Quick To Listen

by Susan Andrews

In my new position as a presbytery executive, I drive – a lot! Ninety-two churches, spread out over seven counties – from New York City almost up to Albany and from Connecticut to New Jersey on both sides of the Hudson River. Luckily, most of the scenery is gorgeous, and the roads are good. But, I still spend too many hours in the car. So, I have discovered Books on Disc – and am rapidly going through the entire stash of choices at the local library. My most recent auditory adventure was The World is Flat – by Thomas Freidman. I now know more about technology and globalization than I will ever remember. But there are some high points that directly connect with the contemporary world of the church.

Freidman’s whole emphasis is on the flattening of the world –  brought about by the internet and wireless technology and the equal access that everyone has – regardless of country, religion, age, or education.  Hierarchical or sectarian control of any kind is simply impossible in a world where the poorest little girl in the farthest village can log on pretty easily to all the information and ideas and opportunities that anyone needs to move ahead. Granted, developing countries are at a disadvantage economically in gaining access to this technology – but even that is changing at an electric speed. With the flattening of the world and the opening up of information possibilities, the way things get done are through imagination, personal initiative, collaboration, and interdependent creativity – a pretty good description of the church according to the Apostle Paul – and to Jesus. “You are the Body of Christ and individually members of him – and when one part weeps, we all weep, and when one part rejoices, we all rejoice.” And it is only when the body is coordinated and integrated that the Good News of abundant life for all can be realized.

The one idea that has stayed with me the most is Friedman’s new formula for “intelligence.” His thinking is somewhat akin to Goldman’s idea about “emotional intelligence” – that effective leadership and mature living does not come from brainpower alone – but through the integration of heart and mind – building strong and healthy emotional systems and relationships with others. Freidman says that among the young entrepreneurs and technological innovators who are shaping the future of the world, the Intelligent Quotient (IQ) has now been surpassed by the Curiosity Quotient (CQ) and the Passion Quotient PQ). CQ plus PQ is what is encouraging creativity and new life to emerge in such a rapidly changing world.   Which I think is a clue that the emerging church needs to embrace.

The Curiosity Quotient is a way to keep the Gospel alive – constantly re-examining the parables and teachings of scripture – by asking questions and probing new insights as to how the written word becomes the Living Word in the immediacy of NOW. Rather than dogmatic answers or doctrinal warfare, lively conversation and dialogue seems to be the way to keep the church alive - where disagreement is embraced and New Truth emerges from the blending of old truths.  And the Passion Quotient is a wonderful way of describing the Holy Spirit – constantly stirring things up and energizing us to care body and soul - embodying the Grace and  Truth of the Living Christ in contemporary people and places.

In his comprehensive study of the missing young adults in our pews, Rodger Nishioka  (Christian Education professor at Columbia Seminary) has discovered that Passion is the key to the engagement and enthusiasm of young adults in our churches. If a congregation is not EXCITED about SOMETHING, why should anybody stick around? If we are not emotionally engaged in the life and promise of Jesus, why should any of us bother to be disciples. If energy and laughter and compassion and commitment are not bubbling up out of our communities of faith, what difference are they making? After all the Passion Story of Jesus is what sets Christianity apart – the love, the blood, the suffering, the energy, the intimacy, the vitality, the new life, the heart/head/mind/body commitment  – all poured into transforming the world. Living Resurrection in the midst of brokenness and crucifixion and need and yearning - it is this Passion Quotient that continues the work of creation – adding texture to the flattened terrain of a connected, collaborative, still emerging world.

May it be so.

by Jim Burklo 

“… But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;                      
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us–to know
Whence our lives come and where they go….”
“The Buried Life” by Matthew Arnold, 1852

I got a call a week ago from a young man named Johnnie Penn.  A newspaper editor had referred him to me, thinking I might be able to help him in his quest. I invited Johnnie to pay me a visit at my church office.  Johnnie is one of four Canadian college students who dropped out of school to do the one hundred things they want to do before they die, and travel around North America helping others to do the same.   The funky old transit bus in which they travel broke down in Sausalito.  While it was being repaired, they continued their quest to find people with special needs in fulfilling the goals of their lives.

They call their project “The Buried Life”.  It’s a reference to a poem by Matthew Arnold, from 1852, by the same name.  Arnold’s poem expresses the yearning for the authentic lives that we set aside when we take on our conventional roles in society.  Each of us needs to express the “fire and restless force” that are uniquely our own, but that all too often are “buried”.

I took Johnnie on a walk through downtown Sausalito, introducing him and his quest to people along the way.  I invited him and his friends to show up in worship on Sunday and tell their story.  After my initial introductions, Johnnie and his friends continued looking people with special needs in Sausalito and found one: a middle-aged man with terminal illness, living alone in an empty apartment on a low income.

On Sunday, the four young men showed up in worship.  To my surprise, they came with a film crew!  These clever young men have parlayed their mission into a media event.  A documentary is being made about their trip.  They’ve been on MTV, and have corporate sponsors. (See more at http://www.theburiedlife.com .)  This answered my question about their source of funds to keep their bus on the road.

I invited them to stand at the altar and describe their effort to dig up “The Buried Life” and live it to the full, helping others to do the same along the way.  Our church people enthusiastically offered their help in providing furniture for the dying man’s apartment.  Our congregation was moved by Johnnie, Ben, Dave, and Duncan’s story.  The four young men were surrounded by admirers at coffee hour downstairs after worship.

Then they gathered in my office to ask me what I want to do before I die - as the cameras were running.  I told them that as far as achievements or experiences in this life are concerned, I feel like I’ve already made it.  From now on, any new worldly accomplishments will be gravy for me.  But spiritually, I’m not yet where I want to be.  There’s still part of my soul that’s “buried” by the rush of activity in my everyday life.  I want to reach a state of spiritual equanimity in which I am full of compassion for others and fully aware of the divine.  When my time comes, I want to die with a twinkle in my eye and a heart full of love for my family and all those around me.  That may seem like a simple thing to want to achieve before I die.  But I’m going to need to make some real sacrifice of spiritual, physical, and mental effort to get there.

What do you want to do before you die?  What are you doing to make it happen?  What part of your life is “buried”, and needs to come to light and action?  Thank you, Johnnie, Ben, Dave, and Duncan, for asking such a good question – and having the nerve to live it!

by Steve Rankin

Americans are obsessed with their own emotional states. I work with college students where this syndrome is vir-tually epidemic, but it is not limited to young people, or to viewers of shows like “Oprah.” I don’t know about you, but it drives me crazy to watch some reporter stick a microphone in some poor grieving soul’s face and ask, “How did you feel when…?” I just want to shout (in my best adolescent affect), “Well, duh!”

That the reporter is asking about feelings is evidence of our obsession. Why are we so interested in how we (or they) feel? Check any controversial issue with which a church struggles and you will encounter people making all kinds of judgments on the basis of how something made them feel. (I recently read a comment by a denominational leader about another leader’s “hurtful” comments. So I read that comment, too, and it didn’t seem all that “hurtful” to me. I wonder if it matters whether it is true or not, even if it might be “hurtful.”) This is an alarmingly short-sighted behavior.

I’ve been “stuck” in John 15 (New Revised Standard Version) during my morning prayer, particularly the first few verses. Jesus tells the disciples that he is the vine and his Father is the vinedresser, who removes fruitless branches and prunes the ones bearing fruit, so that they can bear even more fruit. Then, in the very next verse (3), Jesus switches to cleansing: “You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you,” after which he immediately returns to the theme of fruit. What does cleansing have to do with pruning?

A quick check of the Greek New Testament reveals that “have been cleansed” and “prunes” come from the same Greek root word: kathairo. It is the source for words like “catharsis” and “cathartic.” To prune a fruit tree is to cleanse it, to make it fit to bear more and better fruit.

And for what do we use the word “catharsis?” Doesn’t it usually mean some kind of “purging” of feelings? A rant is “cathartic:” “I feel so much better now.” Venting is somehow perceived as a “cleansing” of a sort. We “got things off our chests” and we now feel better. And feeling better seems to be the goal.

But Jesus is interested in fruit. Certainly, it does not mean that he is careless about feelings. In verse 11 he talks about our joy being complete. “Joy” certainly has emotional qualities. Still, there’s much more to spirituality than just feeling good (or better) about things. I think we American Christians are largely stuck here. We are embarras-singly self-absorbed. Oh, Lord, help us to focus on the fruit.

Earlier this year Rev. Gordon McClellan interviewed Arthur Dahl, Ph.D.  Dr. Dahl is recently retired as Coordinator of the United Nations Environmental Program and serves currently as President of the International Environment Forum.

GM: An aspect of global warming that we don’t often hear about is the impact that environmental degradation can have on socio-political stability. Is the environmental problem we face today a threat to the stability of countries, especially poor countries?

AD: This has not only been a serious problem in the past, it will become much worse as environmental degradation continues. One of the major pressures leading to the genocide in Rwanda was rapid population growth that reached such a high density that land resources were no longer sufficient to support it. Haiti is another example where environmental destruction and socio-political instability go together. On the other hand, some of the most chronically unstable countries in Africa and elsewhere are those where environmental resources have been rich enough to finance civil wars (diamonds in Sierra Leone, oil in Angola and Sudan, minerals in the Congo, timber in the Solomon Islands); in these cases political instability and environmentally destructive resource exploitation go together. As climate change, sea level rise, water shortages and soil degradation accelerate and destabilize countries or make them uninhabitable, there will be increasing flows of environmental refugees. The Bangladeshis will overflow into India; the Chinese are already penetrating illegally into Siberia; increasing flows of Africans are desperately trying to get into Europe; not to mention the southern border of the US. When the resources are insufficient to live at home, what alternative is there to migration? And large migrations are almost by definition destabilizing. The Great Wall of China and Hadrian’s Wall in England are now being replicated along the U.S.-Mexican border. Historically there have always been human migrations (the tribes of Israel, the invasions of Europe from the East). What is new is our definition of so many borders across which migration is not possible, letting impossible pressures build up within countries.

Globalization has opened the world to the free movement of capital, and to expanding world trade, but no one wants to consider the other logical dimension of globalization, the free movement of people. It is the lack of such freedom that has allowed the extremes of wealth and poverty between nations to persist and even increase, even as the information revolution has made them less tolerable. Terrorism is just one symptom of the destabilizing effect of these differences. Climate change will precipitate such movements of people that the world will be forced to address this issue from an ethical and not just political perspective.

GM: Why are the poor much more affected by environmental change than the middle or upper classes of people?

AD: The problem is linked to human vulnerability to natural disasters often triggered by environmental change, and to the lack of resilience of populations to resist them or recover. The wealthy can always afford to move away, to import the resources they need, to build better houses, etc.

The poor lack mobility, as New Orleans demonstrated last year. The poor are also often forced to live in less desirable locations, along river banks, on steep slopes, in low-lying areas more subject to flooding, landslides, fires and other disasters. People living at a subsistence level also are much more dependent on their local environment, and have few reserves to fall back on in the event of a drought, crop failure or storm damage. The poor are also predominantly women and children, who are particularly vulnerable. In the Bangladesh floods a few years ago, many more women than men died, because women do not learn to swim, and cannot leave their house unless accompanied by a man of the family. The flood warnings were given to men, not women. The women and children stayed at home, and were caught by the floodwaters. Global warming and the resulting sea level rise are expected to flood much of Bangladesh, so the problem could get worse there and elsewhere.

GM: What do you believe to be the most significant spiritual/ethical dimensions of the current environmental challenges we face?

AD: There are fundamental injustices in a system where the rich benefit from environmental resources and the poor pay the costs of their degradation. This includes rich countries cleaning up their environment at home but exporting the damage by buying products produced in more environmentally damaging ways in developing countries. There is also the fundamental issue of sustainability, that we are rapidly using up the planet’s environmental capital and leaving a degraded environment and few resources for future generations. We are despoiling the heritage of God’s creation. Materialism has become the new religion of Western society and the consumer culture emphasizes egoism, hedonism, greed, lust, indolence, pride and violence, far from the moral standards of all religions. No one is willing to sacrifice their self-interest or individual welfare for the good of the whole, which is why environmental degradation continues. We in the industrialized countries are trapped in a system and lifestyle that makes it hard to be both spiritual and environmentally responsible.

For example, in a world with much more wealth than at any time in history, millions still die of starvation not because there is not enough food, but because they cannot afford to buy it and their environment can no longer grow it. This is an ethical/social/economic problem within our means to solve. Religions have always taught charity, and voluntary giving is more beneficial spiritually than forced redistribution. As the population continues to grow and water and energy shortages affect agricultural production, we may soon reach a point at which the amount of food available is insufficient to feed everyone. Since producing meat is much less efficient than producing food from plants, the rich who can still afford meat will be faced with the ethical dilemma that the steak in their plate would mean someone else starving to death.

The solution, which must have a spiritual foundation, is to accept that we are all part of one human family and that every human being is a trust of the whole. We must be ready to rethink our economic and social systems to reflect spiritual principles. We must also recognize that the major environmental challenges today are global, and require management at the global level through cooperation of all countries.

At the individual level, the ethical/spiritual challenge is to practice what we preach, to consume differently, to be content with little, to reduce our ecological footprint to the level the planet can support sustainably. Collectively, the challenge is to overcome our differences. A time of crisis can either shatter a divided community or weld together a united one. The purpose of religion is unity. With unity we can resolve the challenges of the environment; without it they will overwhelm us.

GM: What role does population growth play in the climate change equation?

AD: The climate is changing because 80% of our energy comes from fossil fuels, and we are consuming coal, oil and gas at an ever-faster pace, returning carbon dioxide to the atmosphere that has not been there for hundreds of millions of years. The two drivers of that consumption are the number of people requiring energy, and the amount of energy each person consumes. In American and other industrialized countries, the per capita energy consumption is very high, and most of the past release of greenhouse gases has come from those countries. Today the rest of humanity wants to develop the same way, and most of the future growth in energy demand will come from developing countries. Every Chinese wants to have meat in their rice, and drive a car. Per capita energy consumption is rising rapidly. This is one multiplier. The other is population growth. The population of the planet has nearly tripled in the last century, and is projected to grow by another 3 billion people by 2050. Each human being adds to our energy requirements. This is the other multiplier. Global warming is the product of the number of people and their energy consumption, and both are still rising rapidly.

by Jarrett McLaughlin

Is the Church becoming nothing more than a beautiful place to get married?  This question comes as one among many questions being asked about the future of the Church and its place in the social fabric of America.  As a Pastor of Young Adult ministry, I hear many such questions from that faithful generation of Christian saints who lived through the golden age of Mainline Protestantism.  Think what you will about the authenticity of mainline Protestant churches and the approach to ministry they represent, but these are the institutions that were established, yes by the will of Jesus Christ, but also by the blood and sweat of our venerable elders.  When I hear these people ask questions about the youth and young adults, when I hear them worry aloud about “whether we’re losing the next generation of Presbyterians,” in my case, what I hear is a deep-seated anxiety that all for which this generation labored will be for naught.
 

This is not a reflection about the shortcomings of mainline Protestantism, nor is it a lecture in human finitude to point out the impossibility for human kind to ever know what is good, right or God’s will for the Church.  Rather, this brief reflection will examine the various responses to that deep-seated anxiety running rampant through the Presbyterian denomination, if nowhere else. 

After looking up the on-line July/August issue of The Presbyterian Layman, I saw a series of articles with titles like “46,544 Members lost” or “Church Exodus Continues.”  Clearly, this anxiety is not limited to a small minority of Church-goers…this anxiety lies at the heart of much of our ecclesial conflict.  I certainly do not wish to turn a blind eye to the problems of my denomination, to the sliding membership and loss of vitality, but I must confess that I am much more uncomfortable with the idea of using our membership roles as a litmus test for faithfulness.  In chapter 3 of the Gospel of Luke, the devil assails Jesus with three temptations - three temptations that seek to mislead Jesus concerning his identity as the Son of God.  The third and final of these temptations is that he should position himself on the very top of the Temple and throw himself down, confident that God would rescue him from certain death.  Jesus rebuffs this temptation, and this interpretation of his Son-ship as meaning that he never has to die.  Further into his ministry, Jesus does set his sights on Jerusalem, and he does position himself up on a high place…not the Temple, but rather on a hillside called the Skull, where he willingly embraces death.  The Temptation narrative ends with a foreboding warning that the devil “departed from him until an opportune time.”

That opportune time is now, and it is the Church that is tempted.  When we measure our health and faithfulness by the numbers of people filling our pews we, too, will be tempted to believe that being the Church of Jesus Christ means that we never have to risk death.  It will be as if Christ never uttered the words “…those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will lose it.” 

Yes the sliding numbers in my denomination concern me, and I would be fooling myself to pretend that they don’t, but I am equally concerned with the willingness with which my brothers and sisters sacrifice what is right and faithful for what is successful and popular.  The entire Reformation was never meant to create an institution…it began as a movement to reform the Church; to call it back to this self-sacrificing foundation laid by Christ himself.  Why don’t we continue this tradition of being a voice that calls the Church to that which is most faithful and loving and kind, even if it means putting our life at risk.
 
But what of the next generation?  What about the future of this reforming Church?  Instead of focusing on the sliding membership, I choose to focus on Sam and Tanya.  Sam and Tanya are a young couple who did get married at the Church where I serve.  My wife and I attended both the wedding and reception. During their toast to one another, Tanya thanked her family and friends for driving all the way from Sioux City where she grew up, to her wedding here in Kansas City.  She explained that it was important to her and Sam that they take their wedding vows in the Church where THEY have chosen to lodge their membership and their service…it is THEIR Church.  You see, it’s not just a place to get married, not for everybody…and that’s where I find my hope!

by Roy Howard

Raise your hand if you think the Church is obsessed with sex, and especially homosexuality. If you read the news reports with any regularity you might think there is absolutely nothing else worth discussing in the minds of church folks. Okay. I admit that’s a bit over the top; but not by far. Every other day there is a news report about some church fight over what to do with gay and lesbians Christians who might actually desire to serve the people of God in leadership. Last week it was the struggles of the Episcopal Church to carefully avoid a schism that would further the current bizarre situation of having a Nigerian bishop providing pastoral guidance for a congregation in the marshlands of South Carolina.
 
During the same week the Presbyterians were scrupulously interrogating candidates for ordinations to ensure compliance with ordination standards barring homosexual candidates. We are not alone – all the churches seem obsessed with the same subject – and last week the international community got involved when one of the world’s more despicable leaders spoke at Columbia. Of all the outrageous things he said, the one that seemed to create the most buzz had to do with … guess what … homosexuality, or the absence thereof.
 
What is the deal? Okay, I admit, it was a laughable moment but I wish the buzz were about some of his other not-so laughable moments that seriously threaten the planet, not to mention Israel and Jews everywhere.
 
While I respect the desire for high moral standards among clergy and hear the vigorous disagreement over what that means with regard to sexual orientation, I am certain there are more pressing matters that the people of God might attend to if we weren’t otherwise distracted by such scrupulously narrow attention to gay and lesbian Christians. Perhaps it is our unfailing ability to be distracted that allows us to avoid the disturbing realities of the world’s poor that are at our doorstep. Endless discussions over who to bar from serving the Church, quibbling over obscure biblical passages, demanding a righteousness among some that no one, other than Jesus could match, distracts serious attention to the fact that 6 million people are dying each year from preventable diseases malaria, tuberculosis and HIV. 
 
I think we should focus our attention on that fact alone just long enough for it to make us seriously uncomfortable. Do not reach for the remote control, don’t fast forward to the celebrity news or switch to the game. Let us simply sit with the fact that according to the best estimates of medical experts 6 million people, many of them children, will die from lack of vaccines for malaria, tuberculosis and HIV. Why? Because good vaccines to treat these diseases don’t even exist.
 
Do you think just maybe God would even be pleased  if we paid more attention to that problem than figuring out how many ways we can distract ourselves over sex?

by Jim Burklo

Christianity has concerned itself with matters of war and peace for almost its entire history.  The one unifying assumption of the faith has been that war is terrible and is to be avoided assiduously.  There has always been a part of Christianity that has rejected war absolutely, considering participation in it to be completely contrary to the teachings of Jesus.  But alongside it has been a strand of the faith that recognizes that war is morally acceptable in certain circumstances.  “Just war theory” dates back to St. Augustine in the early days of the church.  I think it still is a useful way of prayerfully considering whether or not a war, and/or one’s participation in it, is justified. 

Now is a critical time for all of us as American citizens to consider whether or not there is moral justification for our country to continue to fight in Iraq. We owe it to our troops, to our country, and to the Iraqi people.  It’s time to let our government’s leaders know what we think. This month has brought a long-promised review of the progress, or lack of it, in the US occupation.  It’s a good time to dust off St. Augustine’s principles and meditate on them, while considering the facts before us.  I suggest that we remember to apply “just war theory” to the situation in Iraq today, rather than focusing on whether or not the war was “just” when the US first invaded Iraq..

A “just war” is one that meets all of these criteria:
•  Just cause:  The reason for going to war needs to be just and can therefore be recapturing things taken or punishing people who have done wrong.
•  Comparative justice:  While there may be rights and wrongs on all sides of a conflict, to override the presumption against the use of force, the injustice suffered by one party must significantly outweigh that suffered by the other. 
•  Legitimate authority:  Only duly constituted public authorities may use deadly force or wage war
•  Right intention:  Force may be used only in a truly just cause and solely for that purpose—correcting a suffered wrong is considered a right intention, while material gain or maintaining economies is not.
•  Probability of success:  Arms may not be used in a futile cause or in a case where disproportionate measures are required to achieve success;
•  Last resort:  Force may be used only after all peaceful and viable alternatives have been seriously tried and exhausted. Here I will share my “moral reasoning” about the war in Iraq, based on these criteria:

Just cause:  Today, the question is whether or not the US has “just cause” to remain there.  I believe the US has a moral obligation to help protect the lives of Iraqi citizens who have been cast into a maelstrom of a civil war which we are partly responsible for starting.  Also, the US presence in Iraq has helped terrorists groups gain recruits to threaten the US directly, and part of that threat is manifest in Iraq itself.  Today there is “just cause” for a US military presence in Iraq.

Comparative justice:  It is an injustice for the Iraqi people to have a huge US military occupation of their country.  Our presence is deeply resented by most Iraqi citizens.  Yet it would be an injustice to the Iraqi people for the US to leave without restoring order to the country and preventing even worse civil conflict.  “Just war theory” wisely asks which injustice is greater. The first injustice stimulates a certain proportion of the civil violence that has engulfed the country.  The US presence in Iraq helps to spawn a significant portion of the animosity that feeds the conflict:  we create enemies of the US just by being there.  The military presence of the US also contributes to a certain portion of the civil conflict among ethnic and other groups.  The second injustice would end the US occupation that helps feed the violence, but that would not eliminate the violence altogether, and could result in even worse civilian casualties.  It is hard to measure which injustice is greater, so I withhold an opinion on this question.  Yet the question remains a very important one to ask!

Legitimate authority:   Iraq is now technically sovereign again, and it has explicitly allowed the “coalition” to continue to occupy the country.  However, put in a global context, this legitimacy is compromised because there is only nominal participation by countries other than the US in the “coalition”.  The majority of Iraqis appear to believe that the US has no legitimate authority to occupy their country, and they don’t seem to believe that their own government has much legitimacy, either. 

Right intention:  There is reason for us to stay vigilant about keeping “clean” the intentions of the US in Iraq.  I believe the US government wants Iraq to be a sovereign country with control of its oil and other resources.  But around the world, and within Iraq, there are widespread perceptions to the contrary.  Therefore it is vital that we, as citizens, hold our government accountable to prevent it from taking advantage of Iraq in its vulnerable condition.

Probability of success:  It is here that the continuing US occupation of Iraq most clearly flunks the “just war” test.  The success of the US mission in Iraq depends on the viability of the Iraqi government in creating conditions for a peaceful political settlement to the conflicts in the country.  Unfortunately, the Iraqi government is ineffectual and only marginally legitimate in the eyes of its citizens.  And the trend does not look good for significant improvement, despite the space that the US military “surge” operation is trying to provide to make political progress possible.  This severely undercuts the effectiveness of the US occupation in bringing about anything more than short-term truces between the multiple militias and tribal groups that effectively control the country.  There is now a powerful home-grown resistance to Al Qaeda.  A US pullout would deny Al Qaeda’s propaganda advantage of playing to resentment toward the US occupation.   If the US left, Al Qaeda might well be defeated by Iraqi militias. The improbability of the success of the US in bringing order to Iraq through the military occupation is grounds enough for us to begin an immediate pullout of our forces.  We would still have an obligation to help rebuild the country and provide humanitarian and other kinds of aid, insofar as such action would be practically possible.

Last resort:  At this point, a withdrawal of US forces, done as swiftly and as orderly as possible, is the last resort.  We have proven that the US military occupation cannot end the civil war raging in the country, given that the Iraqi government isn’t even close to being viable enough to maintain whatever peace we might create.  A withdrawal would be fraught with serious risks to our troops, to our national security, and to the Iraqi people, but I don’t believe there is a viable alternative that would be less risky for all concerned.  We can only hope that a US pullout, and the law-and-order vacuum that might result, will frighten Iraq’s leaders into rapidly finding a political settlement to the conflict.

by Roy Howard

John Updike once said he wanted to write with the same dedication as the monks whose vocation is to carve Psalms on the bottom side of choir seats. I can’t find the reference anymore but the quote has lived with me for years. Why? I imagine those beautifully carved choir seats that few people will ever see and wonder about those monks practicing their craft with that same knowledge. Did they carve for the joy of their art, and the praise of God, without any desire that they be recognized? Were there moments when they longed to flip up the seats for the world to see?  And what about John Updike? What did he perceive in these monks that brought him to desire the same attitude for his craft? I think he wanted to find that sweet spot where one’s vocation is fully lived without regard for the recognition of others.

This brings to mind another man who sought a way to live his vocation fully without regard for the recognition of others. Jean Vanier, the French Roman Catholic, who many years ago was so moved by the conditions of mentally disabled adults in an institution in France that he founded a home to care for them. In the beginning he took in only a few men and began to form a community of mutual care. He called this community L’Arche and now there are communities all over the world of developmentally disabled adults living alongside those without disabilities sharing their lives in a very deep way. What makes this similar to those monks carving the bottom of choir seats is the joy that exudes from the people living fully into their vocation. Some of the residents at L’Arche communities could be pursuing high profile careers making large sums of money. Instead, they have found the deepest joy by living in deep friendship with severely disabled persons whose lives are defined not by utilitarian values but by qualities of human dignity alone. Those who live with the same attitude as those monks carving choir seats receive the gifts that severely disabled persons have to offer.

One of the more remarkable things about the congregation I serve is the inclusion of persons with developmental disabilities. We have a group of adults with mental disabilities who have been fully embraced in this community for years. The church has developed a purposefully designed curriculum for their “Friends” class and several members rotate as teachers, while other drive them from their group homes. They participate in worship, sitting alongside persons with advanced degrees and high profile positions in Washington DC. They live with us as a great witness to the love of God and the fullness of humanity.

Last week my wife and I hosted a party for them, as we do each year, at our home along with their teachers and drivers. Our time together was one of the most astonishing events bearing witness to the transforming power of a community of love and compassion.  This year we went with a Hawaiian theme - complete with hula dancing and special Hawaiian music and food. It was just a delight for all of us to be having so much fun and laughter together. I’m certain this is what Jesus meant when he talked about the reign of God coming among us when the least are first and we all sit at table together.

By Mona Eltahawy

I’m from Cairo, a city that during the day is home to an estimated 18 million people. Driving through the city – I should say megapolis – is the nightmare you would imagine and crossing the streets requires a strong heart, some would say a death wish.

Which is why what happens every evening during the month of Ramadan is nothing short of a miracle. To say the city turns into a ghost town wouldn’t even begin to describe the transformation.

Ramadan is the month when Muslims fast from sunrise till sunset, which these days is around 6:15 pm. It is customary to break the fast with your family or with a group of friends because Muslims are taught that you gain extra blessings for feeding a fasting person and so invitations crisscross as relatives tug at you to join them for the iftaar – the meal that breaks the fast.

So about an hour or so before iftaar – if you are lucky enough to get away from work that early – you could easily get caught in a nasty traffic jam that feels as if someone had thrown you into the middle of those 18 million people who fill the city during the day.

But as sunset approaches, it is as if someone has taken an eraser and wiped clear the huge city squares of their people. The streets seem to get wider as they empty of cars and pedestrians and the cacophony of horns and conversations conducted at three times their normal volume level just so that you can be heard, all of it dissipates. It is as if every building in the city sends out a collective hush in eager anticipation of one sound: the call to prayer, or adhan, announcing the evening prayer and the go ahead to break the fast.

The stillness, the silence and the emptiness of those sunset moments during Ramadan in Cairo are incredibly moving. Hungry and thirsty at the end of the day-long fast, you feel you could hear the angels whispering and the slightest act of kindness encapsulates for me the lessons of Ramadan: self-control and generosity.

Sometimes, in a mad rush to get home in time to eat with my family, I’d jump into a cab that was miraculously available and whose driver was eager to push the speed limit to get home quickly as well. We didn’t always make it in time and as we sped through the empty streets of Cairo we’d hear a dozen adhans – Cairo is after all the City of a Thousand Minarets. The driver would reach into a bag of dates he’d brought with him just in case he was out driving when it was time to break his fast and he would turn around and offer me the first one. It was hard to fight the tears of gratitude and connection as I gladly accepted one.

Looking around the city, I could see bus drivers whose vehicles were long ago empty of their loads, parking their buses and getting out to eat at the Tables of the Merciful, tables full of food that wealthy families in each neighborhood provided for the poor and those who needed to break their fast while still out.

I live in New York City now, another crowded, cacophonous metropolis. And as the setting sun turns the sky into a palette of lilac and rosy pink, I look out the window and remember those sunset moments of kindness and generosity from half a world away.

by David Bartlett

During this summer two of my friends and colleagues died.  Each had made significant contributions to theological education and to the church.  In some ways their theological commitments were strikingly different, but they shared a fierce devotion to the Bible and an unshakeable conviction that scripture still speaks to contemporary people.  I want to write this month about Brevard Childs and next month about Letty Russell.

 Brevard Childs was an Old Testament scholar.  He began his career approaching biblical texts much as his contemporaries did—with a focus on a text’s original historical context.  But he also studied with Karl Barth, and under Barth’s influence he came to appreciate the ways in which the whole Bible is always greater than its parts and to believe that the power of scripture is not limited to the history behind scripture.

 Childs became the leading proponent of what came to be called a canonical approach to the Bible.  This strategy for biblical interpretation made two claims.  First, what scholars and preachers and all Christian readers are supposed to interpret is the biblical text in its canonical form—as the church has accepted and loved it.  He wasn’t nearly as interested in the sources behind Genesis as he was in Genesis itself and what counted for his reading of Matthew was not so much how Matthew used Mark or the elusive Q but how Matthew told the story in his own terms.

 The second claim was that we should read the whole canon as a series of text in a kind of ongoing conversation.  Childs’ commentary on Exodus was a stunning example of learning to read the Old Testament texts in conversation with other Old Testament texts and how to read Exodus in the light of its use in the New Testament.

 My suspicion is that his work will be seen more as a corrective to other movements in biblical studies than as a movement all by itself, but in the light of his work, all of us do stand corrected.

 What was clearest about Childs was that he was driven above all by theological interests.   Put more simply he was driven by his profound Christian faith.  Many of us would have disagreed with him about the scope of that faith—especially as it related to issues of social justice.  (He was in favor of social justice; he just wasn’t sure it was the subject for preaching or exegesis).  But what was clearest in his writing and his preaching and his argument and his prayers was the profound conviction that the God who is God is revealed in Jesus Christ and that scripture bears witness to that revelation.

 Requiescat in pacem.

by Wes Avram 

We believe that everyone—political figure or commentator, citizen or alien, man or woman, black or white, conservative or radical—who at this particular time says that this people and this nation are in deep, perhaps irremediable political trouble, speaks the truth.
~ ~ Will D. Campbell and James Y. Holloway.

Some words come back with haunting relevance.  Back in the 1960s, these two southern churchmen, Will Campbell and James Y. Holloway, co-edited  the journal of the Committee of Southern Churchmen, called Katallegete Be Reconciled.  A collection of their essays from that journal was published in 1970 under the title, Up To Our Steeples in Politics (Paulist Press).  The words above led the essay from which the title of the book was drawn.  Wipf and Stock Publishers has recently re-released this book.  It’s eerily timely, but not for reasons a quick reading of this lead might have you believe.  For these writers go on to unsettle an easy take on their political assessment.

Stated simply, we believe that the fundamental crises in our land rise from the obsession with politics, the faith that the political order is the only source and authority from which we can and ought to seek relief from what ails us as a community and as individuals.  Because there is in our land no real challenge to these obsessions, we believe that our crises will deepen, perhaps even beyond a point of no return . . . (111)

In 1970, they were calling into question the “political messianism” of Christian liberals.  Nearly forty years later, it would seem that the Christian Right took the bait and have been for two decades the more successful purveyors of this apostasy—the belief that we are called to create via political action what the New Testament claims God has already accomplished for us in Christ:  reconciliation.  Liberals haven’t left it far behind, however, we’ve just been outflanked.  So Campbell’s and Holloway’s message goes both ways, trying to identify a error we share when we trust Ceasar over Christ, and confuse politics—a means for an end, which is justice—with the end itself.  Despite flowery theological or biblical rhetoric accompanying the political action of the church, to the extent that the church, conservative or liberal, trusts Ceasar to do its bidding it falls inside Caesar’s yoke.  “Surely our calling as Christians is not summed up by a vapid, pathetic and generally ineffective effort to inject morality and high-mindedness into political activity” (117).  Ouch.

And they go on:  “Is obedience to Christ exhausted by immersing oneself in Caesar’s definition of politics?  Is witness to Christ’s victory uniting all men [sic] best made by service to what Caesar judges as the urgent issues of our times?  Might it not be that Caesar himself is confused, or is lying?  There is evidence in the history of Western civilization to support both affirmations” (118).  1970 or today?

What if we worked as hard to change the subject as we work to sway opinion within the subjects we are handed by powers that use us more than hear us?  Now I realize that in asking that question I’m stretching credulity, for one of our most difficult challenges in the American church is deciding who, at the beginning and end of all of this, is us?  Are we Americans, Christians, Christian Americans, or American Christians?  Must we begin to think again about the difference, all the while admitting the confusion?  I believe so.  And Campbell and Holloway have a word worth remembering.

These two write in a great and too often ignored tradition of Christian anarchy, refusing to acknowledge any monopoly of means (economics, politics, schooling, development, relentless pursuit of happiness) over holy ends (commonwealth, peace, knowledge, justice, joy).  They would remind us that trusting techniques of human invention as primary vehicles for the divine will amounts to idolatry, and should be treated as such.

Are Campbell and Holloway calling for retreat?  Are we to hold ourselves up in Christian enclaves, depending on what the world can give us but not making any contribution toward the common good of those who don’t live with us in our enclave?  Not at all.  We are to engage, to wish peace upon the city and to work for it as best we can.  But we are not to trust it too much, or like it too much, or confine our desires to its standards too much, lest we begin to confuse it with our home. 

Campbell and Holloway are working within the kind of distinction Stanley Hauerwas so aptly described a few years later, the distinction between the church as a peculiar politics that gives witness by whatever means necessary to the justice that God has already accomplished in Christ (beyond and more powerful than economics and politics, and nonviolent all the down to its core in Christ), and a political church that seeks to produce something like justice within a polity gone wildly off kilter and irretrievably distant to the ways of God (bound to economics and politics as the primary tools of human freedom).  We are called to give witness to what we begin to see, that God has reconciled the world in Christ—that reconciled, we need no longer kill each other because we are afraid, or angry, or belittling, or prejudice.  We can live reconciled, even before our politics catch up, even before we agree, even before we approve of each other.  And by so doing, we will humble the political for the sake of new politics (God’s politics).

Within echoes of the New Testament, the church need not be chaplain to a reigning order—be it military/industrial, commercial, religious, political or economic; be it conservative, liberal, radical or moderate.  It may live within the reigning order wisely, using its goods for holy purpose, but it need not accept the empire’s logic.  It may sow seeds of a more fundamental dissent.  And it may both experience and put on display an alternative order, with changed subjects and holier objects. 

Have any churches tried?  Yes, indeed, in their own broken ways.  And those broken ways sow seeds of this Christian anarchy—humbling wealth, power, race, gender, ideologies, and other distinctions we hold so dear.  Imagining a new reality, already here.

by Susan Andrews

My outrage has lain dormant for years.  The transitions in my life has consumed my energy  – new job, new house, parents aging and dying, children planning weddings. Who has the time to be outraged? But finally I am.

It was a combination of the headline – buried on page 23. And then there were the pictures – sobering, stunning, revolting.  The headline informed me that 500 civilians – 500! - had been killed in just one market bombing – the deadliest civilian attack in the war’s history. And yet, it was just one more story in one more newspaper about this war that has faded in the consciousness of so many of us “good” people. Sure – I marched in three protests when the war first began. But that didn’t do any good – and now I am too busy to care. But 500 people – shopping for bread and tomatoes  – blown up – for no redemptive reason?

But it was the pictures of veterans  - now home and “healing” - that literally turned my stomach. Limbs gone, faces scarred, lives wounded forever. The most stunning image was of a young couple on their wedding day.  She was in a princess dress with red trim – her bouquet of roses setting off her exquisite face and skin. And she had the saddest look I have ever seen. Because standing next to her was her new husband – who was also her high school sweetheart – all dressed up in his marine blues – with absolutely no face to speak of at all. A bald, scarred globe – with no mouth and no ears - ghoulish slits for eyes – the kind of rubber ugliness you might buy in a costume shop for Halloween. Except that this was not a monster’s mask – this is a man’s face – after three surgeries – so disfigured that he might as well be one of those aliens from outer space that used to appear on The Twilight Zone. How could she marry him? How could she not?

The picture – part of a book of similar veteran photos – was/is a wake up call for me. And I think it needs to be on the front page of every newspaper in America. This is not a “political” portrait. It is simply a human portrait – too human – a vivid image of human suffering, human evil  - and human love.  But  it is also a portrait of sin – your sin and mine  - of our human insensitivity and ignorance and callous disregard of  those who do not live in our small, self absorbed worlds.

Where is our Christian voice amidst all this carnage? How can we justify our complicity in a war that is causing such pain for so many people – for no apparent gain in national interest or global harmony? How can we read our Bibles – and not hear the simple words and values of Jesus? Blessed are the peacemakers.  Pray for those who persecute you. Love your enemies. Forgive 70 times 70. How do those commandments of love jibe with billions of dollars spent, tens of thousands of lives lost – and young lovers now wedded to years of sorrow and struggle ?

I have been on a long journey toward pacifism in my life of faith. I’m not sure I’m there yet. But this one image of a beauty and her beast has pushed me more than any other. We human beings have reached a stage of technological sophistication where we can destroy life with alarming alacrity and dispassion – ignoring the image of God embedded in each life that our foreign policy blows apart. And creative efforts at reconciliation, diplomacy, dialogue, and shalom building seem to have disappeared. Amidst it all, our collective Christian voice is almost mute. Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, when did we stop caring about the soul of the world? When did we stop being the Resurrected Body of  a Living Christ weeping above the ruins of a bloody, battered world?

I have cut out this newspaper picture of the mutilated marine and his bride – and I have placed it where I can see it every day. I pray for this couple – and I pray for our world. When Congress gets back after Labor Day and starts debating – again – how, and if, to end this war, I will take the time to call Washington and express my outrage – and then pray some more for peace. But I know that it is too little – too late.

Lord, have mercy upon our souls.

by Steve Rankin

We’ve become quite aware (and appropriately so) of the religious diversity around the world and in our neighborhoods.  The upshot is a certain lack of confidence: if there are so many sincerely religious people and our visions of the divine (even using “divine” as the reference is problematic) are so diverse, how could we possibly say anything about knowing God?  The best we can say is that we’re all feeling our way, much like the old Hindu proverb about the blind men handling different parts of the elephant and coming up with vastly divergent opinions about the object of their enquiry. 

Perhaps as an antidote to that nagging lack of confidence, I like to read theologians from church history matching our own in diversity.  The Apostle Paul, for example, having seen all the altars in Athens and the one altar to the unknown god, said to the intellectuals, “I see how extremely religious you are,” (Acts 17:22).  How apt: an altar to a god we don’t even know, just to make sure that we leave no possibility unexamined.  It’s sort of ironic – all that searching and not much knowledge.   

But I’ve been reading Athanasius, a fourth-century bishop in Alexandria known for his leadership in sorting out the nature of Jesus Christ.  His work was instrumental in the church’s forming the Nicene Creed.  He writes as if he actually knew God.  In his little treatise “On the Incarnation of the Word of God,” Athanasius ponders the mystery of knowing God: 

…the good God has given [humans] a share in His own image, that is, in our Lord Jesus Christ, and has made even themselves after the same Image and Likeness.  Why?  Simply in order that through this gift of God-likeness in themselves they may be able to perceive the Image Absolute, that is the Word Himself, and through Him, to apprehend the Father; which knowledge of their Maker is for [humans] the only really happy and blessed life.

It’s that phrase, “…may be able to perceive the Image Absolute…” that grabs me.  Athanasius tells us that we are made to know God, not in the blindly feeling way of the proverb, but in a deeply real way that elicits confidence – even happiness.  In Christ, we perceive the Image Absolute – God-made-visible. 

Thinking on this statement, I’m tempted to quote my old cowboy father who used to say, “I don’t understand all I know about this.”  Pondering the nature and works of God definitely produces, as the philosophers call it, “epistemic humility.”  Still, to know God – really – as Athanasius says we can (yes, we’re made to know God) is a gift, a treasure.  It’s worth the search.      

     by Trevor Eppehimer

    In a time in which the logic of the market carries over into religion as well as economics, religious leaders often feel pressure to tailor theology to meet the demands of the consumer-driven, spiritual marketplace. As a result, theological “hard truths” are often soft peddled, lest they adversely impact things like congregational harmony and church growth.

     A similar dynamic can be observed in the work of theologians and religious leaders committed to Christian ecumenism and interreligious dialogue. While the furthering of both these things is unquestionably important, there is, in each case, a temptation to play down the real differences that distinguish Christian denominations and religious traditions from one another in the interest of fostering unity among them.

      Pope Benedict XIV is one religious leader who refuses to succumb to such temptations. He frequently warns of a “dictatorship of relativism” infecting the church and has consistently used his papal platform to speak out against philosophical, theological, and cultural trends that promote tolerance and acceptance at the expense of the doctrinal integrity of the Roman Catholic tradition. “An ‘adult’ faith,” Benedict stated, “is not a faith that follows the trends of fashion and the latest novelty; a mature adult faith is deeply rooted in friendship with Christ. It is this friendship that opens us up to all that is good and gives us a criterion by which to distinguish the true from the false, and deceit from truth.”

     The conviction that in Christ Christians encounter not just one truth among many, but the Truth with a capital T — and that this encounter is most authentic when conducted within the confines of the Roman Catholic church — together constitute the animating core of Benedict’s theological perspective. Critics have contended, however, that unlike his predecessor, John Paul II, Benedict lacks a diplomat’s ability to present this perspective in ways that enable productive exchanges with non-Roman Catholics — one of the achievements of the Second Vatican Council, for instance. Exhibit A for Benedict’s detractors in this regard was the controversial address he gave before an audience at the University of Regensburg in Germany on September 12, 2006, in which his quoting of a 14th century Byzantine emperor’s negative remarks about Islam drew worldwide, and even violent, protests from Muslims.

     Exhibit B may now be the document issued by the Vatican’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (CDF) on July 10, entitled Responses to Some Questions Regarding Certain Aspects of the Doctrine on the Church. This document has generated controversy among both a number of Protestant and Eastern Orthodox church leaders and liberal and ecumenically minded Roman Catholics for its bold assertion of the Roman Catholic church’s superior capacity to facilitate the human encounter with God through the person of Jesus Christ.

     Eastern Orthodox and Protestant Christianity, the document states, suffer from “defects” due to the fact that they are not in full communion with Rome. And while the document does extend the title of “Church” to Eastern Orthodox communities of faith, the same courtesy is not extended to the churches of the Reformation which, having supposedly broken the line of apostolic succession in the 16th century, are referred to as “ecclesial communities.”

     The decision to use the term “ecclesial communities” rather than “churches” when discussing Protestantism is theologically significant. “Church” in the New Testament connotes that community against which Jesus, in Matthew 16:18, says not even “the gates of Hades will prevail.” It also stands for that special collection of persons whom Christ nourishes and tenderly cares for as members of his own body (Ephesians 5:29-30). To be denied the title “Church,” then, is no small matter: If Benedict and the authors of Responses are correct in their determination that what Protestants belong to is not properly called “Church,” then Protestants should be concerned –– very concerned –– about where it is that they stand vis-à-vis Christ.

     As one who has experienced Christ’s justifying grace and the fullness of inclusion into the Church by way of Protestant churches, I know, however, that Responses is wrong to deny that Protestants participate in anything less than the “Church” when they gather to give thanks for what God has done in and for the world through the person of Jesus Christ.

     A service Responses does provide to Protestant Christians and, more importantly, to the Church universal is its ability to clarify the terms of an important dispute regarding the nature of the relationship between the Church and the dynamic presence of God in the world that is the Holy Spirit.

     That debate, simply stated, amounts to this: Is it the case that the Holy Spirit conforms itself to that space provided for it by the earthly, visible Church, or is it rather this Church that must permit its scope and location to be determined for it by the agency of the Spirit? When reading Responses one gets the sense that it is the former. When reading the central documents of the 16th century Reformation, however, as well as those of the Second Vatican Council, the latter, in contrast, is assumed.

     I have a hunch that the most significant, yet unacknowledged, division within Christianity may not be between Roman Catholics and Protestants, fundamentalists and modernists, or even pro-gay and anti-gay Christians. Instead, I suspect it may be between those who believe that the Holy Spirit must set up shop where the Church allows it to and those who believe the Church must follow the Spirit’s lead when determining where its boundaries begin and end.

     Should we seek to discover the theological roots that lead to many of the internal conflicts facing the Church at present — including everything from Christianity’s relationship to the other world religions and the extent to which gay and lesbian Christians should enjoy full inclusion into the Church — one will most likely find that they can be traced back to the Church’s failure to come to a consensus on the nature of its relationship to the Holy Spirit.

     And until this fundamental issue is addressed, Christians will continue to spend lots of time and energy dealing with symptoms rather than root causes.

by Jim Burklo

It was a cube consisting of many separate pieces of charred wood, each piece dangling from a thin black wire, hanging from the ceiling of the De Young Museum in San Francisco.  This artwork by Cornelia Parker was entitled “Anti-Mass”.  It was a compelling sight.  It reminded me of the way blackened embers are suspended in air above a fire, as if momentarily weightless.  The installation was thing of simple beauty, taking the mind to a place beyond words. 
 
Then I read the card next to the installation and found that I was looking at the creatively re-arranged remains of a black Baptist church in Alabama which had been destroyed in a racist arson attack.  “Anti-Mass” was at least a double-play on words – referring to the airborne wood, and the violent act against the worship of the congregation that once met inside it.
 
As soon as I knew the story behind the wood, I sensed that I was in the presence of the sacred.  In a way, this work of art was the resurrection of that burned church.  The artist had taken that terrible act of racist arson and turned it inside out and upside down.  Just as the early Christians turned the crucifixion inside out and upside down, transforming the cross from a terrifying symbol of Roman state power into a hopeful sign of salvation.
 
When I got home from the museum, I reflected on the striking difference in my experience of the artwork between my first glance at it and my later discovery of the wood’s source.  It revealed how influenced I am by the emotional and spiritual associations that I make, or that others make for me.  It revealed that I, and the rest of us, seem to be primed for experiences of the sacred.  There is a God-shaped cube inside of me, ready to be filled by encounters with divinity.
 
It also revealed the resurrecting, redeeming power given to each of us by God.  We have within each of us a remarkable measure of divine energy which we can use to turn hopelessness into hope, violence into compassion, despair into positive vision, destruction into creativity.  If a church building, burned down in an act of hatred, can be brought back to life in such a remarkable manner, what isn’t possible for us, both as individuals and as a collective? 
 
What creative, redemptive leap can our nation take to help the people of Iraq turn seared flesh, twisted metal, and dusty rubble into elements of peace and prosperity?  How can we take the emotional charge from the injuries and insults we each suffer, and direct that energy toward healing and wholeness?  What can we do to transform the church from being a reliquary for old dogma into becoming a living spiritual community for the present? 
 
If an artist can bring about a resurrection with nothing more than wire and bits of burnt wood, think of what you and I can bring to life!  Each counter-intuitive action we take to change ourselves and the world for the better is a form of artwork, as worthy of “ooohs” and “aaahs” as anything hanging in a museum…

by Meg Peery McLaughlin

They were traveling up the center aisle to see the body. Moving with faithful footsteps toward the one they dearly loved. Tears filled their eyes and they held tight to daughters and sisters as they came forward to view the deceased, hands folded calmly, suit freshly pressed.

I had lost the battle, you see. My pastoral sensitivity overran my pastoral authority. I am fairly new to the world of ordained parish ministry with a special focus in pastoral care. My newness does not mean that I am new at presiding in worship at funerals. With our congregations aging and with more and more “unchurched” people turning toward the church at the time of death—not knowing where else to go—pastors have a great gift and opportunity to travel alongside families who are grieving, families who are trying to figure out what to do with their dead. Pastors receive this gift frequently. My newness, in this case, meant that I presided over an open casket funeral. Not my practice, not my theology: but there the congregation was traveling up during a hymn to pay their last respects.

We believe that the funeral service is a “Witness to the Resurrection.” The funeral is the place where we affirm that in life and in death we belong to God. It is the place where we say aloud that death has no power to pull us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. It is the place where we give thanks to God for the gift of life experienced in the one we loved and where we place that one into God’s everlasting arms. All that is to say that the funeral is about God.

But then there is that person—that body: surrounded by memories and stories and jokes. There is that person—that body: surrounded by brothers and daughters, by colleagues and choir buddies—all with tales and lessons and laughter that they are bursting at the seams to share.

In my struggle, I turned to an amazing article, “O Sing to Me of Heaven: Preaching at Funerals,” by Tom Long (Journal for Preachers, Easter 2006). Long claims, “We have a tug of war between the quiet, but somewhat abstract, ideal of a worship service reflecting on the joy of the resurrection and the Oprah-esque carnival of anecdotes and memories.” I felt comforted that I was not alone in this tug of war. Long recounts what the funeral was for our Christian forebears: Christians washed, anointed and dressed in baptismal garments the bodies of the deceased. Then they would carry them to the grave, singing as they traveled. The dead were seen as saints traveling on to God. The focus was on the journey and ultimately the destination.

Traveling to God—not to a lifeless body—that is what we are doing at funerals. All of life is a pilgrimage toward God. The dead have finished the journey; they are home.

The next time I watch people travel up the center aisle at a funeral—the next time I receive that gift, I will try to speak a word about the One to whom we all are traveling, a word about the heaven to which we are going, and yes, a word about the person who is home and what there journey there was like.
 

by Robert K. Martin

Theology.
      What is it?
            Where does it lead?
                What difference does it make?

As a kid raised in a Southern Baptist family in a Southern Baptist home in a Southern culture (Louisiana, which could be considered “southern-kicked up a notch”, especially if you have read Rebecca Wells “The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood” and watched Emeril), I buhleved in Jesus, God, the Holy Spirit… the whole shebang. Every time there was a revival, I got saved all over again. At night, instead of monsters hiding the closet or under my bed, I was scared to shivers of hellfire and brimstone. Those monsters didn’t stand a chance of stoking my fear up against the righteous wrath of the holy, omnipotent God who was going to throw all the unrepentant and unholy children like me into the fiery lake of everlasting damnation. At least that’s what my pastor said.

I’ve probably been saved a hundred thousand times; every night that I can remember for as long as I was self-conscious, I prayed to anyone who was listening up there. I told ‘em that I was a rotten sinner, deserving of condemnation, but that I really wanted to live a holy life and be saved. Then I’d think about what boys think about alone at night, and I’d have to get saved all over again.

When I think about what my theology was at that age, my idea of “God” was not much better than the monsters that were hiding in my closet. “God” was a bit worse, however, because he was hiding in my head. Not only that, the “God” in my head was mirrored in my church, my family, my culture. I was theologically saturated in the God-as-savior/God-as-judge theology. I didn’t consider for a moment that the “God” in my head might not be equivalent to the Creator and Redeemer of the universe. It was the Creator/Redeemer.

In 6th grade, a good friend of mine, John David, was playing baseball one day. He was a star athlete, of whom I was insanely jealous. He could water ski so well that he was being recruited by Cypress Gardens (for all you non-water skiers, Cypress Gardens was the showcase for the best of the best waterskiing in the country). He was a natural at every sport he tried. But this day, he was striking out. He said that his head was hurting badly. Then, he went blind right there in the batter’s box. Come to find out, spinal fluid was backing up in his head and pressing on his optic nerve. When he was taken to the local hospital, the only thing they knew to do was to relieve the pressure, but the way they did the operation left him permanently blind.

John David’s family was understandably devastated. According to what our pastor had been telling us, God blesses us when we are good and chastises us when we aren’t. Logically then, they had done something that made God pretty upset. For the next several years, his family set out on a quest of repentance and supplication to get him healed. This seemed like a pretty cool idea to me, so I joined them. Our search led us far beyond Southern Baptist orthodoxy. In our world, Baptists don’t like God doing hocus pocus. I’m not sure why, but Baptists don’t usually cotton to people getting instantaneously healed or breaking out in tongues. But that’s exactly what we were looking for: someone who knew the right prayers, the right dance, someone who could call down the Holy Ghost to heal my best friend.

As John David’s family and I moved away from our Baptist church and its theology, we found ourselves persona non grata in that world. My parents were afraid I was getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, but they didn’t know how to confront me because I was getting even more involved in “church”. It’s not like I was drinking and smoking and carrying on like some of my siblings. I was as near to being angelic as any high school kid could be. It was actually a little scary, looking back on it; I was a complete geek and mostly what I thought about and talked about was God.

After a few years of traveling to see Kathryn Kuhlman (faith healer, duh!) and Oral Roberts (same; of Oral Roberts University fame….and well… that 900-foot Jesus he saw) and folks like that in and around Louisiana, we despaired of ever repenting enough or finding the right formula to get John David healed. His suffering opened up a whole new world of suffering that was all around me that I hadn’t seen. And as I became conscious of the vastness and indiscriminate nature of suffering, tough, intractable questions forced themselves upon me as I moved to college (a Southern Baptist college no less).

There, in that sedate, highly-controlled environment, one of the religion professors asked me a question that rocked my world. After a rather intense class session in which he and I were engaged in friendly combat, he took me aside and said, “Robert, do you believe that God is in control of all things?” “Of course,” I responded wholeheartedly, without reservation. He continued, “If you do, then how do you put together the control that God wields in every situation and the necessity of human freedom, if we are to make a free decision for salvation?” That one question detonated in my life with the force of a nuclear explosion.

I tried to reword the question but I couldn’t shake the logic: If God is in control, then we can’t be completely free to repent and ask Jesus into our hearts. And if we can’t be free to do that, if somehow God controls even that action of ours, then how can anyone be so responsible for their actions and sinfulness that they can be condemned to eternal damnation? How can human beings be held responsible by God if we do not have free will?

I stormed out of his office, and before I slammed the door in his face, I yelled, “You are wrong!” Within a week, I was back in his office apologizing and telling him that I had become an atheist. If my idea about God was wrong, then obviously God simply didn’t exist. If I remember correctly, the professor politely smiled and slowly shook his head, probably thinking, “this too shall pass.”

For the next year or so, I was a fervent atheist on that God-fearing campus, and I was eager to convert all my friends to my newfound religious antipathy. I must say that I did have some success, and those of like mind formed something of an anti-spiritual covenant group, in which several of us held each other up in logic and will, to stand firm against the evil Christian-mongers. We were the opposite of John Wesley’s Oxford club and their disciplined life of personal and social holiness. We were devoted, but not to godliness. Our theology was now atheology; our vision and hope for life was a sarcastic humanism.

After a while, I began noticing a profound depth to existence that I couldn’t deny. I felt a connectedness in nature, a presence beyond all presence, a feeling of infinite interiority and transcendence beyond the see-touch realm. I didn’t know what to call it – I certainly did not want to call it God – but I couldn’t deny its reality. It presented itself to me; I didn’t go looking for it and didn’t want to encounter it. But it found me.

This is the story of my awakening to a realm beyond my imagining, beyond what I can see or touch, beyond what I wanted to believe. Experiencing awe-inspiring transcendence and intimate immanence, I set out to explore my experience…and others’ experiences…and how others named the mysterium tremendum. I went to seminary to find out how to talk about it; I continued on to another Master’s degree to figure out how to act faithfully in light of it. But it wasn’t until I was in a doctoral program that I found a theology that fit, that named my experience and made sense of the world around me.

Probably I’m just denser than most others; maybe my schooling took me astray. But my long and circuitous journey into a theology that fit taught me a little about how theology happens and the difference a fitting theology makes. I’ve shared a little of my journey here. It would be fascinating to hear from others about their journey on the ocean of experience, directed by winds of human reflection, drifting into realms of confusion and clarity.

In the next few of my monthly blogs, I want to explore experiences and reflections on some key ideas for Christians: spirituality, incarnation, Trinity, ecclesial/church life, etc. Untold volumes have been written on each of these topics, and I am not one to write any more. But I suspect there are many folks who are looking beyond what they already think for a theology that helps them make sense of their complicated and confusing experience, of the vast world all around, and of that still, small voice who continues to beckon us beyond all everything we know. I don’t know if what I have to share will shed any light, but perhaps together we can discover a bit more of the light that is within and beyond us all.

by Fred Weidmann

Ah, summer.  Warm—or, hot (!)—weather, a break in the normal routines, time to recharge and recreate.  Among the activities I am involved in this summer are several conferences, at which I am taking various leadership and participatory roles, and a family vacation which will involve some amount of hiking.  

A story familiar to many, and one that was read and preached on in many churches this past Sunday, is that of Mary and Martha (Luke 10:38-42).  If you’re like me, you feel a bit sorry for Martha for getting the short end of the stick; kind of like the older brother in the Prodigal Son story, which, like the Mary and Martha, is also found only in Luke’s Gospel.  What’s going on in this story, and what’s it got to do with conferences, hiking, and us?

One thing I often hear at, and about, conferences is this:  “what are the takeaways?”  That is, what will I learn, experience, or encounter at the conference that I can take away with me and apply in my context or setting?  A fair question.  In the experiential-model conference which is/was the encounter with Jesus in the Mary and Martha story, who get’s the most out of the conference?  The last line of the story tells us:  “Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her” (Luke 10:42).  Mary gets the takeaways (and presumably she applies them well).

Martha seems, to me, to do a lot of things right.  She welcomes or “receives” Jesus, to begin the story.  As the story unfolds, she seems to be caring about, and for, others.  What’s the problem?  The answer is, on the face of it, simple: “But Martha was distracted by her many tasks” (Luke 10:40). Fair enough.  But still, won’t a minor adjustment do (to get back on track)?  And shouldn’t she get some points for caring?

The terms used for “distracted” and “tasks” are loaded, and very telling.  The latter, “tasks,” is, in the Greek, diakonia, from which we get the good, churchy words “deacon” and “diaconate.”  It is a technical word for the good and basic and essential service work of the church.  God forbid that we, the church, should forget or shun such tasks!  Score one for Martha (and for us, who would follow Martha).

The first term, “distracted,” is used in military and other contexts to indicate diversion, distraction, being drawn away, and—my favorite—“to be pulled away from a reference point” (Danker, Bauer, et. al., A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament… ).   As those with hiking experience know, losing or being drawn or pulled away from your reference point, whether it be the sun, a river, or formal or informal trail markings, can be a dangerous and even perilous experience, and can put the whole expedition at risk.  That is even more so the case when one thinks, and intends, that one is following the right markings (in the right way).

The psychology behind how, or why, we in the church so often follow seemingly commendable (at least to ourselves) “tasks” while losing sight of the needs and mission to which God is calling us is real and deep and can be engaged on several levels.  The first, last, and best level on which to engage is that indicated by Mary.  She draws us back to the reference point, the “one thing” (Lk 10:42) without which there is no mission and no calling, that is “the word” of the Lord (Lk 10:39).  

by Roy Howard 

This is a story about neighbors.

Marduk is my neighbor. We share a fence in the suburbs of Maryland near Washington, DC. “In my country” or “in my village” is how Marduk begins many sentences, having lived in Iran until seven years ago when he moved to Maryland with his wife and two children. He moved next door two years ago. When his wife’s mother became too riddled with Alzheimer’s disease to live alone, she moved in with them. Occasionally she would leave the house, as is common for Alzheimer’s without very close supervision, and wander aimlessly. Now she lives in a more secure environment.

Marduk drives a bus. He leaves for work at 4 AM. He speaks like many others who have learned English on their own. For instance, subject and verb occasionally disagree and words are sometimes left out. “I like, I like!” is one of his favorite phrases. When I asked how he learned English he explained that after the revolution English was no longer taught in any schools and rarely spoken. (The revolution is code for the fall of the Shah of Iran and the subsequent reign of Iranian fundamentalists and political allies.)  When I first met him he was quick to share that he is not a practicing Muslim. “We like Christmas!”  I laughed at his candor and noted how much he wanted to assure me of his background.  Was he afraid I would treat him with suspicion if he were devout? I wonder. Our other neighbors who are modern practicing Muslims have no such worries. But that is after many conversations.  Marduk’s wife sells perfume at the local Mall and she speaks in English all day. “Every day she is learning more and more words. Me? I don’t have to have English. People get on the bus and tell me where they want off.  That’s all. But I am trying.  That’s why I like to talk to you!”

I listen with curiosity. The other day I asked him about his home in the south of Iran. “In my village it is always hot, very hot. Makes Florida seems frigid in summer. We never went out of the house before eight at night. Still hot.” His comment came at the end of a very hot day and the joyous completion of a project I didn’t think was possible.

Early in the summer I began negotiations with a contractor to rebuild the twenty-year old sagging wood fence that we share. The price came in much too high. Marduk said, “let’s do it together! We can. We can.” I hemmed and hawed, unsure of this budding construction partnership. But my wife agreed, “That’s a great idea. You can do it.” When she said that I sighed, knowing I was defeated, bracing for the heat and humidity, and knowing how “easy projects” are rarely easy.

Marduk (the name is the same as the ancient Babylonian god) suggested we go to Lowe’s and pick up the fence posts. I had some spare fence rails that we had salvaged from another project but we still needed several posts.  It is quite a helpful learning experience, culturally and personally, to shop at Lowe’s with an Iranian immigrant who speaks English with his own distinct grammar. But we did it and to my growing surprise I began to relish this opportunity to work together. But not always. I didn’t on the day that I discovered my tools locked in Marduk’s garage when I wanted to put in some work alone of the project. I bounded over to his house. “Why are my tools locked up?” I asked impatiently. He smiled impishly. “We will work together! Not alone. I like us to work together.” What could I say to this neighbor taking such happiness in working together?  “Okay.” So there we were men, both Americans one from South of Atlanta, the other from the South of Tehran, sweating and grunting in the hot sun. It took us several days and several conversations, but we did it. Now Marduk stands on this deck and I on mine admiring our work. “I like, I like,” he says, “we do it together!”

Jesus once said love your neighbor as yourself.  This is a story about two men, from vastly different backgrounds, becoming neighbors, and building a neighborhood once fence at a time.

By Mona Eltahawy

I was well into my two-eggs-sunny-side-up brunch last Saturday morning at the local café when I found a copy of that day’s New York Times opened at the opinion section. I browsed it as I munched on my toast and then turned to the front page of the paper where a picture I saw stopped me dead in my tracks – and in my eating.

It was of lawyers in Pakistan celebrating the reinstatement of a chief justice who has been suspended by Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf in March. Joyous abandonment was the only phrase that came to mind when I saw those men, some with their heads thrown back as they punched the air in victory.

I could not take my eyes off those happy men. I scoured their faces, one by one, vicariously celebrating with them their breathtaking joy. And then it hit me why the sight of these men was moving me to tears.

Here were happy Muslim men. How often do we see happy Muslim men?

It’s quite convenient that they were Pakistani because I’ve developed a theory about the Muslims we see on our television screens and whose images usually take up the front pages and they are usually from Pakistan.

Here’s how it goes:

Angry Bearded Muslim Man is the most favored of all. Whenever the Muslim world is supposed to be upset or offended, invariably that story is illustrated by images of Angry Bearded Muslim man marching – usually in Pakistan – shouting, fists raised in the air in righteous anger never joy, and burning something: an American flag, an Israeli flag, an effigy of President Bush. Preferably all three!

Angry Bearded Muslim Man’s female equivalent is Covered in Black Muslim Woman. She’s seen, never heard. Visible only in her invisibility under that black chador, burqa, face veil, etc.

So there you have it – in those images you have conveyed all you want to say about Muslims: the men are angry, dangerous and want to hurt us; the women are just covered in black.

While there are indeed some Muslim men and women who fit both such descriptions they are by no means the majority and they are utterly insufficient in describing the diversity of views, appearances and attitudes among Muslims. But they make for sexy TV and front page photos. And they are my biggest competitors when I give lectures or appear on television.

My first U.S. TV appearance was on Fox News’ “The O’Reilly Factor”. Talk about trial by fire! After the usual back-and-forth yelling, some viewers sent me email asking “Are you sure you’re a Muslim? Where’s the headgear?” Others wanted to know why I spoke English so well. Clearly, I did not deliver on the Covered in Black Muslim Woman that central casting usually offers to viewers. I was confusing them.

Which brings me back to the happy Pakistani lawyers on the front page of the New York Times.

I am a huge fan of confusion. I am the last person to deny the danger of radicals in the Muslim world. Much of my time and effort goes into denouncing violence in the name of religion. But just as importantly I wave the flag for those of us who call ourselves liberal, secular Muslims. In other words, I live to confuse you by subverting the stereotype of Muslims that you always see and hear from. By breaking the false equation between conservatism and authenticity we end the monopoly over religious thought by radicals and their supporters.

When we stop equating conservative with authentic, we recognize our diversity and refuse to allow one voice to speak for us all. Only then can we be recognized as human beings, in all our differences.

For Muslims, that will become possible when you see more Happy Muslim Men and Women Who Confuse You.