It's really a good question: when I try to preserve myself, am I really living? You know, if I reserve all of my time an energy for saving my "self", do I have any time or energy left over to live?
I struggle with "self" preservation all the time. I want Tim to be important; I want Tim to have what Tim wants; I want, I want, I want. In the end, will I find emptiness where a life could have been lived? As I struggled with that a few weeks ago, I read a very good reflection from my book by Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening. Here's what he said on October 17:
"Early in life, I learned to protect myself, and this meant that I became very good at catching things. In fact, I never went anywhere without my catcher's mitt. No matter what came at me, nothing could surprise me. And while this saved me from unpredictable assaults of my family, and even helped me in my odyssey through cancer, it eventually had a life of its own. Everything - birds, women, friends, truth - was intercepted by the quick reflex of my mitt. Eventually, nothing got through, and the very thing that helped me survive was now keeping me from being touched. The softness and wonder of the world was vanishing from my life. (my emphasis)...We are, each of us, in a repeatable war between defending ourselves from hurts that happened long ago and opening in innocence, again and again, to the unexpected touch of life."
Wow! Those are important words to ponder. They also could help us in our quest to understand one another as we go through the "changes and chances of life". In our class of Emergence Christianity, we have encountered many challenges to our sensibilities, some challenges to our ways of thinking, even a few challenges to personal definitions of "church". If I had to sum up the challenges we have had in the class, it would probably look like Mark Nepo's reflection.
Think about it: when we meet challenges in life, the first thing we do is try to protect the "self" - make sure I am safe from harm. After some time, I start to realize that I am safe and I can start to reach out. The problem is, when I start to get comfortable, some new challenge comes along and I start the "self" preservation process over again!
How can the Church help us to let go of "self" and allow the "softness and wonder of the world" from vanishing? I am not sure how that happens, but I think it happens most often in a life-giving, life-transforming community - hey, isn't the Church one of those kinds of community's? It sure is! How could the world change if the Church lived out its call?
What do you think?
Peace,
Tim
Friday, November 1, 2013
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Physics or Philosophy?
OK, don't be put off by the title. I know it's a bit of a stretch to think of physics and philosophy as ways of viewing the world. It was for me, at least, until I took physics in college.
I was one of those people who wanted to think he had a scientific mind but really didn't. Especially in physics and chemistry, my mind always wandered away from the subject. Why did I have to memorize all of those formulae? Did anyone really think this stuff would be helpful when I started actively contributing to society in a meaningful way? Who thought up all that stuff anyway? It wasn't until my physics class in college that I realized that I had been thinking about science all wrong! Science in general, and physics more particularly, could be approached in ways that the philosophers have used for centuries! That Welsh physics professor helped us to explore not only basic physics, but life in general by asking questions, experiencing and providing an environment in which to talk about the experience. Soon enough, the class realized that the formulae were not a required "law" but a gift to help give words and shape to the life experience.
Sounds weird, I know - welcome to the inside of my head! That experience reminded me of a truth that Phyllis Tickle shared with our book group recently. She quipped that Albert Einstein gave rise to Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, that later gave rise to philosophers like Caputo, Foucault and the 20th Century Existentialists.
I admit that the only thing I know about Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle is that one of two components can be determined at a time about an electron: (1) its location and (2) its momentum. In other words, when observing the atomic world (the quantum world, even) the observer can never know for certain (thus, the "uncertainty" of the Heisenberg Principle) the momentum if s/he is observing the location; conversely, the observer cannot know the location if s/he observes the momentum. To observe one is to be uncertain of the other.
Of course, philosophers latched on to this idea and deconstructed all of life - not just atoms or electrons. It seems a clean manner of learning about life. In reality, the Uncertainty Principle makes a mess of everything! No longer can I say that "this happened because of that". Can I any longer say, "where there's smoke, there's fire"? I don't know.
Where is all this going? I don't know. No, really, I don't know and I wonder if it's OK to say, "I don't know"?
I was one of those people who wanted to think he had a scientific mind but really didn't. Especially in physics and chemistry, my mind always wandered away from the subject. Why did I have to memorize all of those formulae? Did anyone really think this stuff would be helpful when I started actively contributing to society in a meaningful way? Who thought up all that stuff anyway? It wasn't until my physics class in college that I realized that I had been thinking about science all wrong! Science in general, and physics more particularly, could be approached in ways that the philosophers have used for centuries! That Welsh physics professor helped us to explore not only basic physics, but life in general by asking questions, experiencing and providing an environment in which to talk about the experience. Soon enough, the class realized that the formulae were not a required "law" but a gift to help give words and shape to the life experience.
Sounds weird, I know - welcome to the inside of my head! That experience reminded me of a truth that Phyllis Tickle shared with our book group recently. She quipped that Albert Einstein gave rise to Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, that later gave rise to philosophers like Caputo, Foucault and the 20th Century Existentialists.
I admit that the only thing I know about Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle is that one of two components can be determined at a time about an electron: (1) its location and (2) its momentum. In other words, when observing the atomic world (the quantum world, even) the observer can never know for certain (thus, the "uncertainty" of the Heisenberg Principle) the momentum if s/he is observing the location; conversely, the observer cannot know the location if s/he observes the momentum. To observe one is to be uncertain of the other.
Of course, philosophers latched on to this idea and deconstructed all of life - not just atoms or electrons. It seems a clean manner of learning about life. In reality, the Uncertainty Principle makes a mess of everything! No longer can I say that "this happened because of that". Can I any longer say, "where there's smoke, there's fire"? I don't know.
Where is all this going? I don't know. No, really, I don't know and I wonder if it's OK to say, "I don't know"?
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Knowing God
It may come as no surprise to many: I like to read. Mostly I read books that challenge me to think in different ways. I don't always agree with what I read, but the process of reading offers to me an outlet to meditate on new ideas. Recently, I have been reading about the relationship between science and spirituality. Not science and religion - that would lead in a wholly different direction - but science and spirituality.
For the writer of the book I am reading, "spirituality" is more like the ability to recognize and accept the sacredness that one encounters in life. This kind of sacredness can be experienced in the rational mind of a scientist who stands in awe of galaxies and universes. That sacredness could happen at work, or at home; in the car or while walking; one could encounter "spirituality" anywhere. The author mentions the work of Rudolf Otto, The idea of the Holy - an early 20th Century work about the encounter of things that one could call "holy".
According to Otto, holiness happens when one listens to a work by Mozart or Beethoven; perhaps when one attends an opera; it could happen, of course, when one goes to worship; it could occur most anywhere one feels outside the normal life. A holy moment is that moment when one forgets the cares of the world and realizes that everything finally fits together. It's a "numinous" moment, says Otto - a moment that is beyond description, even if you could find the words to say.
I had read Rudolf Otto's book many years ago. In typical German style, it is very dense and difficult to read without saying, "What did I just read?" It's one of those books you read the same page about three times before having just an inkling of an idea what the author is saying...I think you get the point. I almost put it down several times, but something kept drawing me back to it. Finally, at the end, I realized one thing: anything that I consider holy must be experienced.
Experience: that's what knowing God is all about. I could read 10 or 10,000 books on God, but until I finally experience God's presence with me, I cannot "know" God. Understanding God is not what I am talking about here. I don't think I will ever understand God, but I can "know" - in a feeling, perceiving way about God with me.
What experiences have you had in which you felt like you "knew" God? Even if that experience lasted only seconds, when have you felt that you were standing on holy ground?
For the writer of the book I am reading, "spirituality" is more like the ability to recognize and accept the sacredness that one encounters in life. This kind of sacredness can be experienced in the rational mind of a scientist who stands in awe of galaxies and universes. That sacredness could happen at work, or at home; in the car or while walking; one could encounter "spirituality" anywhere. The author mentions the work of Rudolf Otto, The idea of the Holy - an early 20th Century work about the encounter of things that one could call "holy".
According to Otto, holiness happens when one listens to a work by Mozart or Beethoven; perhaps when one attends an opera; it could happen, of course, when one goes to worship; it could occur most anywhere one feels outside the normal life. A holy moment is that moment when one forgets the cares of the world and realizes that everything finally fits together. It's a "numinous" moment, says Otto - a moment that is beyond description, even if you could find the words to say.
I had read Rudolf Otto's book many years ago. In typical German style, it is very dense and difficult to read without saying, "What did I just read?" It's one of those books you read the same page about three times before having just an inkling of an idea what the author is saying...I think you get the point. I almost put it down several times, but something kept drawing me back to it. Finally, at the end, I realized one thing: anything that I consider holy must be experienced.
Experience: that's what knowing God is all about. I could read 10 or 10,000 books on God, but until I finally experience God's presence with me, I cannot "know" God. Understanding God is not what I am talking about here. I don't think I will ever understand God, but I can "know" - in a feeling, perceiving way about God with me.
What experiences have you had in which you felt like you "knew" God? Even if that experience lasted only seconds, when have you felt that you were standing on holy ground?
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Is there ever a bad reason to forgive?
Seems like a rhetorical question, but I am serious. Is there ever a bad time to forgive someone? Do I forgive because I feel like the other person is deserving of forgiveness? Or, the converse, do I ever withhold forgiveness because someone is not worthy? That's a harder question. I guess I could say that all of these have something to do with my faith, don't they?
On Sunday, we will hear once again from Luke's Gospel, the story of the "dishonest steward" (Luke 16:1-13). In that story, the dishonest steward of the master's estate has been mismanaging things and he got caught. In order to make amends, what could the steward do? Well, this guy "cooks the books"! That's right, the dishonest manager of the estate decided to forgive every debt - at least partly so.
This story creates lots of challenges for me and even more questions: Was it right to forgive on behalf of someone else? If so, how does that apply to me as I forgive others on behalf of God? When I forgive someone, does the other person have to accept that s/he is forgiven? What happens if s/he does not accept the forgiveness I have offered?
A long time ago, someone told me that forgiveness is not about others; it's about me. Forgiveness is about me letting go of the power that holds me down in a relationship. When I name those powers, I start to gain control over them; as I struggle with them, and get more uncomfortable with them, their power tries to overtake me. In forgiveness, I say, "No more!" I bind the powers of sin that try to keep me from moving forward and there's a two-fold deliverance: (1) I am freed from the other person's anger; (2) I free myself from my own regret.
Sometimes this two-fold process happens simultaneously; at other times, one step follows the other. In the end, the result is always the same. Someone is set free from spiraling deeper into an endless abyss of grief, pain and self-denial. There really is no better way to say it. Often the evil from which one is created comes directly from the heart of individuals; at other times, that evil is systemic in culture or society (such as in racism).
So, is there ever a bad reason to forgive?
On Sunday, we will hear once again from Luke's Gospel, the story of the "dishonest steward" (Luke 16:1-13). In that story, the dishonest steward of the master's estate has been mismanaging things and he got caught. In order to make amends, what could the steward do? Well, this guy "cooks the books"! That's right, the dishonest manager of the estate decided to forgive every debt - at least partly so.
This story creates lots of challenges for me and even more questions: Was it right to forgive on behalf of someone else? If so, how does that apply to me as I forgive others on behalf of God? When I forgive someone, does the other person have to accept that s/he is forgiven? What happens if s/he does not accept the forgiveness I have offered?
A long time ago, someone told me that forgiveness is not about others; it's about me. Forgiveness is about me letting go of the power that holds me down in a relationship. When I name those powers, I start to gain control over them; as I struggle with them, and get more uncomfortable with them, their power tries to overtake me. In forgiveness, I say, "No more!" I bind the powers of sin that try to keep me from moving forward and there's a two-fold deliverance: (1) I am freed from the other person's anger; (2) I free myself from my own regret.
Sometimes this two-fold process happens simultaneously; at other times, one step follows the other. In the end, the result is always the same. Someone is set free from spiraling deeper into an endless abyss of grief, pain and self-denial. There really is no better way to say it. Often the evil from which one is created comes directly from the heart of individuals; at other times, that evil is systemic in culture or society (such as in racism).
So, is there ever a bad reason to forgive?
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Akedah: The "Binding"
I admit, quite freely and without coercion: I have a lot of trouble with the story in Genesis 22. What father who loves his son would submit to sacrifice him? I get to preach on this text on Saturday night (the narrative lectionary) and I don't know, yet, how my interpretation of the story will go over.
Does the fact that I struggle with this story reveal the nature of this text; namely, that one's life of faith is one of struggling and listening to God? I find it not so difficult to say that I struggle with a text from scripture, but how many people who sit in the pews want to know that I don't have all the answers for life? Frankly, from my perspective, I want to hear words from a preacher that reveal vulnerability and challenge.
Maybe the kernel of faith of this text lay in its ability to speak to all of humanity about our personal and communal perceptions of God. Maybe, just maybe, the ideas that I have about God and the ideas that my community instill in me don't really understand God. I am more and more convinced that my meager understanding of God and what my community of faith teaches to me, pale in comparison to the reality of God that sometimes smacks me in the face.
Literarily speaking, this story foreshadows the impact of God's willingness to submit to sacrifice of self for all of humanity in a world that knows nothing more than violence. As Isaac's life is spared for father Abraham, God will submit to the same kind of sacrificial love and yet not stay the knife. Death will come to Jesus, in the Gospels, and God will place the imprimatur of approval on Jesus' own death by Resurrection on the third day. All of this reveals the extent of God's compassion for all of humanity; God's willingness to go the "extra mile".
Come struggle with us Saturday night at 5pm. We will struggle with the challenge of why God allows such an atrocity and why people of faith allow such a text of terror to be part of holy writ.
Friday, September 13, 2013
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Messy hands, or theological parsley?
Just ordered some new books by Girard and Girardian thinkers: Compassion or Apocalypse? A Comprehensible Guide to the Thought of Rene Girard by James Warren; Wolfgang Palaver's Rene Girard's Mimetic Theory; and Feodor Dostoyevsky: Resurrection from the Underground by Rene Girard.
What do I hope to gain from these writers? The same thing I demand of any writer: the opportunity to see life from a different perspective. Even when I read good fiction, I have that expectation. I suspect that's why I like science fiction so much; the genre confronts modern situations in a way that allows me to stand aside, watching and enjoying the ride, and say, "So, that's what's going on!"
It's not everyone's proverbial "cup of tea" to read Girard or those who write from his perspective, so it's up to me to digest and present the material, that is so life-giving, to "others". Just writing that previous sentence makes me think of my role as pastor or one's role as a disciple of Jesus.
Often, the "other" does not understand why I could be joyful, or why, as some have said, "I could have hope in a God that allows people to die." It's up to me, as a disciple of Jesus, to put Jesus' message of hope and salvation in words that can be understood by others. A famous preacher from the US, Barbara Brown Taylor once said to a group of preachers that no one will believe those who proclaim the good news of God in Jesus unless we first prove that we have gotten our hands in the muck of life and dug down deep, pulling up the mess for all to look at and better to understand. When we serve up a little grace with some "theological parsley on top", people will learn to look elsewhere for food.
What does that mean - to serve up grace with a little "theological parsley on top"? For Taylor, she means to keep it real. Those of us who are Christians, must let our actions and our words match, but even more, we must begin to tell God's story in a way that others can understand. What does that mean for you?
What do I hope to gain from these writers? The same thing I demand of any writer: the opportunity to see life from a different perspective. Even when I read good fiction, I have that expectation. I suspect that's why I like science fiction so much; the genre confronts modern situations in a way that allows me to stand aside, watching and enjoying the ride, and say, "So, that's what's going on!"
It's not everyone's proverbial "cup of tea" to read Girard or those who write from his perspective, so it's up to me to digest and present the material, that is so life-giving, to "others". Just writing that previous sentence makes me think of my role as pastor or one's role as a disciple of Jesus.
Often, the "other" does not understand why I could be joyful, or why, as some have said, "I could have hope in a God that allows people to die." It's up to me, as a disciple of Jesus, to put Jesus' message of hope and salvation in words that can be understood by others. A famous preacher from the US, Barbara Brown Taylor once said to a group of preachers that no one will believe those who proclaim the good news of God in Jesus unless we first prove that we have gotten our hands in the muck of life and dug down deep, pulling up the mess for all to look at and better to understand. When we serve up a little grace with some "theological parsley on top", people will learn to look elsewhere for food.
What does that mean - to serve up grace with a little "theological parsley on top"? For Taylor, she means to keep it real. Those of us who are Christians, must let our actions and our words match, but even more, we must begin to tell God's story in a way that others can understand. What does that mean for you?
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