first day we walked in, we heard him greeting the Asian people right in front of us, but as we came in right behind he gave us a baffled smile and a little wave like he didn't know how to respond to these strange visitors.  Kind of a friendly version of "y'all ain't from 'round here, are ya?"   A couple of visits later we decided to try out our pathetic four words of badly pronounced Korean and greet him.  I've never seen anyone look so stunned.  So yeah, we are memorable.

One one visit his wife spent several minutes talking to "the baby" in Korean.  Being about a year old, he was strapped Korean style (very comfy) to my back and not going anywhere.   I have no idea what she said to him but she was very enthusiastic about it.

On another visit we took a friend, a missionary who speaks Korean, with us... I was hoping she'd help me broaden my Korean shopping expertise, or at least tell me what a few curious looking products were.   Our friend had a great conversation with the shopkeeper, in enthusiastic Korean.  This time it was my turn to stand wide-eyed.  Occasionaly our friend would tell me what was going on: "she asked how I know Korean" but I was clueless when the shopkeeper ran over to a display, took down something else I couldn't read, and gave them to my wide-eyed kids.  My friend translates "She wants to give you these because she likes you."  I somehow managed to convince my boys to bow and the middle child to say his "kamsahamnida" (Thank you)... convincing the youngest to use his Korean words is like pulling teeth. 

What she gave my children happened to be these bizarre snacks that taste like banana candy but have the shape and texture of cheese puffs.  I have to admit, they're weirdly delicious.   Youngest boy loves them now and apparently had to have them on his last stop at Seoul Mart.  

The folks over there have obviously integrated well enough into American society.  They seem happy.  They speak English at a functional level, at least.  Their son was hanging out around the counter with a few school chums (of various races but all boy!) last time I was there.  Clearly a nice family.  But they're obviously grateful when we make an attempt at their language.   Sometimes just a Korean "thank you" is greeted with exhuberence beyond what would be expected. 

And I'm grateful too, that my youngest can hear his first language and be so welcomed by his first culture.   So many internationally adopted kids become cultural orphans.  We don't speak Korean with him.  I'm a very limited Korean cook.  We haven't yet taken him back for a visit.  They say its hard to go back as a young adult because everyone expects that they know the culture and language, when they don't.  They're Americans in Korean skin. 

But at least my little guy has the chance to hear the language, if not to always understand.  Like every Korean boy, he hates his hanbok, loves mandu.   He counts in Korean, with a different sort of accent, neither truly Korean nor truly not.  

But at least Korea won't seem totally weird when he goes.  At least he knows other people who stand along the wide bridge that goes between American culture and Korean.  And he's learning to explore, not just where he comes from or even where he's going but that there's a wide wide world out there full of fascinating people and places.

And maybe once in a while, banana cheetos aren't such a bad plan.

Sermon for 3 Easter

Amidst all these rejoicings Aslan himself quietly slipped away. And when the kings and queens noticed that he wasn’t there they said nothing about it for Mr. Beaver had warned them, ‘he’ll be coming and going,’ he had said. “One day you’ll see him and another you won’t. He doesn’t like being tied down… It’s quite all right. He’ll often drop in. Only you mustn’t press him. He’s wild, you know. Not like a tame lion.”

These words, so familiar to many but perhaps not to all of us, are how C.S. Lewis ends his book, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Every Narnia fan knows these words. In the eyes of the mind, the lion is gently slipping away from the feastings, back into the hills from which he came, softly and unseen. Not a tame lion, the children, now kings and queens in their own right, cannot command this lion, he is not subject to them. In all things, he is in control.
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“That very day, two of them were going to a village named Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and they were talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking Jesus himself drew near and went with them. But theireyes were kept from recognizing him.” Theirs had been a frantic weekend. Likely, they had come into the city to celebrate the Passover, and now these men were returning home. A week before, Jesus had come into town riding on a wave of excitement, hope that this would be the revolutionary to overthrow the oppressor and take control over the land of Israel. Victory seemed so near they could touch it! But something had happened, something unplanned. Surely this frantic series of events was not in the plan. Somehow victory had evaporated, this was definitely not going as planned. Chaos had emerged from every corner of Jerusalem and had converged on this Jesus. Everything had spun out of control.

Jesus had been a prophet, mighty in deed and word before God and before all the people. We had seen his power and his authority and we had hoped, before it all went up in smoke, we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Surely the disciples understood that theirs was a people who could not govern themselves, they were little better than slaves to the Roman government. They were exiles in their own homeland. How these disciples had hoped that this was the prophet like Moses, the redeemer and deliverer who had been expected for generations! And when he rode into town in triumph, the people were encouraged. Surely this was the glory of which he had spoken? But glory broke down into shame, when he was handed over, stripped and mocked and beaten and hung on a tree to die. Did not the Scriptures say that “cursed is the one who is hung on a tree?” They had watched with their own eyes as glory slipped from his grasp.

They had believed that this would be the one who would topple the oppressor and govern the people of Israel, this would be a man of power. But such was this man of power that he went quietly when the soldiers came for him, answered humbly before worldly kings, and failed to rescue himself from the cross while onlookers scoffed “he saved others, why can’t he save himself.” They had watched as power faded away, out of his hands until there was nothing left in him.

Perhaps they had even heard his claims that he was God’s own son, existing before Abraham, before creation itself. Perhaps they had heard the charges against him, that he had made himself equal with God. Could this be the one who brings order to chaos, light to darkness? But by the end of the week, chaos had claimed victory, frantic events and emotions surged, the one who we had so hoped would be our salvation was dead before our eyes. Darkness had overcome light, the sun had withheld its light, and if as the centurion said, this man was truly innocent, then we have indeed witnessed great evil taking victory at his death.

You must be the only visitor to Jerusalem who does not know these things.

And if this were not enough, some women were at the tomb early this morning and they did not find his body there. The chaos, the suffering, was this not enough?

Surely the disciples, as they walked the road to Emmaus did not give credence to the stories of women. In the ancient world, women were not credible witnesses. As would be echoed in the Victorian era, through Freud, women were believed to be prone to hysterics. Perhaps this was imagined, a frantic attempt to make sense out of something really quite simple. The words seemed to be an idle tale, wives tales! Gossip! Get a hold of yourselves, ladies! And two men, two male witnesses, then went to the tomb, and found it empty, as the women had said. What could these things mean? Surely the whole world has spun out of control!

Theirs was a tame messiah. Like a pet who responded to external stimulus, sitting in hopes of a treat from the outside master, they expected their messiah to respond to the situations at hand. The outside needs of Israel would dictate this messiah’s strategy. The influences of Rome would require tactical maneuvers. The situation would control the savior.

A tame messiah is an all too human sort of savior. It should be no surprise that a tame messiah would lose control of the situation at hand, as his own life came to be threatened and things began to spin out of control. A savior who was of this world would require an army bigger than that of Rome to take on the challenge ahead of him. A human savior would be destined to fail.

The Jewish leaders handed Jesus over to be crucified, but Rome was glad to prove the point with any such ‘rabble rousers.’ Conquered peoples did not control Rome. Rome was in charge. Crucifixion meant humiliation, agony, death. Not only would the rebel never rebel again, his followers would be scattered, shamed, and very unlikely to try to pick up where their hero left off. And as if this crucified Jesus were not example enough of what Rome did to any hope of a human savior Israel might have, in 70 AD Israel rebelled against Rome in armed uprising. It was then that Jesus’ prophecy that not one stone of the Temple would be left upon another, that the people would flee to the hills with no time to turn back, saw its first fulfillment.

And so the disciples, who had hoped for a human savior, a tamed messiah, were crushed. And now, adding insult to injury, even the body had gone missing. The sheep were scattered and each was returning, somewhat shamed, somewhat sadder and temporally wiser, to his own village.

But ours is not a tame messiah. He felt no need to respond to the questions of the leaders of this world. He felt no need to flee the cross, the chaos. For he knew that his kingdom was not of this world, and even amid the chaos, he held the order of the universe in his hands. He did not fear the darkness that descended on that cross, for he was the light of the world. And now, as he meets these disciples on the road to Emmaus, he who is the word of God explains to them how the word of God would be fulfilled. Now he shows them how he was in control on the cross, how he taken the chaos of Holy Week and brought forth order, how he had allowed death to triumph in order to bring forth life.

What they don’t realize is that their eyes are being kept from seeing who it is that is explaining all these things. They realize they are hearing a great teacher, but they do not see the full reality of his greatness. Many many preachers have tried to push this under the rug with thoughts about how we sometimes don’t recognize someone out of context, when we don’t expect to see them. And the unexpectedness of this encounter can’t be denied. But the Greek verb is more active, their eyes were kept from seeing. Implied is who it is that is keeping them from knowing. They do not recognize him because he is not yet ready to be recognized. He wants them to hear what he is telling them, not cling to him as Mary Magdalene did in the garden.

But the point at which their eyes are opened, in the breaking of the bread is also crucial. Jesus does something culturally very strange. Clearly this is not Jesus’ house, most likely the house belonged to one of the two disciples who, as host could urge Jesus to stay. Jesus did the culturally appropriate thing to do, he acted as if he were going on up the road, so as not to impose upon his hosts. And the disciples did what ancient hospitality demanded, they invited him to stay. But again the words are more dramatic, they begged him to stay with them. This goes beyond cultural norms, it is almost embarrassing, how they practically force him (in the Greek) to come to their home for the evening meal. But now we know the disciples have heard what Jesus has told them, that this Jesus in whom they had put their hope was far more than an earthly king, that indeed he was not a tame lion.

And so it makes perfect sense, that, as the guest turns the tables and takes the part of the host, blesses and breaks the bread, takes control of the situation once again, that their eyes should be opened and they should recognize that the teacher and the Lord are one in the same.

When we invite Jesus in to our lives and our worship, when we beg him to stay (as we should if we take him seriously) then we have to recognize that he is not a tame lion. This Jesus will accept our invitation to be our guests, but quickly he turns the tables on us and becomes, as he properly is, the host and the master of the household. If we ask him to be guests in our lives, he will happily become the host, taking charge and blessing us from his abundance.

And if this were just some presumptuous guest making himself the master of the house, all that would be appalling, but in fact he is the one who orders the chaos, lightens the darkness, and created the house itself. And if he is the master of this place, there is no chaos he can’t order, no death that can hold him, so we need not worry about what the future might bring, for the guest has become the host and master of this place.

And at times he may seem distant, for he is not a tame lion that we should command him, but he’ll be coming and going as he wills, according to our needs and his desire. At times he’ll come to us with the gentleness of a lamb. At other times with the power of his lion’s nature. But always he will come as host and master, orderer of chaos, and life which no grave can hold.

Insiders Outside, and the other way around

The Gospel reading for tonight was the center portion of John 12, after Jesus has arrived in Jerusalem, and a couple of Greeks approach Philip and ask to see Jesus. There is so much situation, culture, emotion and personality here. Philip, who had previously invited the Jewish Nathaniel to come and see Jesus now has no idea what to do with a couple of Greeks, gentiles, "goyim"... They're outside the elect, strangers whose access to God is questionable at best. There are no promises of a place at the table.

I find these unnamed Greeks remarkable, because they've already made a trip from their home to Jerusalem, knowing they'd come as outsiders, not expecting a place at the table. These are people with no spiritual home, seeking after the one God, and all the while literally walking away from the gods of their fathers, their lands, their family and neighbors. And all the while there is no promise that the one God will accept them. They travel miles in first century conditions, and when they arrive they still cannot enter the Temple past the court of the gentiles. Surely there is deep humility in their request, "Sir, we would see Jesus."

Philip knows there's no guarantee. How can he speak of the promises of God to these people, who are by definition outside the promise? How can he offer the Jewish messiah to these non-Jews? What does he have to offer to Samaria and the ends of the earth? A moment in time, a consult with Andrew, and together they approach Jesus.
I was struck today by the cryptic nature of Jesus answer. "The hour has now come..." Leave it to Jesus to not just offer a simple yes or no answer. There's much ado about glorification and the Son of Man being lifted up, but what about those Greeks. I took a moment to look up the passage in the InterVarsity commentary on John for a little extra help. There, Rod Whitacre notes:

Philip does not go straight to Jesus with the Greeks' request, but rather to Andrew, who was from Philip's town (1:44). This may bear witness to Philip's humility, but more likely it shows how unusual the situation was. Jesus has had contact with non-Jews (cf., probably, 4:43-53), but very rarely. He has taught much about the universal scope of God's love, but the full implications of this were not grasped by his followers until later. The nationalism stirred up during Jesus' entry into Jerusalem might make the disciples uncertain about such a request, though these Greeks were proselytes. It seems Philip simply needs some encouragement to approach the Lord when faced with this new and stretching situation. He goes to Andrew, who seems to have been a trusting person who was willing to speak up even when it seemed foolish (6:8-9). If we are stymied by a situation, it helps to have a friend with whom to go to the Lord, not to demand of the Lord but simply to lay before him the situation.
Quite often Jesus has responded to questions and situations with cryptic sayings, and this is no exception. When Andrew and Philip announce the coming of the Greeks something wondrous happens. It triggers the moment the reader has been anticipating since the story began: Jesus replied, "The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified" (v. 23). As with all his cryptic sayings, this response addresses the issue, but it does so in ways incomprehensible at the time. He does not speak directly to the Greeks, but he speaks of their place in his community in the future. For he reveals that it is time for his death to take place, through which a great crop will be produced (v. 24) as he draws all men to himself (v. 32). Thus, verse 24 answers the Greeks indirectly, for through his death he "will become accessible for them as the exalted Lord"

Of course we all know that the Greeks are welcome to see Jesus, but if that is the only answer why is Jesus so harsh at first with the SyroPhonecian woman? The answer may be that the time hadn't come. Everything up through the triumphal entry was one phase, and now things are shifting. God became incarnate for the Jews, and now the whole system is about to crack wide open. It reminds me of Aslan on the Stone Table in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, the deeper magic is that the table, the old system, the Law itself is cracked in two and the lion gets up from the scene of his slaughter.  In my imagination, between the cracks in the cold stone, new life emerges, like a tree growing up from the rubble.
The contrast in the text though is with the locals. Those who have had access to Jesus all along, so many still don't understand. Even when God speaks directly, audibly, many just hear thunder. And yet, for those who seek him, of all nations, this is the "light to enlighten the gentiles" of whom Simeon spoke. But not only a light to the nations, but also the glory of God's people, Israel. Here is not only the King of Israel, but the very crown of the nation.
I think we are a little like Philip sometimes, when someone outside our own sense of the "chosen" people wants to see Jesus. Philip has no ill will, he just doesn't know what to do with the situation. I wonder how we can pray for people to come to Jesus if we aren't even sure we can comfortably introduce such as these to our Lord if given the chance. As Jesus shifts his ministry toward the cross, he also shifts his presence outside the boundaries of the "chosen" people, and sometimes it is hard for us disciples to catch up with where he's going. How willing are we to introduce to Jesus the stranger, the outsider, even the enemy and oppressor?

And at the same time we hear stories of Christians, in every generation and on every continent, who are able to pray for their persecutors. We sit here comfortably and think that our minor losses are persecutions, while we have yet to begin to suffer. And we can't pray for our enemies. But our brothers and sisters who risk life and limb on a daily basis shine like beacons to the grace of God. They are the Andrew to our well-meaning but (in this case) somewhat ineffective Philip