Friday, August 31, 2007

The Wounded Healer

I remember very clearly when my mother told me that Mr. Christie had died. I was in elementary school, probably age 7 or 8. Mr. Christie was an elderly man in our church. If I ever met him, I do not remember it, but for weeks after his death, like clockwork, I wept for Mr. Christie each Sunday morning in church.

I had always been an emotional child, ready to cry at the drop of a hat. Mr. Christie’s death and the weeks following are the first time I remember crying over someone not directly connected to me. Each week my mother would pack me off to Sunday School and I would seem fine, but somewhere along the hall between the classroom and the sanctuary on my way to worship, a switch would flip and the floodgates would open. I would start thinking about how Mr. Christie had swerved to avoid a head-on collision, saving his wife in the passenger seat while sacrificing himself, and my face would crumple up and the tears would begin.

What I have come to understand is that this somewhat strange event in my childhood actually speaks deeply to who I am as a person. I now see that my sadness over Mr. Christie was early evidence of the fact that I am very highly empathetic by nature. I am slowly learning that there are few people on this planet who truly ache for the pain of others, even strangers, and that I am one of them, for better or worse. I can't watch a commercial for St. Jude’s Children's Hospital without crying. Learning about my friends' personal darkness, talking a girl through suicidal thoughts, watching someone struggle with an eating disorder—these things lacerate my heart as a knife might carve into flesh.

I am beginning to see that my ability to empathize so fiercely with others' pain is both a blessing and a curse. I struggle constantly with discerning what may be a call to ministry, and the extent to which I can feel empathy sometimes obliterates my faith in myself as having pastoral responsibilities in the future. I am always the person that others go to with the darkest parts of their lives. My ability to empathize gives others the space they need to be open and honest, and even though the pain on my end can be crippling, for me (or anyone) to perform genuine pastoral ministry, it could be no other way. In his book The Wounded Healer, Henri Nouwen says, "no one can help anyone without becoming involved, without entering with his whole person into the painful situation, without taking the risk of becoming hurt, wounded or even destroyed in the process. The beginning and the end of all Christian leadership is to give your life for others." Perhaps my tendency to be wounded sympathetically for others is not a sign of weakness in my potential as a pastor but is really the only way I can minister to another human being.

If ever I feel that my tears are a sign of weakness, I have to remind myself that even Jesus wept at the death of a friend. In times of tragedy, I believe there is often little else we can do than pray and weep. As a Christian and as someone who will one day be a minister in some capacity, empathizing with others, even to the extent that it causes me great pain, is a necessary—and involuntary—part of listening to, loving and accepting others, friend and stranger alike. As a child I wept for Mr. Christie; today I may weep for a friend struggling with depression or for the young man I worked with last summer who died in a freak accident a few days ago. However, these are not hurts for me to take from others and to bury in myself; my great consolation is that I do not have to bear any burden on my own. Every burden I take on, be it my pain or someone else’s, can be laid at the foot of the cross and transformed into something beautiful. I was created to empathize with others, but I was created by a God who will not let me carry that alone.

A Peculiar Means of Grace (revised from an earlier post)

Since October 2006, I have been engaged in one of the most interesting and transformative ministries I have yet to encounter. For almost a year now, I have been corresponding regularly with William Barnes ("Tim"), prisoner #0020590 at Central Prison in Raleigh, NC. Tim is on Death Row for the 1990 murder of two people.

As I have gotten to know Tim through his letters, he has become a unique source for information, questions, and challenges to my life. Tim converted to Islam while in prison and we converse often about religion and spirituality. Tim is not afraid to share his faith or to ask pointed questions about mine. Once he asked how Jesus could be born of Mary and also have in him the fullness of God. Tim couldn’t make sense of this, and it became my task to explain the Christian belief in the humanity and divinity of Christ. Tim challenges me to articulate my beliefs in very basic terms. As a student of religious studies, I am so used to inhabiting conversation space where words like "eschatological" and "soteriology" are second nature that to have to delineate the fundamental beliefs of the Christian faith is not only humbling but also a reminder that communication and debate in the interfaith community is important, difficult, and requires practice.

One of my friends who is in seminary tells about his friendship with a Muslim graduate student. My friend was working in the library when his friend poked his head in the door and then turned to leave when he saw the room was occupied. When he realized he knew the person in there, he came back, nodded a greeting, then laid out his prayer rug and proceeded to pray. My friend was struck by the fact that this man felt comfortable openly practicing his faith in the presence of a Christian, and he wondered what he would have done had he been seeking a place to pray and had seen his Muslim friend in the room. For my friend, this man became a means of grace as the act of performing a spiritual discipline led him to reevaluate his own practices.

For me, Tim is also a peculiar means of grace. He ends every letter saying that he will pray for me and signs it "God bless, Tim." To know that a man in prison facing no escape but death is praying for me lends a great deal of perspective to how and for what I pray. Tim often quotes the writings of Muslim imams, talks about Ramadan during that season, and asks me questions about my own spiritual disciplines when describing his own. How often do I pray? How often do I fast? In a way, I've found that Tim's curiosity and candor have become a greater source of accountability even than some of the Christian communities of which I am a part.

When I agreed to write to a death row inmate, I knew it would be a unique experience. It has done all the things I thought it would: it has helped me get to know someone from a completely different sector of society, given me another perspective on the justice system, and challenged me to work for an alternative to the death penalty and to explore avenues of restorative justice rather than the punitive justice with which our country is so familiar. However, I did not expect my faith to be revitalized by conversation with a Muslim prisoner, and I do believe that Tim has been a means of grace in my life as a Christian.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Our Desires Are Too Weak

O Lord, I do not know what to ask of you.
You alone know what are my true needs.
You love me more than I myself know how to love.
I dare not ask either a cross or consolation.
I can only wait on you.
My heart is open to you. Amen. — Philaret of Moscow


John Piper (of whom, to be honest, I am not a huge fan, but I think he got this right) said in a sermon that he does not preach to felt needs. Although it is obviously important that a pastor be able to care for and tend to the needs of the members of a congregation/community, perhaps the greatest service a pastor can do for parishioners is to show them that their desires are disordered, weak, and in need of extensive renovation. C. S. Lewis once said, "Our Lord finds our desires not too strong but too weak." Desire drives human existence, but we desire the wrong things and whatever part of us that might approach or border on correct desire is feeble and flimsy at best. We do not know what we need or even what we want, because the things we think we want and need will never bring satisfaction. If our desire is for money, we fall into the sin of greed; if our desire is for esteem, we fall into the sin of pride; if our desire is for food, we fall into the sin of gluttony; if our desire is for sex, we fall into the sin of lust; and on and on. These desires are disordered and weak. These desires can make our lives seem worth living in the eyes of the world, but they ruin our lives in the eyes of God. We were made to desire God so passionately that this desire would thoroughly ruin our lives on this earth. Jesus did not say that if we follow him, everyone will love us; he said, "If the world hates you, be aware that it hated me before it hated you" (John 15:18).

Julian of Norwich
knew full well that if she were to pursue anything short of the fullness of God, she would always find herself lacking, her needs and wants unfulfilled. In her record of the divine revelations, she prays, "God, of your goodness give me yourself, for you are sufficient for me. I cannot properly ask anything less, to be worthy of you. If I were to ask less, I should always be in want. In you alone do I have all." This is the desire for which we were created: to be worthy to abide in the fullness and mercy of God. Before partaking in Mass, the monks of Christ in the Desert Monastery in New Mexico pray this simple request: "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you. Only say the word, and I will be." There are desires that we can try to fulfill on our own. We can seek out power and prestige to sate our thirst for the approval of others; we can find someone who will sleep with us and slake our lust. But when our desires are reoriented and strengthened, we find that the only one who can satisfy those desires is God.

But here's the question: what can a preacher say every Sunday in the pulpit to shape and convert the desires of those in the congregation? How can a minister strike a balance between taking good pastoral care of people while turning their worlds on end? It seems to me that the task of caring for and tending to the perceived wants and needs of people while simultaneously telling them that their desires are misguided and weak would be extremely difficult and even delicate. Too often I feel that pastors spend so much time trying to meet people where they are that they forget that there is a better place to which they need to help bring them. On the other hand, plenty of people speak the hard truth that we want the wrong things and that the desires we do have are weak and pathetic, but in such a way that those who hear it feel attacked rather than loved and challenged. This is one of the most daunting of the tasks before me: to love and cherish those to whom I will one day minister as they are while shaking them out of the slumber that lets us be lulled into complacency by desires that do not align with the reality that we were made to want God more than anything else.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Peter Storey on Violence

"If you justify violence for any reason, no matter how good and noble, you legitimize it for every reason, no matter how wrong and unworthy." — Bishop Peter Storey, South Africa

I haven't been posting any of my own thoughts lately because I am just emerging from the whirlwind of moving into and setting up my apartment, and classes started for me yesterday. I hope to begin posting again within the next few days; being back at school has already raised a host of questions that I need to hash out for my own benefit and which I think might be of interest to a broader audience. Many thanks to everyone who's been reading my first few posts and who have encouraged me thus far!

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Refusing to Surrender (an old piece)

This is actually a reflection I wrote in May 2006 while reading Dietrich Bonhoeffer's book The Cost of Discipleship. It's a little scattered, but the questions and the musings are there, and I would like to revisit some of these thoughts in the near future.



"Is there some part of your life which you are refusing to surrender at his behest, some sinful passion, maybe, or some animosity, some hope, perhaps your ambition or your reason? If so, you must not be surprised that you have not received the Holy Spirit, that prayer is difficult, or that your request for faith remains unanswered. Go rather and be reconciled with your brother, renounce the sin which holds you fast—and then you will recover your faith! …How can you hope to enter into communion with him when at some point in your life you are running away from him?" -- Dietrich Bonhoeffer


I wrote this passage down in my journal on 3 February 2006. Certain words and phrases stuck out like sore thumbs jabbing me in the sides: refusing to surrender, your reason, prayer is difficult, your request for faith remains unanswered, at some point in your life you are running away from him. I read this passage over and over sporadically for the next few months and still revisit it in times of doubt.

My own refusal to surrender anything to God goes back quite a long way. I remember talking for years about how important it is to allow oneself to be vulnerable in the presence of God, to give up control and to trust him even when it seemed impossible, only to realize that I was utterly unable to follow my own teachings. I had never surrendered anything to God but a fragment of my free time, had never truly allowed myself to lean on him, had never relinquished control of my heart and mind as I thought I had. I still to this day maintain a fierce, tenacious hold on my life. I am slowly working my way back to God, slowly turning things over to his grace and will, but it is very, very slowly.

It was very profound to me that Bonhoeffer chose to list reason among those things that are perhaps not being handed over to God. I can completely identify with that. Despite my surface distaste for reason and my romanticized ideals of the subjective, I still rely entirely too much on my own understanding. I realize that much of my approach to ameliorating my faith comes from this standpoint; although I am working some on my spiritual life, most of what I am doing is building a stockpile of knowledge, of expanding my religious education, of becoming well-read, supposedly for the sake of equipping myself to be a better pastor one day, but I will be the first to admit that there is a certain amount of pride tied up in how much and what I get read this summer. I don't think that doing these things are necessarily bad, but I am keenly aware that I need to couple my theological expeditions with Scripture readings, personal prayer, and active engagement in corporal worship. Worship I actually have about down pat, but the Bible and prayer are still slightly foreign to me.

This leads directly into the next point, that prayer is difficult. I hate praying. I especially hate praying in front of groups. All my life, I was the kid who volunteered to pray or was called on to pray. At some point, I got sick of it and decided to make other people step up every now and then. This quickly turned into my total absence from that arena, and I wonder if that did not directly affect my personal prayer life, which has been virtually nonexistent for years now. When I am forced to pray in public, I hate every second of it; I get nervous, I sweat, I stutter, I fumble for words. Usually I simply refuse to do it. Last night, Dad asked if I would say the blessing at dinner, and I replied, "No thank you." As for my individual prayer life, I have tried on occasion to get into a habit of praying. I have found that one big problem is my attention span. I often get bored or distracted in the middle of prayers and suddenly find myself at the computer remembering that I was supposed to be talking to God. I found that journaling helps this some; I am more articulate when writing in the first place, and it helps me to train my mind on what I am doing. I also am more engaged and involved when I do this. Other things that have helped have been prayers, songs, or poems written by others with which I strongly identify; some that come to mind include Merton's Seigneur mon Dieu, Wesley's "Come O Thou Traveler Unknown," the occasional Rilke elegy, and plenty of Jars of Clay songs. I can pray through their words and make them my own because they speak profoundly to my experience and my needs. I would like, however, to do some praying that really is mine, and I will have to work on that. I need to begin to set aside time for prayer, but I am so often busy and I live with other people, so time and privacy are both scarce. Even when I am alone and have the time, prayer frightens me. I suppose that the only way I can ameliorate this situation is to actively pursue a healthy prayer life on my own. Yikes.

I have requested faith and often do not know whether that request has gone unanswered or whether I completely misunderstand what it means to be given faith. Faith is a funny thing, and too often we are taught to associate it with emotionality and warm fuzzy feelings. Although I disagree with this approach and find it destructive in many ways, there is still a part of me that has been so conditioned by mountain top experiences like mission trips and retreats that I find myself almost looking for that euphoric, spiritual feeling that is supposed to accompany belief in and communion with God. I don't particularly know how I will know when I truly have faith, but I’m sure patience is involved somehow. I read something helpful in Norwood's American Methodism, something that Peter Boehler said to John Wesley: "Preach faith till you have it, and then, because you have it, you will preach faith." This sounds like Bonhoeffer's spiel on obedience and faith (also in Discipleship). He presents the paradoxical truth that one cannot have faith unless he obeys but that one only obeys when he has faith. This annoys me because I can't find the entry point to all of this. Maybe the whole faith and works thing is related – true faith is by definition accompanied by works, and true works cannot be done without faith. Or something, I’m just trying to avoid condoning works righteousness right now. In any case, I must learn to pray for faith, to preach faith, to practice obedience, and to do works of faith; and then, perhaps, I will one day have faith.

"How can you hope to enter into communion with him when at some point in your life you are running away from him?" Good question. I know plenty about running away from God. "I cannot run, I cannot hide/Believe me now, you know I've tried." I spent years doing so, and to some extent I continue on that path even now. When I wrote my song "Prodigal," it was not yet titled, so I posted the lyrics online and asked friends for ideas for a song name. Suggestions that came back included "Prince of Peace," "All in All," and other sappy, happy, warm fuzzy titles. True, most of them drew on lyrics within the song, but I was bothered because none of them really got to the heart of what the song was about. Although the song does thank and extol God, its primary function is a prayer for forgiveness and reconciliation. I started thinking of titles that were not lifted from the text, and when I thought of "Prodigal," I knew there was nothing more perfect. This was not a song about Jesus, it was the lamenting, apologizing, entreating prayer of a child who had run away from her father and was painfully tiptoeing back. I am that prodigal child every day, when I refuse to surrender to God, when I choose reason over faith, when I shy away from prayer because it is too hard or inconvenient, when I half-heartedly ask for faith, and when I continue to run away, run away, run away. I must stop in my tracks, turn around, and go back to my Father. I hope to find a warm welcome.

Friday, August 24, 2007

A Prayer from Julian of Norwich

God,
of your goodness give me yourself,
for you are sufficient for me.
I cannot properly ask anything less,
to be worthy of you.
If I were to ask less,
I should always be in want.
In you alone do I have all.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Christian Scholarship (quote)

"The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obliged to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined. How would I ever get on in the world? Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church's prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close. Oh, priceless scholarship, what would we do without you? Dreadful it is to fall in the hands of the living God. "
— Søren Kierkegaard

The Fast I DON'T Choose

Since last October, I have been engaged in one of the most interesting and transformative ministries I have yet to encounter. For almost a year now, I have been corresponding regularly with William Barnes ("Tim"), prisoner #0020590 at Central Prison in Raleigh, NC. Tim is on Death Row for the 1990 murder of two people.

As I have gotten to know Tim through his letters, he has continuously challenged me in countless ways, but right now I'd like to focus on an issue he brought up in his most recent communication to me. Tim converted to Islam while in prison and we converse regularly about religion and spirituality. His conversion was not well-received by his family, with whom he has not been in contact since 1998. Tim regularly asks me about aspects of Christianity that he does not understand, but he also asks me about my own spiritual practices.

Most recently, Tim asked me how many times I fast in a year. On one level, I found the timing of his question exceedingly ironic, seeing as I had just started a blog called "The Fast I Choose" and have grown quite fond of quoting the passage in Isaiah to which that phrase alludes. On another level, I felt a little ashamed, because I had to admit to Tim that although I have tried fasting once or twice, I've never been able to go through with that particular spiritual discipline. True, I was told back in middle school that I was hypoglycemic, and I do get an awful headache if I don't eat for a period of time—but Tim's question came close on the heels with a conversation I had with a friend on the very subject. She and her husband are both hypoglycemic, but they fast regularly. After talking to her, I realized that my excuse, which was feeble from the beginning, probably sounded like every other reason people use not to fast.

The truth is, fasting isn't something that very many Christians do these days. The rate of obesity in America is embarrassingly high, and you can be sure that among those statistics are a large number of Christians, both lay and clergy. Clearly, fasting is not at the top of the average Christian's list of priorities; it only makes mine in the same way "a pony" made my Christmas wish list throughout my childhood. It would be nice if fasting were something we could do, and we take our hats off to those who practice that spiritual discipline, but it's not something we think we can—or would even want—to do ourselves.

I did a little poking around on the internet to see what information I might come up with on fasting. I know Wikipedia is taboo in academic circles, but it really is terribly useful on a surface level, and their article on fasting even had, in addition to explanations of the use of fasting in various religions, a list of Biblical references to fasting (not an exhaustive one, but a list nonetheless). Among those were passages from Exodus 34 (Moses fasts for 40 days while on the mountain with God), 2 Samuel 12 (David fasts when his son becomes ill as punishment for David's adultery with Bathsheba and murder of Uriah), 2 Chronicles 20 (King Jehosaphat proclaims a fast to celebrate a military victory), Isaiah 58 (my favorite, of course), Jonah 3 (the people of Ninevah fast in order to stay God's hand in punishment), Esther 4 (the Jews fast in response to Haman's genocidal decree), Matthew 6 (Jesus warns that one should fast in private and not seek attention or approval through fasting), Matthew 4 and Luke 2 (Jesus fasts for 40 days in the wilderness before being tempted), among others.

What struck me upon reading this list was the variety of circumstances in which fasting was practiced. The general sense that I have always had is that a person fasts in repentance, and although this is certainly the case, it is not the only occasion on which people of the Old and New Testaments fast. Just in that list, fasting is used while in the presence of God, as a form of penitence and a prayer for healing, in celebration (and I thought feasts were the usual way to consummate a military victory?), in response to injustice, as a private exercise, and as a form of preparation for testing.

I and many others have boldly and often proclaimed the words of Isaiah 58:6-7, saying that the fast we choose shall be "to loose the bonds of injustice...[and] to share your bread with the hungry." This is indeed a call to justice, and Amos declares that even if we practice personal piety and fast faithfully, if we oppress others, God counts those acts for naught. It seems that I may have made the error of choosing a worthy fast while forgetting that the discipline of fasting was practiced by the Israelites, the prophets, Jesus himself, and the early church for a reason. Although some strains of Protestantism, as early as at the time of the Reformation, sought to abolish fasting because they believed that Catholics used the practice as a tool to earn salvation (I am thinking of Zwingli, who made a show of eating sausages during Lent), especially in the holiness movements, that particular discipline (among others) was often revived. In the early days of Methodism, my own denomination, John and Charles Wesley and George Whitfield were known to fast regularly.

Fasting can express repentance; it can be a means of seeking holiness; it can be a cry for justice; it can even be a form of celebration, the kind that recognizes and gives thanks to God as the sole provider of good things. When I wrote Tim back trying to answer his question, one thing I mentioned that makes fasting difficult is a lack of support, or at least a perceived lack of support, since I don't know many people who fast regularly. I wonder if it wouldn't behoove us all to give fasting a shot sometime, and although that is not something to be shouted from the rooftops, it wouldn't hurt (and would probably help!) to seek out a few fellow Christians for encouragement and even solidarity. If a question posed by a Muslim on Death Row can challenge me to work harder at this particular spiritual discipline, a community of Christians practicing it together might even be able to make fasting a celebration.

Monday, August 20, 2007

The Simple Way

I recently finished reading The Irresistible Revolution by Shane Claiborne. It was an incredible witness to his vocation to the Philadelphia community The Simple Way and the road that got him there, and I would highly recommend it. However, I would warn you that if the book doesn't make you want to live differently, you haven't paid attention to what Claiborne is saying. The off-color nature of his story, the personable tone of the writing, and the snazzy packaging in which you find the book itself make it an easy candidate for "youthy" appeal and popularity, but Claiborne is not trying to be cool or youthy and to mistake him for such is to misunderstand his telling of the gospel. Read the book, but be willing to be changed.

"May God disturb you deeply." — Rev. Trevor Hudson, South Africa

Sunday, August 19, 2007

The Green Mile Seems So Long

Tonight I watched the movie The Green Mile on TV with my family. That film (and the book that inspired it—it's by Stephen King and I would definitely recommend the print version) is so saturated with emotion and difficult questions, and every time I watch it, something different latches onto my heart like a vise and twists until I hash it out. This time, the image of the guards on E Block tidying up the main room to prepare for an execution stuck with me. Watching them sweep the floors, set out folding chairs, and polish the one chair no one wants to sit in—but in which someone will have to sit—put me in mind of preparations being made for a show to be put on stage. I was appalled to watch the execution scenes as women in big hats and fancy dresses fanned themselves and their generally less well-dressed husbands as they calmly waited to watch another human being die. It was as if I had been transported back not to 1935 but to the 12th century and was watching as curious spectators gathered to witness a hanging.

Going along with that, I was struck by the things the people in the crowd had to say to the man being led to his death—struck not only by the nature of the comments but also by the familiar ring they brought to my ears, so used to being regaled with people's gallant declarations of support for the death penalty. I'll leave the actual issue to discuss another time; what I want to look at now is whatever it is in our human nature that makes the darkest parts of us well up at certain times.

The other day, I watched a video clip of Ann Coulter on a talk show. The day before, she had made a comment about John Edwards, and on this particular education, the audience was surprised to hear none other than Elizabeth Edwards' voice coming in over the line to speak to Coulter. Edwards was well-spoken, kept her composure very admirably, and had a very good point—namely, that Coulter's tendency to use personal attacks, often of a disturbingly cruel nature, on political candidates does nothing but paralyze actual debate over issues. I cheered Edwards on and scowled as Coulter rudely interrupted her (I don't care who you are, interrupting someone who's trying to make a sincere point is rude, and Coulter reigns supreme in that very activity), but I became extremely irked when the talk show host asked why Coulter felt it necessary to make fun of Hillary Clinton's and Monica Lewinsky's chubbiness in her book. Coulter stubbornly refused to answer the question unless he could produce the exact passage and give her the context; his response was that he himself was wondering what on earth the context could be. Certainly comments about Clinton's chubby legs have no place in political debate, but I found myself, someone who is none to comfortable with her own weight, muttering something bitter and terribly unkind about how skinny Ann Coulter is. At this point, I was engaged in a conversation about the subject with my father, who pointed out to me that I had just done the very same thing Coulter had done; I had made a personal attack, and the fact that I am sensitive about slights on people packing a little extra weight gives me no right to disparage those who are thin. Coulter, with her attitude of negativity, had appealed to my dark side and brought it out in full force.

I wonder if that very same thing were not happening at those fictional executions in The Green Mile, if that does not happen at executions today. When confronted with a person who murdered a friend or relative, who could honestly hope to keep the angry, primitive side of them from lashing out, as one character in the movie did, by shouting to "kill him twice, go on and kill him twice"? Darkness, grief, and evil breed their own. Perhaps that is why I was told again and again as I entered college to surround myself with good people. It was not in order to insulate myself from bad influences but to give the good in me a chance to be nurtured and encouraged, so that when I was faced with darkness in all its forms, I could enter into that situation without fear of being consumed by it, with the hope of consuming it with the love in which I had been growing. That is, after all, what Christian community is supposed to do; never to cut us off from the rest of the world, but to give us the strength and love necessary to go into the world and wrestle its demons without having to pretend we can do it alone. Alone, we succumb to the temptations of the world; as a community of people in communion with God, we can shed light even in the darkest places.

The question then becomes how to communicate this conviction, this hope, to the people who would sit on the front row in an execution chamber and shout, "kill him twice!" Oftentimes when I express my views about capital punishment, people respond with utmost confidence that if a member of my family were murdered, I would support the death penalty. But...no, I would not. Again, I'll save that whole discussion for another time, but for now, I will say that I at least would never want to watch anyone die, criminal or no—and aren't we all sinners, aren't we all murderers according to Jesus himself who said that he who is angry with his brother merits the same punishment as one who kills his brother (Matthew 5:21-22)?—and looking in the face of someone who had taken someone I loved and watching them die would bring me nothing resembling satisfaction. I wish I knew a way to communicate to those who believe that such a circumstance would bring them peace that there is a better way, a way of love and forgiveness...even now. To cry out for the death of another human being is to commit the murder, and it will not be an earthly government before which you or I will stand trial for such an act.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

The Fast I Choose

Welcome to the first post in my new blog. I don't have a terribly clear vision of what I want to do with this, but I have some vague inkling that I'd like to make it a space where I can explore and hash out how I and others in the church are doing theology and what impact it (necessarily) has on individual lives, communities, congregations, and the world. Ideally, it would be nice to have a place to reflect upon, make connections regarding, and garner support for various endeavors in social justice amid which I may find myself, and find myself wanting company. I've updated a LiveJournal nearly daily for over 4 years now, and I feel like it's time I carved out a spot in cyberspace where I'm doing something more and vastly better than whining about my personal life. Besides, writing is in my marrow, and if I hope to use it to establish and carry out orthodoxy and orthopraxis in my life and in the communities with which I identify myself, I figure I had better get some practice other than writing papers for school and recounting the day's events with sometimes overwhelming verbosity.

I felt the need to come up with a clever name for my blog, and who knows if I'll stick with the one I chose, but in a way it works because it's Scripture and it's all about social justice. Here's the context, in case you don't run in my particular faith circles and didn't catch it:

"Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?" — Isaiah 58:6-7

The preceding verses show that although the house of Jacob may fast and "lie in sackcloth and ashes" (v. 5), God says to his people, "[you] oppress all your workers" (v. 3) and perpetrate injustice against others. God will not hear the cries of a people who mistreat their brothers and sisters so. In the book of Amos, God declares that unless justice is carried out, he will not even hear their praise and worship:

"I hate, I despise your festivals,
and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies.
Even though you offer me your burnt-offerings and grain-offerings,
I will not accept them;
and the offerings of well-being of your fatted animals
I will not look upon.
Take away from me the noise of your songs;
I will not listen to the melody of your harps.
But let justice roll down like waters,
and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream." — Amos 5:21-24

All of this is stuff that the good liberal Christian knows. However, I am aware of the subtle ways in which the most sincere efforts to pursue justice can fall short of God's vision for his fallen world. It is so easy to become an activist, to protest injustice everywhere, to raise a much-needed voice against oppression in all its insidious forms. But Stanley Hauerwas and others warn that it is possible for the church to get so wrapped up in standing against something—whether it is standing against war, against poverty, against homosexuality, against immorality, or any number of things—that she forgets what she is standing for. The church stands at the foot of the cross for the sake of all of God's children whom he longs to come to know him through relationship and community, which the church is meant to establish as mirrored in God's very nature as Trinity, three in one, a self-contained community of unconditional love.

So that's a handful of scattered thoughts posing as an introduction to this blog. Please to enjoy—or not, and either way, comments are encouraged. Also, the list of websites I've posted includes all kinds of resources: church websites, social justice initiatives, various nonprofit organizations, intentional communities, Christian publications, and some links of my own dealing with my music or projects with which I am involved. I'll be updating that list occasionally, so keep checking it out—you may find something of interest.

Friday, August 31, 2007

The Wounded Healer

I remember very clearly when my mother told me that Mr. Christie had died. I was in elementary school, probably age 7 or 8. Mr. Christie was an elderly man in our church. If I ever met him, I do not remember it, but for weeks after his death, like clockwork, I wept for Mr. Christie each Sunday morning in church.

I had always been an emotional child, ready to cry at the drop of a hat. Mr. Christie’s death and the weeks following are the first time I remember crying over someone not directly connected to me. Each week my mother would pack me off to Sunday School and I would seem fine, but somewhere along the hall between the classroom and the sanctuary on my way to worship, a switch would flip and the floodgates would open. I would start thinking about how Mr. Christie had swerved to avoid a head-on collision, saving his wife in the passenger seat while sacrificing himself, and my face would crumple up and the tears would begin.

What I have come to understand is that this somewhat strange event in my childhood actually speaks deeply to who I am as a person. I now see that my sadness over Mr. Christie was early evidence of the fact that I am very highly empathetic by nature. I am slowly learning that there are few people on this planet who truly ache for the pain of others, even strangers, and that I am one of them, for better or worse. I can't watch a commercial for St. Jude’s Children's Hospital without crying. Learning about my friends' personal darkness, talking a girl through suicidal thoughts, watching someone struggle with an eating disorder—these things lacerate my heart as a knife might carve into flesh.

I am beginning to see that my ability to empathize so fiercely with others' pain is both a blessing and a curse. I struggle constantly with discerning what may be a call to ministry, and the extent to which I can feel empathy sometimes obliterates my faith in myself as having pastoral responsibilities in the future. I am always the person that others go to with the darkest parts of their lives. My ability to empathize gives others the space they need to be open and honest, and even though the pain on my end can be crippling, for me (or anyone) to perform genuine pastoral ministry, it could be no other way. In his book The Wounded Healer, Henri Nouwen says, "no one can help anyone without becoming involved, without entering with his whole person into the painful situation, without taking the risk of becoming hurt, wounded or even destroyed in the process. The beginning and the end of all Christian leadership is to give your life for others." Perhaps my tendency to be wounded sympathetically for others is not a sign of weakness in my potential as a pastor but is really the only way I can minister to another human being.

If ever I feel that my tears are a sign of weakness, I have to remind myself that even Jesus wept at the death of a friend. In times of tragedy, I believe there is often little else we can do than pray and weep. As a Christian and as someone who will one day be a minister in some capacity, empathizing with others, even to the extent that it causes me great pain, is a necessary—and involuntary—part of listening to, loving and accepting others, friend and stranger alike. As a child I wept for Mr. Christie; today I may weep for a friend struggling with depression or for the young man I worked with last summer who died in a freak accident a few days ago. However, these are not hurts for me to take from others and to bury in myself; my great consolation is that I do not have to bear any burden on my own. Every burden I take on, be it my pain or someone else’s, can be laid at the foot of the cross and transformed into something beautiful. I was created to empathize with others, but I was created by a God who will not let me carry that alone.

A Peculiar Means of Grace (revised from an earlier post)

Since October 2006, I have been engaged in one of the most interesting and transformative ministries I have yet to encounter. For almost a year now, I have been corresponding regularly with William Barnes ("Tim"), prisoner #0020590 at Central Prison in Raleigh, NC. Tim is on Death Row for the 1990 murder of two people.

As I have gotten to know Tim through his letters, he has become a unique source for information, questions, and challenges to my life. Tim converted to Islam while in prison and we converse often about religion and spirituality. Tim is not afraid to share his faith or to ask pointed questions about mine. Once he asked how Jesus could be born of Mary and also have in him the fullness of God. Tim couldn’t make sense of this, and it became my task to explain the Christian belief in the humanity and divinity of Christ. Tim challenges me to articulate my beliefs in very basic terms. As a student of religious studies, I am so used to inhabiting conversation space where words like "eschatological" and "soteriology" are second nature that to have to delineate the fundamental beliefs of the Christian faith is not only humbling but also a reminder that communication and debate in the interfaith community is important, difficult, and requires practice.

One of my friends who is in seminary tells about his friendship with a Muslim graduate student. My friend was working in the library when his friend poked his head in the door and then turned to leave when he saw the room was occupied. When he realized he knew the person in there, he came back, nodded a greeting, then laid out his prayer rug and proceeded to pray. My friend was struck by the fact that this man felt comfortable openly practicing his faith in the presence of a Christian, and he wondered what he would have done had he been seeking a place to pray and had seen his Muslim friend in the room. For my friend, this man became a means of grace as the act of performing a spiritual discipline led him to reevaluate his own practices.

For me, Tim is also a peculiar means of grace. He ends every letter saying that he will pray for me and signs it "God bless, Tim." To know that a man in prison facing no escape but death is praying for me lends a great deal of perspective to how and for what I pray. Tim often quotes the writings of Muslim imams, talks about Ramadan during that season, and asks me questions about my own spiritual disciplines when describing his own. How often do I pray? How often do I fast? In a way, I've found that Tim's curiosity and candor have become a greater source of accountability even than some of the Christian communities of which I am a part.

When I agreed to write to a death row inmate, I knew it would be a unique experience. It has done all the things I thought it would: it has helped me get to know someone from a completely different sector of society, given me another perspective on the justice system, and challenged me to work for an alternative to the death penalty and to explore avenues of restorative justice rather than the punitive justice with which our country is so familiar. However, I did not expect my faith to be revitalized by conversation with a Muslim prisoner, and I do believe that Tim has been a means of grace in my life as a Christian.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Our Desires Are Too Weak

O Lord, I do not know what to ask of you.
You alone know what are my true needs.
You love me more than I myself know how to love.
I dare not ask either a cross or consolation.
I can only wait on you.
My heart is open to you. Amen. — Philaret of Moscow


John Piper (of whom, to be honest, I am not a huge fan, but I think he got this right) said in a sermon that he does not preach to felt needs. Although it is obviously important that a pastor be able to care for and tend to the needs of the members of a congregation/community, perhaps the greatest service a pastor can do for parishioners is to show them that their desires are disordered, weak, and in need of extensive renovation. C. S. Lewis once said, "Our Lord finds our desires not too strong but too weak." Desire drives human existence, but we desire the wrong things and whatever part of us that might approach or border on correct desire is feeble and flimsy at best. We do not know what we need or even what we want, because the things we think we want and need will never bring satisfaction. If our desire is for money, we fall into the sin of greed; if our desire is for esteem, we fall into the sin of pride; if our desire is for food, we fall into the sin of gluttony; if our desire is for sex, we fall into the sin of lust; and on and on. These desires are disordered and weak. These desires can make our lives seem worth living in the eyes of the world, but they ruin our lives in the eyes of God. We were made to desire God so passionately that this desire would thoroughly ruin our lives on this earth. Jesus did not say that if we follow him, everyone will love us; he said, "If the world hates you, be aware that it hated me before it hated you" (John 15:18).

Julian of Norwich
knew full well that if she were to pursue anything short of the fullness of God, she would always find herself lacking, her needs and wants unfulfilled. In her record of the divine revelations, she prays, "God, of your goodness give me yourself, for you are sufficient for me. I cannot properly ask anything less, to be worthy of you. If I were to ask less, I should always be in want. In you alone do I have all." This is the desire for which we were created: to be worthy to abide in the fullness and mercy of God. Before partaking in Mass, the monks of Christ in the Desert Monastery in New Mexico pray this simple request: "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you. Only say the word, and I will be." There are desires that we can try to fulfill on our own. We can seek out power and prestige to sate our thirst for the approval of others; we can find someone who will sleep with us and slake our lust. But when our desires are reoriented and strengthened, we find that the only one who can satisfy those desires is God.

But here's the question: what can a preacher say every Sunday in the pulpit to shape and convert the desires of those in the congregation? How can a minister strike a balance between taking good pastoral care of people while turning their worlds on end? It seems to me that the task of caring for and tending to the perceived wants and needs of people while simultaneously telling them that their desires are misguided and weak would be extremely difficult and even delicate. Too often I feel that pastors spend so much time trying to meet people where they are that they forget that there is a better place to which they need to help bring them. On the other hand, plenty of people speak the hard truth that we want the wrong things and that the desires we do have are weak and pathetic, but in such a way that those who hear it feel attacked rather than loved and challenged. This is one of the most daunting of the tasks before me: to love and cherish those to whom I will one day minister as they are while shaking them out of the slumber that lets us be lulled into complacency by desires that do not align with the reality that we were made to want God more than anything else.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Peter Storey on Violence

"If you justify violence for any reason, no matter how good and noble, you legitimize it for every reason, no matter how wrong and unworthy." — Bishop Peter Storey, South Africa

I haven't been posting any of my own thoughts lately because I am just emerging from the whirlwind of moving into and setting up my apartment, and classes started for me yesterday. I hope to begin posting again within the next few days; being back at school has already raised a host of questions that I need to hash out for my own benefit and which I think might be of interest to a broader audience. Many thanks to everyone who's been reading my first few posts and who have encouraged me thus far!

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Refusing to Surrender (an old piece)

This is actually a reflection I wrote in May 2006 while reading Dietrich Bonhoeffer's book The Cost of Discipleship. It's a little scattered, but the questions and the musings are there, and I would like to revisit some of these thoughts in the near future.



"Is there some part of your life which you are refusing to surrender at his behest, some sinful passion, maybe, or some animosity, some hope, perhaps your ambition or your reason? If so, you must not be surprised that you have not received the Holy Spirit, that prayer is difficult, or that your request for faith remains unanswered. Go rather and be reconciled with your brother, renounce the sin which holds you fast—and then you will recover your faith! …How can you hope to enter into communion with him when at some point in your life you are running away from him?" -- Dietrich Bonhoeffer


I wrote this passage down in my journal on 3 February 2006. Certain words and phrases stuck out like sore thumbs jabbing me in the sides: refusing to surrender, your reason, prayer is difficult, your request for faith remains unanswered, at some point in your life you are running away from him. I read this passage over and over sporadically for the next few months and still revisit it in times of doubt.

My own refusal to surrender anything to God goes back quite a long way. I remember talking for years about how important it is to allow oneself to be vulnerable in the presence of God, to give up control and to trust him even when it seemed impossible, only to realize that I was utterly unable to follow my own teachings. I had never surrendered anything to God but a fragment of my free time, had never truly allowed myself to lean on him, had never relinquished control of my heart and mind as I thought I had. I still to this day maintain a fierce, tenacious hold on my life. I am slowly working my way back to God, slowly turning things over to his grace and will, but it is very, very slowly.

It was very profound to me that Bonhoeffer chose to list reason among those things that are perhaps not being handed over to God. I can completely identify with that. Despite my surface distaste for reason and my romanticized ideals of the subjective, I still rely entirely too much on my own understanding. I realize that much of my approach to ameliorating my faith comes from this standpoint; although I am working some on my spiritual life, most of what I am doing is building a stockpile of knowledge, of expanding my religious education, of becoming well-read, supposedly for the sake of equipping myself to be a better pastor one day, but I will be the first to admit that there is a certain amount of pride tied up in how much and what I get read this summer. I don't think that doing these things are necessarily bad, but I am keenly aware that I need to couple my theological expeditions with Scripture readings, personal prayer, and active engagement in corporal worship. Worship I actually have about down pat, but the Bible and prayer are still slightly foreign to me.

This leads directly into the next point, that prayer is difficult. I hate praying. I especially hate praying in front of groups. All my life, I was the kid who volunteered to pray or was called on to pray. At some point, I got sick of it and decided to make other people step up every now and then. This quickly turned into my total absence from that arena, and I wonder if that did not directly affect my personal prayer life, which has been virtually nonexistent for years now. When I am forced to pray in public, I hate every second of it; I get nervous, I sweat, I stutter, I fumble for words. Usually I simply refuse to do it. Last night, Dad asked if I would say the blessing at dinner, and I replied, "No thank you." As for my individual prayer life, I have tried on occasion to get into a habit of praying. I have found that one big problem is my attention span. I often get bored or distracted in the middle of prayers and suddenly find myself at the computer remembering that I was supposed to be talking to God. I found that journaling helps this some; I am more articulate when writing in the first place, and it helps me to train my mind on what I am doing. I also am more engaged and involved when I do this. Other things that have helped have been prayers, songs, or poems written by others with which I strongly identify; some that come to mind include Merton's Seigneur mon Dieu, Wesley's "Come O Thou Traveler Unknown," the occasional Rilke elegy, and plenty of Jars of Clay songs. I can pray through their words and make them my own because they speak profoundly to my experience and my needs. I would like, however, to do some praying that really is mine, and I will have to work on that. I need to begin to set aside time for prayer, but I am so often busy and I live with other people, so time and privacy are both scarce. Even when I am alone and have the time, prayer frightens me. I suppose that the only way I can ameliorate this situation is to actively pursue a healthy prayer life on my own. Yikes.

I have requested faith and often do not know whether that request has gone unanswered or whether I completely misunderstand what it means to be given faith. Faith is a funny thing, and too often we are taught to associate it with emotionality and warm fuzzy feelings. Although I disagree with this approach and find it destructive in many ways, there is still a part of me that has been so conditioned by mountain top experiences like mission trips and retreats that I find myself almost looking for that euphoric, spiritual feeling that is supposed to accompany belief in and communion with God. I don't particularly know how I will know when I truly have faith, but I’m sure patience is involved somehow. I read something helpful in Norwood's American Methodism, something that Peter Boehler said to John Wesley: "Preach faith till you have it, and then, because you have it, you will preach faith." This sounds like Bonhoeffer's spiel on obedience and faith (also in Discipleship). He presents the paradoxical truth that one cannot have faith unless he obeys but that one only obeys when he has faith. This annoys me because I can't find the entry point to all of this. Maybe the whole faith and works thing is related – true faith is by definition accompanied by works, and true works cannot be done without faith. Or something, I’m just trying to avoid condoning works righteousness right now. In any case, I must learn to pray for faith, to preach faith, to practice obedience, and to do works of faith; and then, perhaps, I will one day have faith.

"How can you hope to enter into communion with him when at some point in your life you are running away from him?" Good question. I know plenty about running away from God. "I cannot run, I cannot hide/Believe me now, you know I've tried." I spent years doing so, and to some extent I continue on that path even now. When I wrote my song "Prodigal," it was not yet titled, so I posted the lyrics online and asked friends for ideas for a song name. Suggestions that came back included "Prince of Peace," "All in All," and other sappy, happy, warm fuzzy titles. True, most of them drew on lyrics within the song, but I was bothered because none of them really got to the heart of what the song was about. Although the song does thank and extol God, its primary function is a prayer for forgiveness and reconciliation. I started thinking of titles that were not lifted from the text, and when I thought of "Prodigal," I knew there was nothing more perfect. This was not a song about Jesus, it was the lamenting, apologizing, entreating prayer of a child who had run away from her father and was painfully tiptoeing back. I am that prodigal child every day, when I refuse to surrender to God, when I choose reason over faith, when I shy away from prayer because it is too hard or inconvenient, when I half-heartedly ask for faith, and when I continue to run away, run away, run away. I must stop in my tracks, turn around, and go back to my Father. I hope to find a warm welcome.

Friday, August 24, 2007

A Prayer from Julian of Norwich

God,
of your goodness give me yourself,
for you are sufficient for me.
I cannot properly ask anything less,
to be worthy of you.
If I were to ask less,
I should always be in want.
In you alone do I have all.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Christian Scholarship (quote)

"The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obliged to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined. How would I ever get on in the world? Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church's prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close. Oh, priceless scholarship, what would we do without you? Dreadful it is to fall in the hands of the living God. "
— Søren Kierkegaard

The Fast I DON'T Choose

Since last October, I have been engaged in one of the most interesting and transformative ministries I have yet to encounter. For almost a year now, I have been corresponding regularly with William Barnes ("Tim"), prisoner #0020590 at Central Prison in Raleigh, NC. Tim is on Death Row for the 1990 murder of two people.

As I have gotten to know Tim through his letters, he has continuously challenged me in countless ways, but right now I'd like to focus on an issue he brought up in his most recent communication to me. Tim converted to Islam while in prison and we converse regularly about religion and spirituality. His conversion was not well-received by his family, with whom he has not been in contact since 1998. Tim regularly asks me about aspects of Christianity that he does not understand, but he also asks me about my own spiritual practices.

Most recently, Tim asked me how many times I fast in a year. On one level, I found the timing of his question exceedingly ironic, seeing as I had just started a blog called "The Fast I Choose" and have grown quite fond of quoting the passage in Isaiah to which that phrase alludes. On another level, I felt a little ashamed, because I had to admit to Tim that although I have tried fasting once or twice, I've never been able to go through with that particular spiritual discipline. True, I was told back in middle school that I was hypoglycemic, and I do get an awful headache if I don't eat for a period of time—but Tim's question came close on the heels with a conversation I had with a friend on the very subject. She and her husband are both hypoglycemic, but they fast regularly. After talking to her, I realized that my excuse, which was feeble from the beginning, probably sounded like every other reason people use not to fast.

The truth is, fasting isn't something that very many Christians do these days. The rate of obesity in America is embarrassingly high, and you can be sure that among those statistics are a large number of Christians, both lay and clergy. Clearly, fasting is not at the top of the average Christian's list of priorities; it only makes mine in the same way "a pony" made my Christmas wish list throughout my childhood. It would be nice if fasting were something we could do, and we take our hats off to those who practice that spiritual discipline, but it's not something we think we can—or would even want—to do ourselves.

I did a little poking around on the internet to see what information I might come up with on fasting. I know Wikipedia is taboo in academic circles, but it really is terribly useful on a surface level, and their article on fasting even had, in addition to explanations of the use of fasting in various religions, a list of Biblical references to fasting (not an exhaustive one, but a list nonetheless). Among those were passages from Exodus 34 (Moses fasts for 40 days while on the mountain with God), 2 Samuel 12 (David fasts when his son becomes ill as punishment for David's adultery with Bathsheba and murder of Uriah), 2 Chronicles 20 (King Jehosaphat proclaims a fast to celebrate a military victory), Isaiah 58 (my favorite, of course), Jonah 3 (the people of Ninevah fast in order to stay God's hand in punishment), Esther 4 (the Jews fast in response to Haman's genocidal decree), Matthew 6 (Jesus warns that one should fast in private and not seek attention or approval through fasting), Matthew 4 and Luke 2 (Jesus fasts for 40 days in the wilderness before being tempted), among others.

What struck me upon reading this list was the variety of circumstances in which fasting was practiced. The general sense that I have always had is that a person fasts in repentance, and although this is certainly the case, it is not the only occasion on which people of the Old and New Testaments fast. Just in that list, fasting is used while in the presence of God, as a form of penitence and a prayer for healing, in celebration (and I thought feasts were the usual way to consummate a military victory?), in response to injustice, as a private exercise, and as a form of preparation for testing.

I and many others have boldly and often proclaimed the words of Isaiah 58:6-7, saying that the fast we choose shall be "to loose the bonds of injustice...[and] to share your bread with the hungry." This is indeed a call to justice, and Amos declares that even if we practice personal piety and fast faithfully, if we oppress others, God counts those acts for naught. It seems that I may have made the error of choosing a worthy fast while forgetting that the discipline of fasting was practiced by the Israelites, the prophets, Jesus himself, and the early church for a reason. Although some strains of Protestantism, as early as at the time of the Reformation, sought to abolish fasting because they believed that Catholics used the practice as a tool to earn salvation (I am thinking of Zwingli, who made a show of eating sausages during Lent), especially in the holiness movements, that particular discipline (among others) was often revived. In the early days of Methodism, my own denomination, John and Charles Wesley and George Whitfield were known to fast regularly.

Fasting can express repentance; it can be a means of seeking holiness; it can be a cry for justice; it can even be a form of celebration, the kind that recognizes and gives thanks to God as the sole provider of good things. When I wrote Tim back trying to answer his question, one thing I mentioned that makes fasting difficult is a lack of support, or at least a perceived lack of support, since I don't know many people who fast regularly. I wonder if it wouldn't behoove us all to give fasting a shot sometime, and although that is not something to be shouted from the rooftops, it wouldn't hurt (and would probably help!) to seek out a few fellow Christians for encouragement and even solidarity. If a question posed by a Muslim on Death Row can challenge me to work harder at this particular spiritual discipline, a community of Christians practicing it together might even be able to make fasting a celebration.

Monday, August 20, 2007

The Simple Way

I recently finished reading The Irresistible Revolution by Shane Claiborne. It was an incredible witness to his vocation to the Philadelphia community The Simple Way and the road that got him there, and I would highly recommend it. However, I would warn you that if the book doesn't make you want to live differently, you haven't paid attention to what Claiborne is saying. The off-color nature of his story, the personable tone of the writing, and the snazzy packaging in which you find the book itself make it an easy candidate for "youthy" appeal and popularity, but Claiborne is not trying to be cool or youthy and to mistake him for such is to misunderstand his telling of the gospel. Read the book, but be willing to be changed.

"May God disturb you deeply." — Rev. Trevor Hudson, South Africa

Sunday, August 19, 2007

The Green Mile Seems So Long

Tonight I watched the movie The Green Mile on TV with my family. That film (and the book that inspired it—it's by Stephen King and I would definitely recommend the print version) is so saturated with emotion and difficult questions, and every time I watch it, something different latches onto my heart like a vise and twists until I hash it out. This time, the image of the guards on E Block tidying up the main room to prepare for an execution stuck with me. Watching them sweep the floors, set out folding chairs, and polish the one chair no one wants to sit in—but in which someone will have to sit—put me in mind of preparations being made for a show to be put on stage. I was appalled to watch the execution scenes as women in big hats and fancy dresses fanned themselves and their generally less well-dressed husbands as they calmly waited to watch another human being die. It was as if I had been transported back not to 1935 but to the 12th century and was watching as curious spectators gathered to witness a hanging.

Going along with that, I was struck by the things the people in the crowd had to say to the man being led to his death—struck not only by the nature of the comments but also by the familiar ring they brought to my ears, so used to being regaled with people's gallant declarations of support for the death penalty. I'll leave the actual issue to discuss another time; what I want to look at now is whatever it is in our human nature that makes the darkest parts of us well up at certain times.

The other day, I watched a video clip of Ann Coulter on a talk show. The day before, she had made a comment about John Edwards, and on this particular education, the audience was surprised to hear none other than Elizabeth Edwards' voice coming in over the line to speak to Coulter. Edwards was well-spoken, kept her composure very admirably, and had a very good point—namely, that Coulter's tendency to use personal attacks, often of a disturbingly cruel nature, on political candidates does nothing but paralyze actual debate over issues. I cheered Edwards on and scowled as Coulter rudely interrupted her (I don't care who you are, interrupting someone who's trying to make a sincere point is rude, and Coulter reigns supreme in that very activity), but I became extremely irked when the talk show host asked why Coulter felt it necessary to make fun of Hillary Clinton's and Monica Lewinsky's chubbiness in her book. Coulter stubbornly refused to answer the question unless he could produce the exact passage and give her the context; his response was that he himself was wondering what on earth the context could be. Certainly comments about Clinton's chubby legs have no place in political debate, but I found myself, someone who is none to comfortable with her own weight, muttering something bitter and terribly unkind about how skinny Ann Coulter is. At this point, I was engaged in a conversation about the subject with my father, who pointed out to me that I had just done the very same thing Coulter had done; I had made a personal attack, and the fact that I am sensitive about slights on people packing a little extra weight gives me no right to disparage those who are thin. Coulter, with her attitude of negativity, had appealed to my dark side and brought it out in full force.

I wonder if that very same thing were not happening at those fictional executions in The Green Mile, if that does not happen at executions today. When confronted with a person who murdered a friend or relative, who could honestly hope to keep the angry, primitive side of them from lashing out, as one character in the movie did, by shouting to "kill him twice, go on and kill him twice"? Darkness, grief, and evil breed their own. Perhaps that is why I was told again and again as I entered college to surround myself with good people. It was not in order to insulate myself from bad influences but to give the good in me a chance to be nurtured and encouraged, so that when I was faced with darkness in all its forms, I could enter into that situation without fear of being consumed by it, with the hope of consuming it with the love in which I had been growing. That is, after all, what Christian community is supposed to do; never to cut us off from the rest of the world, but to give us the strength and love necessary to go into the world and wrestle its demons without having to pretend we can do it alone. Alone, we succumb to the temptations of the world; as a community of people in communion with God, we can shed light even in the darkest places.

The question then becomes how to communicate this conviction, this hope, to the people who would sit on the front row in an execution chamber and shout, "kill him twice!" Oftentimes when I express my views about capital punishment, people respond with utmost confidence that if a member of my family were murdered, I would support the death penalty. But...no, I would not. Again, I'll save that whole discussion for another time, but for now, I will say that I at least would never want to watch anyone die, criminal or no—and aren't we all sinners, aren't we all murderers according to Jesus himself who said that he who is angry with his brother merits the same punishment as one who kills his brother (Matthew 5:21-22)?—and looking in the face of someone who had taken someone I loved and watching them die would bring me nothing resembling satisfaction. I wish I knew a way to communicate to those who believe that such a circumstance would bring them peace that there is a better way, a way of love and forgiveness...even now. To cry out for the death of another human being is to commit the murder, and it will not be an earthly government before which you or I will stand trial for such an act.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

The Fast I Choose

Welcome to the first post in my new blog. I don't have a terribly clear vision of what I want to do with this, but I have some vague inkling that I'd like to make it a space where I can explore and hash out how I and others in the church are doing theology and what impact it (necessarily) has on individual lives, communities, congregations, and the world. Ideally, it would be nice to have a place to reflect upon, make connections regarding, and garner support for various endeavors in social justice amid which I may find myself, and find myself wanting company. I've updated a LiveJournal nearly daily for over 4 years now, and I feel like it's time I carved out a spot in cyberspace where I'm doing something more and vastly better than whining about my personal life. Besides, writing is in my marrow, and if I hope to use it to establish and carry out orthodoxy and orthopraxis in my life and in the communities with which I identify myself, I figure I had better get some practice other than writing papers for school and recounting the day's events with sometimes overwhelming verbosity.

I felt the need to come up with a clever name for my blog, and who knows if I'll stick with the one I chose, but in a way it works because it's Scripture and it's all about social justice. Here's the context, in case you don't run in my particular faith circles and didn't catch it:

"Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?" — Isaiah 58:6-7

The preceding verses show that although the house of Jacob may fast and "lie in sackcloth and ashes" (v. 5), God says to his people, "[you] oppress all your workers" (v. 3) and perpetrate injustice against others. God will not hear the cries of a people who mistreat their brothers and sisters so. In the book of Amos, God declares that unless justice is carried out, he will not even hear their praise and worship:

"I hate, I despise your festivals,
and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies.
Even though you offer me your burnt-offerings and grain-offerings,
I will not accept them;
and the offerings of well-being of your fatted animals
I will not look upon.
Take away from me the noise of your songs;
I will not listen to the melody of your harps.
But let justice roll down like waters,
and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream." — Amos 5:21-24

All of this is stuff that the good liberal Christian knows. However, I am aware of the subtle ways in which the most sincere efforts to pursue justice can fall short of God's vision for his fallen world. It is so easy to become an activist, to protest injustice everywhere, to raise a much-needed voice against oppression in all its insidious forms. But Stanley Hauerwas and others warn that it is possible for the church to get so wrapped up in standing against something—whether it is standing against war, against poverty, against homosexuality, against immorality, or any number of things—that she forgets what she is standing for. The church stands at the foot of the cross for the sake of all of God's children whom he longs to come to know him through relationship and community, which the church is meant to establish as mirrored in God's very nature as Trinity, three in one, a self-contained community of unconditional love.

So that's a handful of scattered thoughts posing as an introduction to this blog. Please to enjoy—or not, and either way, comments are encouraged. Also, the list of websites I've posted includes all kinds of resources: church websites, social justice initiatives, various nonprofit organizations, intentional communities, Christian publications, and some links of my own dealing with my music or projects with which I am involved. I'll be updating that list occasionally, so keep checking it out—you may find something of interest.

 

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