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Saturday, April 3rd, 2010
After the accident, somebody told me that that best metaphor that they could think for me was that of Holy Saturday.
They were right.
Holy Saturday is the in-between time, that time when we ponder and experience the reality of death–and our complicity in it–and simultaneously for Christians, we live in the expectant hope that its reality is not final.
It’s a helpful metaphor for all of us who grieve, fear, are overwhelmed. We live in this in-between time, this time where one facet of life seems much more real than the other, and yet for some reason, we keep on going; something says ‘yes’ to us so that we do not choose instead to die.
A question that surfaces, this time of year, is why it was that Jesus had to die in order to live in the first place.
Father Robert Farrar Capon gets to considering this matter with his trademark linguistic flair:
“The true paradigm of the ordinary American view of Jesus is Superman: ‘Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. It’s Superman! Strange visitor from another planet, who came to earath with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, and who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, fights a never ending battle from truth, justice, and the American Way.’ If that isn’t popular Christoloty, I’ll eat my hat. Jesus–gentle, meek and mild, but with a secret, souped-up, more-than-human insides–bumbles around for thirty-three years, nearly gets himself done in for good by the Kryptonite Kross, but at the last minute, struggles into the phone booth of the Empty Tomb, changes into his EAster suit and with a single bound, leaps back up to the planet Heaven. It’s got it all–including, just so you shouldn’t miss the lesson, kiddies: He never once touches Lois Lane.
You think that’s funny? Don’t laugh. The human race is, was and probably always will be deeply unwilling to accept a human messiah. We don’t want to be saved in our humanity; we want to be fished out of it. We crucified Jesus, not because he was God, but because he blasphemed: He claimed to be God and then failed to come up to our standards for assessing the claim. It’s not that we weren’t looking for the Messiah; it’s just that he wasn’t what we were looking for. Our kind of Messiah would come down from a cross. He would carry a folding phone booth in his back pocket. He wouldn’t do a stupid thing like rising from the dead. He would do a smart thing like never dying.”
A smart thing like never dying.
There is a long tradition of teaching that God put Jesus on the cross. This take on the crucifixion has bugged some feminists for some time.
Some fear that it tells of a God who murdered, or allowed the murder, of his own son, and implicitly condones child abuse at a cosmic level.
Others worry that God needed a blood sacrifice in order to be appeased, an image which encourages violence on the way to peace that is maintained only by threat and fear.
And still others are concerned that traditional ways of thinking though Jesus’ death on the cross focus on the relationship of God to the oppressors, and not Jesus’ solidarity with those who suffer.
And perhaps most often, many feminists voice legitimate critique against traditional interpretations of the cross as being the event which sets the stage for women bearing suffering and oppression, just as Jesus did.
But other camps of feminists thinks through matters differently.
Many believe that God did not demand Jesus’ death. We did (a la Capon). Thus the cross is a judgment not against God, but against those who resist justice.
Still others believe that Jesus’ death was not submission to a cruel God, but rather faithful living in the pursuit of reconciliation and renewed relationship with all creation.
And others see the cross as the quintessential expression of relationship between God the Father and God the Son and God the Holy Spirit, a relationship bound by love, by mutuality, by solidarity, by respect, and by breath.
On this Holy Saturday, the day begs consideration about what me make of the death of Jesus, both then and now; about how the death of Jesus has been misused, and how it could be used differently; about which deaths in our own lives appear to be profoundly real to us, more real than the possibility of life; and where we might see the stirrings of life even in the dark soils of our own griefs.
Peace to you on this Holy in-between day.
Anna
Posted in Christianity, God's Relevancy, Suffering, Uncategorized | No Comments »
Friday, April 2nd, 2010
“Jews and Christians can walk together until Good Friday…” So says Pinchas Lapide, a remarkable Jewish theologian, in his book, Jewish Monotheism and Christian Trinitarian Doctrine.
Now, Lapide has much more to say following these words, thoughts that bear upon Easter Day, so stay tuned for what Lapide does with this notion.
But I believe that I would be remiss, as a Christian theologian, were I not to make mention of the Jews on Good Friday, and Lapide is as good a place to begin as any.
A dark backdrop to the Christian remembrance of Good Friday is a long-standing tradition–tradition beginning even in Christian Scripture–of anti-Semitism, of hate for the Jewish people.
How many of us have been told–and retell–that the Jews killed Jesus?
It’s not that simple. Nor is this assertion true.
Stephen Wylen has written a helpful book entitled The Jews in the Time of Jesus. In it, he lingers over the history of what occurred to Jesus vis a vis the Jewish trial.
It’s interesting.
In his chapter, “The Trial of Jesus,” he breaks down the timeline of the betrayal through until the crucifixion. I’d like to highlight just a few to offer you some mental mulling nuggets over the course of these three most holy days in the Christian calendar.
Wylen presents some pretty convincing evidence disputing not whether Jesus died, but by whom and why. In the end, he presents the possibility that Jesus was tried not by a full court of the Sanhedrin (a word meaning ‘council,’) but rather by a “kangaroo court,” a sham judicial trial led by the Jewish high priest Caiphas–himself a puppet of the Roman government.
Jesus was by all accounts a political troublemaker. He preached justice, and had a following, and people were beginning to call him ‘king.’
Those in power who like being there don’t particularly like others who threaten that state of affairs. This was true not only of some possible Jewish leaders, but more particularly for the Romans.
It is not newsy to state that those who challenge power–not to protect their own, but to redistribute it–tend to end up on a cross of one sort or another.
Now it is true that scripture makes mention of crowds of Jewish people clamoring “crucify him!” I’ve always been bothered by the weird juxtaposition of the Palm Sunday crowds and the Good Friday crowds. ”That’s awfully fickle,” I’ve thought.
Some say that that’s the point, that one minute we assert our faith and joy in Jesus, and the next we wish he’d go away.
So there’s meat there to chew on, but Wylen thinks that there might be something more to it than just that.
He wonders whether they serve the same sort of purpose as the Greek chorus in plays, props to make a point and a counterpoint. That is, “all the Jews” were not at either event, but that the purpose of the crowds in the text was to reaffirm the main point of the immediate plot.
Unfortunately, points out Wylen, both the presence of this Good Friday crowd and the oddity of the Jews purportedly crying out “his blood be upon us and our children” (a reference that is itself in question–why would anyone request to be guilty of murder and have the same conviction be leveled against innocent children?) has made for a world of hurt in the history of the Jewish people.
So the questions for today concern the impact of history, and are posed particularly to the Christian readers of the day:
When we go to our Good Friday services, are we aware of the implicit anti-semitism in our own texts? When we are asked “Who killed Jesus?” is our first answer “the Jews?” Are we aware that the texts on this holy of holy days have led to vats of bloodshed against our Jewish sisters and brothers?
And how do we incorporate that truth into our Good Friday reflections?
More tomorrow on the implications of Jesus’ death in Christian theology, and why feminist theologians sometimes get a bit uppity about God the Father’s Son ending up on a cross.
And as an aside, I’ve gotten some fantastic questions which have been submitted on the website. My most wonderful twirplets are off from school until Monday. Come Tuesday, I’m on it.
Peace,
Anna
Posted in Christianity, Judaism, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »
Thursday, March 11th, 2010
I apologize for the delay in writing my latest blog!
Our local newspaper covered OMG last Thursday, and I have been grateful for the busy-ness that the article created. A special thanks to Jill Callison for taking the time to visit in the very nifty OMG office.
My mind is on forgiveness, these days, because, well, as a Christian, the season of Lent will do that to a person.
CNN’s iReport has a section on amusing church signs, one of which says, “Forgive your enemies. It messes with their heads.”
Forgiveness does mess with us, I think.
There is a long tradition of forgiving only if someone asks for it, repents of it, and a little groveling wouldn’t hurt either.
On the other hand, there is a long tradition of forgiveness itself being a sign of grace. You can’t forgive someone who ‘deserves’ forgiveness, because clearly a person doesn’t deserve forgiveness who has wronged another. Forgiveness extends to the undeserving something that they don’t deserve.
Through linguistic twists and turns, the word ‘forgiveness’ comes from the Latin word perdonare (”to give wholeheartedly”), which itself comes from two words: per-, meaning thoroughly, and -donare, which means, ‘to give.’
So.
What needs to happen (if anything) before a person should be forgiven (namely should have something given wholeheartedly), and what does forgiveness look like?
Luther whittled down the Roman Catholic sacramental list to two (baptism and Holy Communion), but he was awfully on the fence about Confession. He was all over the idea of confession as being an opportunity for cleansing and new beginnings. However, he also was convinced (and here I think he is absolutely right) that we have no idea of all of our sins. ”We have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.” We sin all the time, and it is an impossibility to confess all of them, let alone know all of them.
Still, believed Luther, God forgives us, even without our ability to confess our sins, let alone repent of them.
“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing,” said Jesus on the cross. On one level, they knew exactly what they were doing. On another, they–we, did–do, not.
Things get even more interesting based on current research on brain chemicals, stress, family systems, exhaustion, mental illness, and so forth. What scientists are finding out is that many people who commit apparent offenses are, to some degree, swimming in cocktails of distress, despair, irrationality, self-protection, and disease.
The more one learns about context, history, and their relationship to choices, the more one is led to compassion…and also to the question of accountability.
Yet even if one is determined to be accountable in one measure or another, the question can still be posed: to what degree should accountability (and recognition of accountability) play any role in the offering of forgiveness?
Anne Lamott, in her book Traveling Mercies, writes that not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die. It’s an interesting thought, that forgiveness might be as much for the forgiver as for the forgiven. To hold onto resentment is, I think the case can be made, a manifestation of death continuing to have hold.
Sometimes, however, withholding forgiveness camouflages conceit and mistaken superiority. It presumes that we ourselves might be above need for unmitigated grace, or that we ourselves have never/could never do any act on any such level.
In short, the matter of forgiveness is a fantastic question for systematic theology! On what basis do you give or withhold forgiveness, and is it consistent with your understanding of God and God’s agenda?
As it happens, I am of the mind that forgiveness does not mean forgetting, but overcoming. It is a sacred act that necessitates drawing upon compassion, humility, and an intentional tap into the well of grace, extending it to the Other, and to the Self.
What do you think?
Peace,
Anna
Posted in Christianity, God's Relevancy, Mercy & Grace, Suffering, Uncategorized | 4 Comments »
Friday, March 5th, 2010
Question: My sister-in-law grew up Bapist (she’s from GA). She didn’t receive communion with us during a visit to MN-she explained due to her thoughts, words, deeds. I told her that’s the best time to go and mentioned Eph 2:8-10. She came back to me with James 2:14-19. So what do I say to a Baptist PK that responds as such with my Lutheran background?
Response:
Dear OMG-er,
Thank you for the question!
It’s tempting to start the mulling at the ways Baptists and Lutherans differ.
But in this case, one could argue that it isn’t a Baptist/Lutheran thing.
Instead I think it’s a Holy Communion thing, namely, how should a person receive bread and wine, body and blood, from Jesus after all? That’s fairly audacious, it seems to me. No wonder that there’s wondering about it.
I think that even within traditions there isn’t a clear consensus. For example, the debate about whether children ought to receive communion or not is active, to say the least, within the ELCA, although it is a long standing practice in Orthodox communities.
So a brief and incomplete survey:
Holy Communion is seen by some as a privilege of repentant Christians. That is, one must be cleansed through confession and forgiveness before one is pure enough to receive it.
Others have seen Holy Communion as a sign of hospitality and welcome. If you are a sinner, this meal’s for you. The pre-requisite is precisely that you are a sinner, and who knows all of the sins one commits anyway?
Others see Holy Communion as a sign of the eschaton, namely a sign of God’s reign in its fullness. There is abundance and tangible grace, and we go to it justified and sent out from it to do justice.
Some approach the table solemnly, feeling sincerely unworthy and as if their guilt is and should be front and center.
Others approach the table singing with joy, feeling as if this is the sign that no matter what, they are loved and they want to share the love.
It’s a really interesting question, actually.
I’m haunted by the story of my mentor Walt Bouman who once refused Communion to a man who was active in his congregation…and active in the Ku Klux Klan. Walt maintained that you cannot be part of the body of Christ and engage in such racism.
I absolutely see his point, respect it greatly…and yet how many of us who sincerely profess to be Christians give to the poor, actively engage in doing justice, loving mercy and walking humbly with God, forgiveness, and so on.
That is, at what point are we aware enough of our sins, or repentant enough, or pure enough to receive pure grace, to partake in Holy Communion?
So it is in part an issue of whether we think there should be standards before you get the bread and the wine. While our reflexive answer might be, ‘yes,’ answering what those standards are gets way trickier.
It could be an opportunity for you to reflect on what you believe about Holy Communion. Why do you receive it, and would there ever be a point when you wouldn’t approach the table?
Peace!
Anna
Posted in Christianity, Denominations, Holy Communion/Eucharist, Reader Questions, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »
Monday, March 1st, 2010
I spent this last weekend with a lot of glue and tape thanks to re-discovering a children’s science/art book I had put aside some time ago.
So I’m thinking sticky thoughts, and, in my infinite free time (please chuckle along with me), began to wonder about the etymology of adhesives.
Fortunately, my handy dandy Word Ancestry book has an entry, from which the examples below are largely taken.
Lucky us!
Haerere, or haesum, means (sit down for this one) to stick.
Hence, you have an adherent to a religion. Someone has inherent traits. You have a coherent system, or incoherent thoughts. Someone hesitates because they are “stuck” to a thought or a pattern.
One of my goals as a systematic theologian is to move people to consider their religious framework. I try to encourage people to reflect on whether their belief system is coherent within itself, and with the world.
So, for example, if one believes that God is all-forgiving and all-loving, can one support the death penalty? If we believe that God is merciful, is there a limit to God’s mercy, and what would that then be? Or if God is Almighty, how does one fit Auschwitz in one’s thinking? Or if we look at the gorgeous sunrise and say, “How can someone not believe in God,” how do we make sense of Katrina or Haiti? Or if we belong to a denomination which ordains women (despite there being references in Scripture which would call that practice into question), can we refuse to ordain gays and lesbians in committed relationships on the basis of Scripture?
It is a question of stickiness, though I’d never thought of it quite like that before. To what do our thoughts, our faith claims, stick?
This is a helpful exercise, to consider to what we adhere, because it makes us reflect upon whether we are coherent in our thoughts, or make decisions based on something else to which we are stuck.
It’s a helpful exercise, but a tricky one too, and on occasion a bit scary. It forces us to ask, “Well, why do I do/believe/say/think that?”
And is it ever o.k. to have an exception? A contextually driven, “Yes, but….” Can one legitimately be incoherent?
To what do you adhere, and why, and when?
Peace,
Anna
Posted in God's Relevancy, Uncategorized | 4 Comments »
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